#Haymitch Abernathy fanfiction

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 24)

Part 23

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

“Lean your head back, so I can rinse.” Y/N instructs Katniss, gently.

It’s been two weeks back in twelve. The Abernathy family, Katniss, Cashmere and Johanna. Peeta had to stay behind, not quite ready to be exposed to all the potential triggers of home.

Cashmere and Madge had no problem cozying up in the Abernathy home. However Katniss keeps to her own house in Victor’s Village and Johanna has agreed to stay in the house gifted to Y/N after her win. Finnick and Annie will visit too, of course. After the baby.

The girl on fire sits in the tub, knees pulled up to her chest, with both arms around them, as her former mentor washes her hair. Katniss can’t bring herself to do much these days. Rotting away on the couch, after Prim… But Y/N is nothing if not stubborn and loves Katniss more than her own mother ever could.

When Y/N is finished, she leaves Katniss to dry off. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Katniss blinks at her, nodding. She does not speak.

Y/N returns to her own home, bustling with life. Nothing here is still. The victor dances past her oldest daughter, twirling about the living room to music. Moving carefully behind the house of cards that Everest and Cashmere are building on the dining table and into the kitchen.

Haymitch follows her there, Daisy in his arms. He hardly puts her down. “How is she?” Katniss.

Y/N sucks in a breath. “You should go see her, Haymitch. Maybe she’ll talk to you.”

“What makes you think she’ll talk to me?”

“Because you understand each other.” Y/N says, “I love her, she knows I do. But it’s not the same. She needs you.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Haymitch frowns, “if it sets her off? Makes it worse?”

“The last thing Katniss needs right now, is to feel like another person has abandoned her.” Like her mother. Like Gale. “Especially you. You don’t have to say anything, just be there.” Y/N wrings her hands, anxiously. “Please.”

Haymitch shakes his head, bouncing between feet, when Daisy begins to fuss. “The things I do for you.”

Y/N half smiles, “gimme the baby.”

At this he hesitates. It is hard enough being in a separate room from his children. Or not to holler in protest, each time Y/N moves out of his sight.

“Haymitch?” Y/N rests a hand against his back.

It’s not you, it’s me. “Here.” He forces a smile, passing off their child.

“Haymitch, what’s wrong?” Y/N wonders, adjusting the infant in her arms.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, “it’s nothing.”

“But-”

“I love you.” Haymitch tells his wife, pecking a kiss to her lips, “nothing’s wrong.”

Y/N pulls back, slightly, studying him. “I love you too.”

He pats her cheek, in parting. Hurrying out the door, before Y/N can get a word in.

“You guys are disgusting.” Johanna remarks, leaning heavily against the refrigerator.

Y/N murmurs. “Yeah.”

“I’m out of eggs.” Johanna adds, to explain her presence.

“We have plenty. Help yourself.” Y/N waves toward the fridge.

“There’s something wrong with him.”

“I know.”

“What are you gonna do about it? You’re Mrs. Fix It. That’s why we’re all here. So you can fix us.” Johanna scoffs, “you can’t even fix yourself.”

“I can,” Y/N cuts her off. “I will.”

“You think I haven’t noticed there’s a room you can’t even go in?” Johanna continues.

“It’s not what you think.”

“I think you’re afraid of old hunks of metal that used to record you getting your rocks off.” Johanna crosses both arms over her chest. “They can’t hurt you.”

“They can hurt me.” Y/N purses her lips, “they did.”

“You should get rid of them.” Johanna suggests.

“I can’t.” I just can’t.

“My head doctor would call it ‘exposure therapy.’”

“Will you help me?”

Johanna huffs a laugh. “What are friends for?”

————————————————————————

That night, after the children are fast asleep, Y/N tosses and turns in bed.

“Just say it.” Haymitch snaps.

“It’s nothing.” Y/N whispers, “I’m sorry.” She turns away from Haymitch, nuzzling her back against his chest, until he has no choice but to wrap his arms around her.

“Angel,” Haymitch pauses, trying to find the right words. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“Been free.” Haymitch confesses, “not since the games, never as an adult. Never as a husband or a father; and I am terrified that at any moment, all of this is going to be taken away from me.”

Y/N squeezes his hand, a bit tighter. “Sometimes I think that too.” We’ve been playing the game too long. “Do you think we’ll get used to it? Being free?”

Haymitch sighs, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “I hope so, angel.”

This is new. Haymitch having hope. “Me too.”

————————————————————————

Nights bleed into days. Days into weeks.

Daisy naps contently, in the sling against Y/N’s chest, while she tidies the kitchen.

Everest and Haymitch have set out to pluck weeds from the pathway between houses of Victor’s Village.

Arista is playing in the backyard.

The birds chirp.

The sun shines.

Then Arista screams. “Mommy!”

Y/N abandons the pan she is washing, into the sink, water still running, as she races toward the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Arista!”

“Mommy! Daddy! Hurry!”

Haymitch and Everest rush toward her cry. “Arista!”

Y/N finds her first, at the far edge of their yard, hunched over a mass of white feathers. “Arista? Are you ok?”

“He came back.” Arista tells her mother, with overjoyed tears in her eyes. “Louie came back.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Y/N chokes down the panic that has risen in her throat. “That’s wonderful.”

Everest comes to a stop beside his mother, panting as he takes in the scene before him. “She’s ok?”

“Yeah,” Y/N reaches a hand over, to ruffle his hair. “We’re all ok now.”

Haymitch joins them last, out of breath, face flushed. “Is everything-”

Y/N turns to him, with a grin. “Louie came home.”

“It’s just the goose.” Haymitch can’t help but laugh. “Just the god damn goose.”

————————————————————————

That night, at dinner, with Madge, Cashmere, Johanna and even Katniss, the phone rings. The sound of it still jarring, after being without a form of easy communication between districts for so long.

Maybe it’s Annie and Finnick.

Maybe there is news in the Capitol.

Maybe Effie.

“I’ll get it.” Johanna volunteers.

Y/N holds up a hand, not wanting to speak with a mouthful of food.

“Or not.”

“I’ve got it.” Y/N excuses herself from the table, into the hallway. Lifting the phone from the receiver to her ear; heart pounding. “Hello.”

“Y/N, it’s me.”

Her free hand comes up to her heart, attempting to quiet the ache. “Peeta, hi. How are you?”

“Better, I’m good.”

“That’s good, honey.” Y/N blinks back tears. “That’s so good to hear.”

“Dr. Aurelius says I’m free to leave the hospital, as long as I keep up with sessions over the phone.” He sounds nervous, like the other shoe is about to drop.

Maybe he’s staying with Effie in the Capitol.

“The train leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Can I- I’ll come get you from the train station?”

“Yes.” Peeta says, immediately. “That would be great.”

“Ok,” Y/N breathes, “that’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon.”

Epilogue

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004 @sendhelplease @ninimackbrews @wittiestrain184 @r1dd1kulus @erenluvr69 @helpimhyperfixating @jackierose902109 @jellybear455 @dreammgc @dadbodfanatic-x @ftdtcmlovr @inky-sun @ms-brek-ker @undercover55655 @mischiefmanaged21 @avoxrising @koiphisch @drwho-ess @daisydaisybilly @misfits1a @nj01 @eruannaaa-blog @thatkindofgurl @solikeapparently @innercreationflower @nicksolemnlyswears @a-sweet-little-fangirl @champomiel @kate654 @maladptivedreamer @rainbow12346 @gabwitch99-blog @theseerbetweenus @qvnthesia @prettybiching @izziebreeziel @anneliese500 @scoliobean @mariechristine00 @hoslunix @frstlght @winter-jensen

[ama3003]

Bread, Stew, and Tears

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No but I saw a clip of Katniss asking Haymitch to save Peeta and needed to write this.

Type: Angst/ Fluff (Lol I just love angst)

Summary: After hearing Snow’s announcement about the Quarter Quell, you instinctively turn to your only true comfort—cooking. But as the weight of reality settles in, you realize not even that can save you this time.

Haymitch Abernathy x Victor! Female Reader

A.N: Not part of the 'A Pawn Once More' universe. Also I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers.

********

Coping mechanisms are strange things. They wear different faces for different people. Some drown in liquor, some run until their legs give out, and some unravel completely—mind, body, soul.

Yours was quieter. Softer. Safer. Yours was cooking.

It had always been your anchor, your escape hatch, the only way to keep your hands busy when your thoughts threatened to devour you. Baking pies, roasting chickens, chopping onions until your eyes stung from something other than tears. It didn’t matter what you made—it only mattered that you were making something. Creating, when the world around you was constantly tearing itself apart.

And today... today, you needed it more than ever. You didn’t want the distraction. You needed it. You needed to drown in it. To be consumed.

Because the words were still echoing in your mind, sharp and cruel: “The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors.”

Over and over, like a broken record slicing through your skull.

You’d heard it live, sitting next to Haymitch on the worn-down couch in his house. The two of you had been tense, uneasy, as you waited for the President’s address.

You had a bad feeling. You knew the Victors’ Tour hadn’t gone unnoticed. You could feel the Capitol’s eyes narrowing, feel the shift in the air. Katniss and Peeta had become more than just victors—they had become threats. And threats, in the Capitol, didn’t last long.

Still, even with all that dread festering in your gut, you never imagined this.

Shock didn’t even begin to cover what you felt when the words were spoken aloud. It was like the floor had caved in beneath you. Like you’d been hurled into ice-cold water, lungs filling with something heavy and impossible to breathe.

Dread and anguish clawed their way up your spine, wrapping around your throat until you could barely move. You slapped a hand over your mouth, the instinct to scream cut short by sheer disbelief.

You’d won your Games at eighteen. The 56th Hunger Games. You could still see it, still feel it under your skin. Haymitch had been your mentor then—twenty-two years old and already unraveling at the seams. You’d come out the other side shattered but breathing. He’d barely looked at you at first, too drunk or too bitter or maybe both. But you stuck around anyway.

You always stuck around.

After the Games, you fell into the role of caretaker almost naturally. Haymitch pushed you away, again and again, snarling and drinking and pretending he didn’t need anyone. But you stayed. You always stayed.

Even after everything, there was still a softness to you that hadn’t been burned out by the arena. A light he didn’t understand. A part of him—one he’d never admit out loud—sometimes wished you had died in those Games. Just to spare you this. Just to spare you him.

But you were stronger than he gave you credit for.

He still remembered the first time he saw you after your Victory Tour. You’d shown up at his door with a pot of soup—too much for one person, just enough for two. You smiled, awkward and hopeful, and he hadn’t had the strength to tell you to leave.

You latched onto him like a leech, he’d joked more than once. But somewhere along the line, he stopped trying to shake you off.

He grew to love you for it.

Nothing was ever official between you. No labels. No promises. But you both knew what it was. There were kisses sometimes, soft and rare and meaningful. Hugs that lasted just a little too long. Touches that lingered.

You were more than friends, even if neither of you had the courage to say it aloud.

Haymitch was terrified. Of letting you in. Of letting himself care. Of losing you. The Capitol had taken everyone else from him—family, friends, lovers. But you? He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

He never said those things. But you knew.

You always knew.

You remembered the sound of his glass shattering when the announcement aired. It jolted you from your frozen state. His scream cracked through the silence, guttural and raw.

You rushed to him, wrapped your arms around him, held on as tight as you could. Your tears soaked into his shirt as his fury trembled beneath your hands.

At some point, exhaustion pulled you under. You woke up curled on the couch, head resting in his lap, his hand loosely tangled in your hair. He was already deep into his second bottle of whiskey when your eyes opened.

Then Peeta walked through the door.

And just like that, you knew it was time to go.

Haymitch needed to focus, to pull himself together—for them, for what was coming. And you needed to do the only thing that ever gave you peace.

You needed to cook. 

After hours in the kitchen, surrounded by boiling pots and the scent of fresh bread, you finally packed everything up. You’d made enough food to feed a battalion—stew, bread, potatoes, something sweet for afterward.

But none of it was really for you. It never was.

You headed to Haymitch’s house, balancing the food in your arms, knowing without a doubt he hadn’t eaten a damn thing all day. Maybe Peeta was still with him. Maybe Katniss should be there too. You were all caught in the same storm, walking the same nightmare in different shoes. The least you could do—the only thing you could do—was feed them through it.

As you lifted your foot to kick the door open, too burdened with containers to knock, it creaked open from the inside. Katniss stood there, coat on, about to step out.

“Katniss,” you breathed, a little surprised. “Hi. You're not staying for dinner?”

You adjusted a heavy dish nearly slipping from your grip. “You should. Bring Peeta, too. I cooked enough to make the Capitol jealous.”

She offered a faint, weary smile. “I was just heading out. But thank you.”

You studied her face—tight, drawn, eyes a little too empty. You knew that look. You’d worn it yourself.

“I’ll send some leftovers,” you said gently, lowering your voice. “After I deal with the old grump inside.”

She gave a soft huff, amused but sad. “Thanks,” she murmured, stepping aside to let you in.

Before she left, you paused.

“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” you said, eyes meeting hers. “Because that would be insulting. But I want you to know—I’m here. Whenever you need me.”

Katniss nodded. “I know,” she said softly. And then she was gone.

You nudged the door shut with your foot and carried the food into the kitchen, setting it all down with a relieved sigh.

“Mitch? I made way too much bread,” you called out. “And lamb stew. Still need to finish the potatoes, but—”

You stopped. Your words died as your eyes landed on him in the living room.

Haymitch sat slumped on the couch, a glass of liquor hanging from his hand, already halfway gone. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were heavy with something that felt like resignation.

“Hey,” you said carefully, “what did Katniss and Peeta want?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Just took a long, slow drink.

“Peeta came to ask me to protect Katniss,” he finally muttered. “And Katniss… she asked me to save Peeta.”

Your stomach twisted. You stepped closer. “Save him how?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and shrugged like it meant nothing.

“If his name is drawn, I’m volunteering.”

The words hit you like a slap. You blinked, not understanding at first.

“There’s no way in hell you’re volunteering,” you snapped. “Are you serious? They both asked you to die for them?”

His silence was answer enough.

“Haymitch,” you hissed, voice sharp with disbelief, “you can’t be serious.”

“I promised her,” he said, so quietly it was almost a sigh.

You stared at him in disbelief. Rage and fear tangled inside you, hot and suffocating. You stormed toward him, snatching the bottle from his hand and slamming it on the table.

“You promised me, too,” you snapped. “Years ago. After my Games. You promised you wouldn’t do anything reckless. And guess what, Haymitch? You’re keeping that promise.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t yell. He didn’t even try to take the bottle back.

“Sweetheart,” he said, quiet and tired, “it’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” Your voice cracked as tears welled in your eyes. “You can’t volunteer. You can’t go back. You can’t leave me.”

He stood abruptly, glass forgotten, and crossed the room in three strides. His hands came up to cradle your face, rough and trembling.

“I’m not losing you,” he said, eyes burning into yours.

“What?” you whispered, barely able to speak.

“I told Katniss I’d volunteer for Peeta,” he said. “But only if she swore to volunteer for you if your name is called.”

You froze. Tears slipped down your cheeks. “You… what?”

“You’re not going back in that arena. Not while I’m breathing. I won’t let them have you again.”

You were his first tribute. His first win. His first reason to feel something again after his own nightmare. And now, the thought of losing you—of watching you walk toward another arena—was something he physically couldn’t bear.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered, voice shaking with anger and grief. “You’re being a hypocrite. You’re not playing fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” he snapped, his own voice raw. “But I don’t give a damn about fairness. I care about you. And keeping you out of that arena is the only thing I care about right now.”

You were shaking. “How could they even ask you to do that?”

He gave a bitter smile, small and broken. “Because they know the truth. I don’t have anything left. If I go, no one will care.”

Your heart shattered. “I’ll care,” you sobbed, gripping his shirt. “You have me. You can’t leave me. I won’t survive it, Haymitch. I can’t—”

He pulled you into his chest, arms wrapped around you like iron, grounding you, keeping you from unraveling completely.

“Shhhh, sweetheart,” he whispered, his own voice cracking. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’m right here.”

Your body trembled in his arms, his warmth the only thing tethering you to the earth.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still cupping your face. His eyes were misted over, his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen.

His guilt lingered, heavy, but your safety outweighed it all. If there was one thing he knew he'd never regret, it was protecting you.

He pulled back slightly, his hands gentle as they cradled your face. “You know what?” he said softly. “I could really go for some chocolate cake. Let’s bake one.”He said it because he knew cooking calmed you, grounded you.

You let out a watery laugh through your tears. He was trying to make everything feel normal. Safe. Familiar.

But in that moment, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to cook.

You didn’t want distractions. You didn’t want stew or bread or cake.

You just wanted him.

I'm working on some requests! Should be out in a few days!!!!

[ssweeterthanfiction]

heyyy i’ve been recently going into a a sotr spiral and am obsessed with the idea of a haymitch x everdeen!reader (burdocks sibling) and was wondering if you could write a fic on that??

YES OFC OMG

Someday, One Day.

young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader content warnings: none!! (SLIGHT SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS!!!) summary: a crush on your big brother’s best friend wc: 1.9k

masterlist.

For the longest time, you've had a crush on the one and only Haymitch Abernathy. From his olive skin, his dark curly hair, and gray eyes you've been hooked. He had you wrapped around his finger since you were thirteen. Maybe even earlier than that.

The only problem?

He was your big brother's best friend.

You’d grown up watching them together, the two of them inseparable in the way that only childhood friends could be. Haymitch was always there, laughing at Burdock’s dumb jokes, sharing stories that made you blush or roll your eyes. You were just the little sister who tagged along, always feeling like the third wheel.

Until you weren’t.

Until Haymitch started looking at you differently.

Every now and then, you’d catch him staring. His gaze would linger a little too long, his smile would falter. And when he spoke to you, it was never quite the same as how he talked to everyone else.

Especially when he called you “sweetheart."

It was dangerous, that nickname. It made your heart flutter in a way you could never explain. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him act affectionate before; he had a way with people, a teasing warmth that made everyone feel like they were his best friend. But when he said it to you, it felt different. It made you feel like maybe...just maybe he saw you as more than just Burdock’s little sister.

But that was just a fantasy, right? Haymitch couldn’t like you that way. You were the kid he looked after, the girl who tagged along to make sure he didn’t forget to laugh once in a while. He didn’t have time for someone like you.

“Someday, one day,” you’d whisper to yourself late at night, as you stared at the stars, convincing yourself that it was nothing more than a silly crush. You weren’t anything special, just another face in the crowd.

Still, those moments, those stolen looks, kept you wondering. Was there something there? Or was it just a product of your overactive imagination? You’d never know.

The woods were always your escape. Burdock had shown you a safe way to them, so when things got too loud at home, when the world felt too heavy, you’d wander out here, into the quiet stillness, where you could be alone with your thoughts. The sunset was just beginning to stain the sky a deep orange, casting a soft glow over the trees and the dirt path beneath your boots. You felt a sense of peace as you walked, the rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig beneath your feet the only sounds that accompanied you.

You had been walking for a while when you heard it, a soft crunch of leaves behind you, a familiar step. You froze. Then the voice you had been secretly hoping wouldn’t find you called out, low and teasing.

“You get lost, sweetheart?”

You turned to see Haymitch emerging from the tree line, his figure framed by the fading light of the sunset. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, and his usual cocky grin was replaced with something softer. Something almost hesitant. He always seemed to know where to find you, didn’t he?

“No,” you replied, trying to sound casual as you crossed your arms, the breeze ruffling your hair. “Just wanted to get away from the noise.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Haymitch said, taking a few slow steps toward you. He glanced around at the woods, his eyes narrowing a little. “But you do know it’s getting dark, right? You might want to head back before it gets too late.”

You smile faintly, your gaze lingering on the horizon where the sun was just starting to dip below the treeline. “Maybe I just like it out here. Feels...quieter. Like the world stops for a second.”

There was a pause. Haymitch didn’t speak right away, his gray eyes scanning you with a sort of intensity that made your heart skip. “One day, I’ll figure out why you always look at things like that,” he said, his voice soft, more serious than you’d ever heard it before.

You tilted your head, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

He took a few more steps toward you, his boots soft on the forest floor. The last rays of sunlight caught in his curls, and for a brief moment, he looked almost... like he belonged here, in the quiet of the woods, far away from the noise of the village.

“I mean,” Haymitch started, his voice quieter now, “you see the world differently than most people. You don’t just see the mess. You see the moments in between. The things most people miss. Even in people...Even in me."

You swallowed, trying not to let the warmth spreading through your chest show. Was this just some Haymitch thing, where he’d tease and then leave you wondering what he meant?

"What are you talking about, Haymitch?" Haymitch stopped in his tracks, just a few feet away from you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt thick, full of something unsaid. Then, he stepped forward, his hand gently reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch was warm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, the nickname now feeling tender, almost like a confession, “you don’t get it, do you?”

You blinked up at him, confusion and hope swirling in your chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he continued, his voice now low and full of something raw, “I can’t stop thinking about you. Not since… well, not since I actually started to...see you...” he paused, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve tried to keep my distance. Tried to ignore it, but you make it damn near impossible.”

Your heart raced in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “But…I thought you didn’t see me that way.”

“Been tryin’ not to. For a while now. Figured I’d be the worst kind of idiot, wantin’ my best friend’s little sister.”

You swallowed hard. “But you do?”

His laugh was soft. “Every damn day.”

You stared at him, your voice catching in your throat. “Then why haven’t you said anything?”

He looked away, up toward the woods where the deer were starting to step into the clearing, quiet and watchful. “Because if I let myself want you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

Silence fills the air as you look at him with a soft gaze...then...

“You drive me crazy,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re all I think about lately. When I’m out by the meadow, when I’m with Burdock, when I try to sleep- hell, even when I try not to think at all.”

You stared at him, speechless, your mind reeling. The boy you’d secretly hoped might feel the same way was standing here in front of you, his gray eyes filled with longing. Slowly, you took a step forward, your voice barely a whisper.

“So...you...you like me? Like that?”

Haymitch’s gaze softened, and his smile was gentle now, sincere. “More than you’ll ever know."

You stood there, frozen, heart pounding in your chest. His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, it felt like time had completely stopped. You’d spent so long wondering if this was just a fantasy, if you were just imagining something that wasn’t there. But now, standing in the dimming light of the woods, with Haymitch Abernathy looking at you like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had, it felt real. Too real.

Haymitch seemed to sense your hesitation, and he took another step forward, closing the distance between you. His presence, so familiar and yet so different in this moment, made your breath catch. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “You’ve got no idea how much I’ve wanted to kiss you. How many times I’ve stopped myself because I didn’t want to make everything weird…but I can’t anymore. Not after everything I’ve been feeling. Not after how much I’ve missed this.”

Your stomach fluttered at his confession, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. You had dreamed about this. Dreamed about him confessing, about him seeing you, about him wanting you, but the reality of it was still overwhelming.

“Haymitch…” you started, your voice trembling with emotion. But before you could say anything more, he reached up, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even want to.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes, as if asking for permission. You barely breathed, your pulse rushing in your ears, but you nodded slightly, unable to put words together. It was all you could do.

Haymitch closed the gap then, his lips soft and hesitant at first, as if testing the waters, feeling his way through the moment. When you kissed him back, just the smallest motion of your lips against his, it felt like the world tilted on its axis. All the years of stolen glances, the late-night conversations, the unspoken tension, it was all there in that kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way his hand cradled your face, the feeling of being held by someone who wanted you, needed you. It was overwhelming.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath. His gray eyes were darker now, filled with something raw and unguarded. His thumb traced the line of your jaw gently, as if making sure this moment wasn’t just a dream.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve spent so many nights just thinking about you, about us, but I didn’t know how to make it happen. I didn’t want to risk losing you, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to risk losing me, Haymitch. I...I feel the same way.”

His smile, a soft, sincere curve of his lips, made your heart flutter. “Yeah? Well, in that case…”

He kissed you again, this time deeper, more certain. The world seemed to fade away as you kissed him beneath the trees, the sounds of the forest around you fading into a distant hum. It was just the two of you now, and nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the complications, not the fears.

For once, there was no hesitation, no wondering what could be. There was only Haymitch and the way he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had. And for the first time in years, you felt like the world had stopped spinning, just for the two of you.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Haymitch rested his forehead against yours again, his hands gentle on your shoulders. “You’re something else, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “I’ve never wanted anything more than this.”

You smiled, a warmth spreading through you. “Me neither, Haymitch.”

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught in the quiet of the woods, where nothing could disturb you, not even the past. It was just you and him. And for once, that was enough.

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 7)

Summary: Y/N Undersee thought the games were over after becoming a victor. Unfortunately, life outside the arena has become just as dangerous. Prequel to Moves & Countermoves

Trigger warning: forced prostitution, explicit sexual content, alcohol abuse and other mentions of trauma. 18+ ONLY

SOTR spoilers

Part 6

Y/N doesn’t know Haymitch terribly well, but she does know him better than most. So she can tell by the look on his face that someone did have a bug in their ear. And that someone had once been very dear to him. “Haymitch, I don’t need to know everything.” She sighs.

“No, I-” he breaks off, in an attempt to collect himself. “I’ll tell you.” I’d tell you anything.

“Let’s sit.” She leads him to the couch, grabbing one of the open bottles from the coffee table and holding it out to him.

His response is caught between a snicker and a sneer. “You might want a swig or two for this one, angel.”

Y/N plops down beside him, raising the alcohol to her lips and choking down a few mouthfuls.

Haymitch accepts her offering when she holds the liquor out again. Chugging down the remains of the half empty bottle before he begins. “Back in my day, we didn’t have the pretty, well trained, ponies you did.”

The games are ever changing, more ‘show’ each year. Like the Capitol is trying to outdo itself. Even Y/N’s stay at the tribute center was less grand than the accommodations made for Maximus and Denali. “Sure.”

“Some idiot let a firecracker loose, spooked the horses and they threw us off. The other female tribute from district twelve…her name was Louella McCoy.”

‘Turns out, somethin’ like this happened before. With the McCoy’s girl.’

Haymitch feels Y/N’s hand close over his. “I tried to get to her.”

“Of course you did.”

“It happened quick.” He tells her. “Louella was gone. I wasn’t sure what would happen. They needed her for the games.” Not like back in the early days when tributes were lost before the arena. They needed four tributes from district twelve. “Maysilee told me they were going to take her body. I couldn’t let them. Not yet.”

Y/N nods, hanging off every word.

“I jumped back on the only chariot with any chance of ending up at the mansion and showed Snow what he’d done. Applauded him even.”

“I’m sure he loved that.”

Haymitch chuckles, reaching for another open bottle. “When they finally did take her, I thought it was over.”

How could they bring her back to life?

“I received a belated birthday present from the president himself.” Haymitch tosses back another swallow. “It was ‘Louella McCoy.’”

“How?” There is something sick about the inflection in his voice.

“We called her Lou Lou.”

“So if she wasn’t Louella, who was she?”

“Our best guess was a rebel’s kid out of district eleven.” Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut against the unbidden image of the girl. “They’d starved her, injected something into her face to make it fuller. They…” He can hardly bring himself to say it, “god, Y/N, I don’t even know what they did to her.”

Y/N shifts closer, wrapping her arms around him.

“They had some kid of device in her ear that controlled her.” Haymitch recounts, “Wyatt died trying to save that little girl. He didn’t even know her real name.”

‘The Callow boy died a while before she did and didn’t smell half as foul when he got home.’

“I can’t imagine they buried her.”

“I’m sorry, Haymitch.”

“What aired in the districts…they doctored it.” Haymitch tells her, “there were things that happened in that arena they didn’t want anyone to know.”

Y/N guides the bottle in his hand to her own mouth. The liquid is still foul, burning its way down her esophagus.

“You told Plutarch you wanted to break the board.” Haymitch breathes, “I need you to know that I’ve already tried. It’s not possible.”

“Maybe we just had to be on the outside.”

“Angel.”

“Maybe we have to keep playing the game for while. But I think we can do it together. We can still break the board.”

“It will take years of playing the game.” He warns, “people are gonna hate you for it.”

“People already hate me.” Y/N scoffs.

“They’re going to hate you more.”

“Then they can hate me.” She decides, “one day they’ll understand.”

“I can’t let you do that to yourself.” Haymitch argues.

“You can’t stop me.” Y/N arches a brow.

He groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. Staring up at the ceiling as he releases a disgruntled, “I’m tired, Maysilee! Your niece doesn’t listen for shit and she’s drinking up all my hooch.”

Y/N laughs, a deep belly laugh that fills the baron walls of Haymitch’s house with joy. Breathing life back into it. Making it a home. “He’s lying, Lee. He’s the one who doesn’t listen.”

“Lee?” Maysilee never struck him as a ‘Lee.’

“It’s kind of silly,” Y/N says. “When I was really little, I couldn’t remember who was Maysilee and who was Merrilee. So I called them both Lee, when I got old enough to tell the difference it was too late. The name stuck.”

“Nicknames’ll do that.”

“It’s weird sometimes…how much you miss people who’ve been gone longer than you ever knew them.”

“Yeah,” Haymitch’s mouth twitches. Love is funny that way.

“That’s why we have to break the board, Haymitch.”

Haymitch grins, passing a hand over his face. “I’m not agreeing to anything, but that was a great pitch. I’ll give you that.”

“Come on, Haymitch!” Emboldened by the alcohol, Y/N turns toward him, straddling his hips. Their noses pressed together.

He can’t help but laugh, resting his hands against her waist.

“Everyone is rooting for us.”

“This is very compelling,” he assures her.

“We can do this.”

Haymitch inhales, pulling his face away from hers, a fraction of an inch. “I will consider it.”

She’s kissing him then, hot and heavy, hands buried in his hair.

His own hands wandering, catching on a folded piece of paper in the back pocket of her pants. It falls to the floor.

Neither of them can be bothered with it.

————————————————————————

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

Y/N rubs at her eyes, forcing them open.

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

Someone is pounding at the front door.

Haymitch is still sleeping soundly, one arm draped over her waist.

“Haymitch,” Y/N shakes the limb, gently.

“Hmm?”

“There’s someone at the door.”

“And they can stay there until morning.” Haymitch nuzzles against her shoulder.

“Y/N!” The mayor calls, “Haymitch!”

“It’s my dad.” Y/N springs from the bed. Tossing one of the nightgowns, gifted by the Capitol, over her head. Shrugged on the matching robe.

Haymitch is slower to dress, pulling on pair of black silk shorts and button up pajama set.

In their slippers and bedhead, the victors of district twelve meet him at the door.

“What’s wrong?” Y/N demands, breathlessly.

“I’m so sorry,” her father pulls her in for a hug. “The house is up in flames.”

“What house?”

“The Carell house.”

No.

No.

No.

“They’re in the house.”

Haymitch rushes past them, taking off like a bat out of hell. Sprinting from Victors’ Village to the house at the far end of the seam.

The scene is familiar to him. The fire, everyone running either to or from it. Buckets of water that do little but fizzle in the heat.

“Are they still in there?” Haymitch asks one of the bystanders.

“Where else would they be? We ain’t all got a village to ourselves.”

I hate this. Haymitch is now the one holding someone he loves away from the flames, as they beg and scream to be released. I hate this.

The fire takes the house down to the studs, despite everyone’s best efforts. The Carell house is gone and so are they.

“Everyone please return to your homes, we are looking into this!” The mayor’s voice booms into the night air.

Onlookers scurry away from them and the shadow of death and destruction that follows. As though they are cursed…perhaps they are.

————————————————————————-

When there is nothing else to be done, Y/N and Haymitch are dismissed.

“If there’s any word, you’ll be the first to know.” Y/N’s father promises.

So they return to Haymitch’s house, locking the door behind them. In a state of shock, Y/N moves toward the nearest piece of furniture to lie down.

“No,” Haymitch steers her away from the couch. “You need to bathe, you’re covered in soot.”

Y/N stares down at her hands, stained with ash and dirt. She allows him to march her up the stairs and draw her a bath.

Haymitch washes her meticulously, though he himself remains dirty. The water is black when he’s finished. So he drains it, only to fill it again. When he is satisfied, he towels her off. “Do you think you can get dressed while I shower?”

Y/N nods.

He doesn’t dare close the door between them. The distance from the bedroom to the ensuite is excruciating enough.

She’s two bottles deep when he returns, passed out on the duvet, with the evidence in each hand.

Haymitch moves them away. Glass clattering to the floor. This game is going to break your heart. She is different than him. Better. Not nearly as selfish. Oh no, my angel. This game is not for you.

————————————————————————

Haymitch wakes to the afternoon sun, the mattress is cool where Y/N had been. He sets out in search of her, finding Y/N standing at the fireplace; note in hand.

As he moves closer, Haymitch is able to make out the words etched into the parchment.

‘Burn after reading.’

Part 8

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @ancientbeing10 @1-800-styles @l3xi3luv @lam-ila @druby2011-blog @liballer @readinginthe-am @rae-11 @champomiel @mariechristine00 @solacestyles @inky-sun @dadbodfanatic-x @sandorcleganeslutt @indigoashh @mustainelove @darkened-writer @ch3rrybutterfly @boredomquest @theladyofmanyfandomsofficial @kisskittenn @kwllakka @feeblemindedfool @oopsieikilledan @that-one-fangirl69 @just-levyy @thisisthepartwhereishutup @alixxhere @quackitys-amor @pepelachanel @lurkingsparrow @faithalsip09 @cwallace02sblog @animaloversammy @peachiesnsilk @libbyaller @juiceboxfullofslime @libra-2409 @heidiland05 @evansorry @caraxes-syrax

[drfleetflower]

Mislaid Conviction

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Reader

Summary: You're recovering from the Capitol torture in District 13. The only person left to comfort you is Haymitch, which brings up weird feelings you're not able to face yet.

Warnings: Angst, light fluff, mentions of torture, mentions of alcohol/drinking, mentions of medical drugs, self-deprecation, mentions of therapy

WC: 2.2k

Part Two Part Three

As a victor who was reaped in the 75th Hunger Games and part of the rebellion, the odds were the furthest from in your favor. You weren’t rescued from the arena. Nor were you rescued from the six weeks of torture. But now you were rescued. After the damage had already been done.

Sure, you knew that the goal was never you. Katniss Everdeen was the face of the rebellion and at least you made it out of the arena, right? Many hadn’t. So that was something to be grateful for; your life. Your life was something to be grateful for. 

Did it hurt that the only man- only person that you trusted had left you to die in the Capitol hands? That was what the shrink they assigned to you should have asked. He asked how you felt about not being rescued the day Katniss blew open the arena’s sky. So you answered vaguely about District 13’s need for Katniss in these and those trying times. But the answer to the real question? Yeah. Yeah, it hurt like hell. But you wouldn’t be able to tell the deep need for repair of the relationship with the way Haymitch walked so casually into your hospital room.

His eyes scanned your face, searching for clues to your well-being. "How's the pain, sweetheart?" he asked softly. Softly. Was he pitying you? The thought made your blood boil.

“Painful.” You said quite ambiguously. 

He clearly didn’t appreciate the answer but didn’t make an effort to press, instead looking around the silent, white room. "How about sleep?"

You sighed, but decided to answer the question. "I can only get it with whatever drugs they give me. And usually the nightmares still wake me up anyway."

A deep line formed between his brow. "Have you talked to anyone about them?"

You didn’t even really want to talk in general, your throat sore from screaming, but especially not to a stranger who thinks they can fix you. Hell, you didn’t want to talk to Haymitch. Why were you? “They gave me a therapist but I haven’t said a word to him.”

“Why not?” Haymitch asked, but he clearly didn’t look surprised. 

You shrugged. “I don’t trust him.” Did you trust Haymitch anymore though? 

He seemed to mull over this for a moment. “I guess I can understand that. But… don’t you think talking it out might help?” It sounded forced.

You looked at him like he was insane for suggesting the idea, immediately thinking how hypocritical that was. But you find yourself answering the question earnestly instead of throwing it back in his face. “I don’t know… I get- I just don’t like to think about it.” How did he always seem to weasel some emotion out of you? You’re supposed to be mad at him right now. You’re supposed to hate him right now. Yet, here you are, answering his questions and wondering why he’s asking them in the first place since it’s so unlike him. 

"Can't say I blame you, sweetheart," he admitted quietly, "but at some point you have to face it."

You looked down, not answering. To which he studied your face for a moment before speaking again. "Do you have anybody outside of me to talk to? Friends, family?"

“You know I don’t.” You said, harsher than you intended, but Haymitch didn’t strike back.

He just exhaled quietly. "Yeah, I just thought I'd check." His eyes flicked around the bland hospital room, as if searching for some help.

“It’s just you.” It hurt to say. Because it was true. There was no one else for you except Haymitch and so hating him… Where did that get you? Alone, that’s what.

Haymitch's expression softened a bit more and he looked sad. "Well, I'll be here as long as you need me." 

Who was this man? Sure he had helped you survive the Hunger Games and navigate being a victor afterwards but never had he been so emotional about it. So forthcoming with care and understanding. He always preferred to grunt anytime you said a sweet thing (which wasn’t often but still), or drown in a bottle instead of having a serious conversation about his past. Oh, that was part of it for sure. They definitely weren’t giving him alcohol here. You looked him over, you had seen him sober-ish before but this was different. You realized he looked… Awful.

And despite the twinge of sympathy, you figured you might as well say as much. “You look like shit, by the way.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. You expected some good ol’ banter, ‘you don’t look too hot yourself, sweetheart’, you missed that. Instead, “Thanks.”

You frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looked up at you, someone else might not be able to, but you could tell he was at the very least; annoyed. “What?” The word was slightly snippy.

"Is it because I’m in the hospital?" 

He became more impatient. "What?'"

“You’re not- I don’t know, you.” You tried to explain, your brows furrowed with your own frustration. “It’s weird. You’re so.. docile.” You continue, maybe in order to get a rise out of him.

Haymitch crossed his arms in protest. "Okay, hold on. Don't get used to this, got it? It's only because you need me to be nice to you."

"Yeah, I might just break if you speak too loudly?" You snarked.

"Yeah, pretty much." He snapped back.

"There we go.” You smirked in a way you knew irritated him, finally having gotten something normal out of him.

He still looked annoyed for a moment before he just chuckled and shook his head, giving up the facade. "Alright, well, just so you know… I intend to return to my usual self once you get all patched up."

“I doubt it.” You sighed, folding your hands on your lap.

Haymitch's brows shot up in surprise at another unexpected admission from you. "Oh yeah?" He asked. "You think I've softened?"

You giggled. "Definitely. You're a big softie now."

"A big softie?" Haymitch shook his head earnestly. "You're crazy. I'm still as angry and bitter as I ever was. I’m like this now because...well..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to finish the thought.

"Because... They took away your alcohol?" You brought up.

Haymitch grunted in annoyance which made you smile. "Yeah, I suppose that could have something to do with it," he muttered, still not willing to admit that was the only reason for his newfound care. But you assumed it was. That, and maybe a hint of guilt for leaving you to die.

You decided to play in idle chit chat. "How are you doing with that transition?" 

Haymitch scowled at your question. "It's not been easy," he admitted. "The first long bit, I was the meanest I’ve probably ever been. Good thing you weren’t around, you would've loved that.” You tried to keep from scrunching your nose at that comment. Good thing you were being tortured in the Capitol? He continued, “Not gonna lie, I've thought about breaking the rules a few times, but I've refrained because I don't wanna screw up getting you out of here...or getting myself in trouble."

Your bitterness was quickly thrown out the window for the opportunity to mess with him. Some might call it flirting, but flirting with Haymitch didn’t sound right. It was just harmless… Something-ing. "Awww, you quit for me?" You bat your eyelashes, acting overly affectionate. And when he rolled his eyes, you laughed, bringing on a coughing fit. 

Haymitch's expression shifted to concern as he heard you cough, "Hey, you alright?" He asked, his tone now serious.

You swallowed thickly. “Define ‘alright.’” 

He frowned and you continued to cough, throwing up your hands in exhaustion. "I just want to be out of this place." You groaned. "I'm useless and ugly, I'm all stitched up and bruised, broken." And there you went again, telling him things you wouldn’t anyone else. Letting him see inside your messed up brain because surely he can help? You trusted him to help, not anyone else. No matter how much you desperately try to tell yourself you hate him now. n

Haymitch sighed, his expression reflecting a mix of sadness and understanding. "Look, I know you're in a tough spot right now, but... this is temporary. You’ll be back into action in… Well, at some point." He tried, not actually sure what your recovery time is. 

“I just feel… gross.” You continued to complain anyway. 

Haymitch's frown deepened at your frustrated admission. "Gross?" He asked, genuine concern making way for a bit of humor. "What, because of how you look? Cause I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sweetheart, but you don’t look much different.”

A small part of you wanted to at least give him a smile in appreciation of his attempt at cheering you up, but you didn’t. Instead, you chose to wallow even more in self pity. So, he sighed and went back to seriousness. "Listen, you're not gross just because you've gone through something painful. Healing takes time. You're still..." He trailed off, hesitating before continuing. "...you're still as attractive as ever."

You rolled your eyes, hoping the way your face heated up didn’t show. And why did your face heat up anyway? Sure, you’d gotten flustered around him before but not because he had said something like that. Such a clear compliment, not a drunken observation. The delivery made a shiver go down your spine.

But if he noticed the tint to your cheeks he didn’t comment on it. He just chuckled at your eye roll. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're not interested in compliments or reassurances?" he grumbled. "You'd much rather have me back to my bitter old self, snapping at you and calling you stupid."

You firmly shook your head. "No... I like the new Haymitch." Then silence. Then staring. Then more color to your cheeks. Then you coughed again. He handed you a glass of water and you took a sip once you could.

He silently watched you as you took sip after sip, trying to calm your throat. And then, because today was apparently all about emotions, he sighed. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

You felt more pressure on your throat, an involuntary spasm maybe, that made it impossible to say anything that wasn’t sarcastic. "See? I told you I was all gross and ugly."

Haymitch's expression darkened at that statement. "Hey, don't talk about yourself like that," he said firmly, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're not gross or ugly, got it? You're injured and healing. That doesn't diminish your worth or your attractiveness."

“So I’m just stupid then, huh?” You tried to keep the smile off your face.

He didn’t try. “Yeah, just stupid.” His eyes fell down and he took in a breath. “Now, don’t go actually believing that, okay sweetheart?”

"Well, if I wasn't stupid, I would've been able to get out of the arena too."

Haymitch sighed, clearly frustrated with your flip-flopping emotions. He shook his head emphatically, his expression a mix of irritation and sadness. "No, don't go there," he said firmly. "None of it was your fault. You didn't choose to be in the arena. You didn't choose to get hurt. Blaming yourself for things that are out of your control is just a waste of energy."

"It wasn't out of my control. If I had paid better attention to what was happening, you could've gotten me out too." You insisted. 

“That’s not true. You did the best you could. And, hey, you’re still here. That’s something.” He sounded as if he was now trying to convince himself, his hand gripping the arm of his chair tightly.

You scoffed. "What? So at least I'm not dead? Trust me, there were times when I wished they'd be so kind as to kill me."

Haymitch’s frown deepened at your dark admission. “Don’t-” He sighs. “What happened in there?”

You tilted your head at the question before shaking it, your mouth shut and your gaze away from him.

He abandoned the question quickly, like flicking a switch. “Don’t go there, alright? There are people who care about you.. Who would miss you if you were gone.”

You looked at him and raised a brow, waiting for him to continue but he just stared back at you, making no effort to. So, you held his gaze and now there was a challenge there. You two were unblinking and you wondered who would break first. But you didn’t wonder for long as Haymitch looked away after a surprisingly short time.

You tried to catch his eyes again, smirking. “Come on. Say it.” You said.

"Say what?" He asked, feigning ignorance, knowing precisely what you were insinuating. 

"I dare you..." You replied in a sing-song voice.

Haymitch chuckled at your eager expression, his eyes locked onto yours once again. "Alright, alright," he said, an amused glint in his eyes. "You want me to say it? I will..." He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intense as he spoke. "I...care about you. You, you stubborn, pain in the ass girl."

You chuckled at his admission. Of course there would be a little insult to act as a barrier. But there it was, so you returned it against your better judgment. "I care about you too. You cranky old man."

Part Two

[district-thirteen-intern]

So I'm writing after a long time, and I've never written anything for the hunger games universe before, so please be kind, and I hope you'll like it. it's set some time after the victory tour but before (and during) the quarter quell announcement.

dust and damnation ft. haymitch abernathy

pairings: Haymitch x Reader

blurb:

Haymitch Abernathy’s plan to drink himself into oblivion hits a snag when his new housekeeper declares war on his filth—and his misery. Now there’s tea where his whiskey should be, flowers on his table, and worst of all? He might actually be getting better.

content warnings: alcoholism, trauma

The funny thing about hiring a housekeeper to save your life is that sometimes it actually works— which is, frankly, both suspicious and deeply inconvenient for Haymitch, whose retirement plan involves dying sometime soon of liver failure, ideally full-up with a bottle of something strong and undeserved. In his defense, he had been somewhere on his fifth blackout of the week when the kids brought up the suggestion about hiring a live-in maid to help around the house, and he hadn't been coherent enough to argue— which means he's wholly responsible for all the chaos she brings with her, armed with a mop, an infuriatingly sunny disposition, and the absolute audacity to set blooming flowers on his kitchen table like she didn't just ruin the perfectly curated gloom around his house. The kitchen table is only the first victim in a series of victims. In the span of a week, the yellowed curtains are washed and open and billowy again, and empty bottles no longer litter on the floor like unmarked graves, and there are biscuits cooling on the windowsill like he's some washed up grandmother and not a murderer and a pariah and a damaged monster, and for the first time since he began living here, the walls don't loudly berate him for killing everyone he loved everyday. The scent of lemon polish lingers in the air— bright, clean, and offensively optimistic— and it's like hope and dish soap had a baby.

“It smells like a dog shat in a meadow,” he grumbles.

She protests. “It smells elegant!”

“Sweet girl, it smells like a candy store threw up in here.”

“I like it.”

“I don't care,” he says. “Get rid of it.”

And then he storms off and she never does get rid of it.

Later, when she runs out, he's the one who replaces it. And if the scent lingers in his clothes a little longer than he'd ever admit? That's for him to know.

Then she starts laundering his clothes.

He protests on principle.

She replies that his principle smells like rot and mildew.

Haymitch almost doesn't like it.

The food starts appearing next, and surprisingly, it's not like a threat or a bribe or even a favor. There are stews and breads and the occasional crime against pastry— because she may be an optimist but she's no chef— but it's always warm and fresh and sometimes he reaches for it with an absence of mind, like it's a reflex etched into the marrow of his bones. His mother had never wasted anything in her life, and he still hasn't unlearned this habit after years of drowning in insurmountable wealth and grief. So he eats the half-cooked, over-salted meals quietly— automatically— until he feels almost human; something almost real, with life and opinions and motivations.

The bread is still a war crime though.

Haymitch saws at the loaf with a knife. “Did you and that boy bake this or excavate it?”

“It's rustic!”

“It's reinforced concrete.”

She starts defensively. “Next time, you cook.”

“Next time, I'll just chew the table leg,” he grumbles. “Tastes the same anyway.”

She throws the concrete slab of bread loaves at his head.

He eats it anyway, because it's hot, and it's there, and no one has cooked for him in years. But when she burns it again next week, even he can't stomach it. And taking pity on both their stomachs, he nudges her aside, and makes some omelet.

He claims it's just to stop her accidentally poisoning them.

(Neither of them mentions it again.)

And then there is the tea.

It's some foul-tasting concoction brewed from bitterness and herbs and whatever damn kindness she keeps hidden in the pantry that cures the hangovers. Haymitch glares at the mug like it’s personally offended him—which, in fairness, it has. It smells like wet earth and something vaguely medicinal, the kind of brew that could either cure a hangover or summon demons. He’s half-convinced she’s poisoning him slowly, just to see how long it takes him to notice.

But damn it all, it works.

And worse—

She knows it works.

The threadbare blanket on the couch is replaced with a hand-knit monstrosity in cheerful colors, and little windchimes hang on the porch, and if he listens close enough while drinking in the lonesome of his bedroom, he can hear her humming happily as she works. He doesn't even hate it.

No one demands he stop drinking.

He tries anyway.

He almost swears she can tell when he's itching to reach for another bottle, because she appears by his side with some half-cooked, over-salted dish and two glasses of tea and that's that.

Between the music returning to his life and him cooking around the house and helping her in the garden and eating full meals, it's not as hard. He doesn't quit completely, and there are still nights when the ghosts of all his loved ones seem too close, when the weight of the arena and the years of silence becomes unbearable, and the tremors in his hands aren't from withdrawal but from memories, when the bottle is the only thing that can drown out the screaming in his head.

He tells himself it's just once.

Just this once.

(It never is.)

And when he fails— inevitably and spectacularly— feeling sick and hoarse and ashamed before her, she gently wipes the sick off his mouth with a washcloth and half-helps and half-drags him to his bed.

The next morning, there's a glass of water and a plate of dry and plain toast on his nightstand.

He tries again.

It's like a battle. Some days he wins. Some days he loses.

But he keeps trying.

And she keeps waiting.

(That's enough.)

The kids begin to accept dinner invitations much more frequently too, looking less and less concerned, and his sweet girl— that's how he thinks of her now, inside his head, where his desire isn't limited by the cruel reality— looks much less troubled, and when he's sober, he can focus entirely on the sway of her hips as she dances while dusting off the furniture, and that dimple in her cheek when she smiles at him like he's anything more than a man damaged beyond repair.

And so they dwell in this happy medium in the in-betweens of grief: him almost sober and her almost content, until the quarter quell is announced.

The tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.

Haymitch finds her in the garden, fingers stained green from crushing leaves absently between them. “What are you murdering those poor plants for?”

“Just weeds.”

He steps closer, boots scuffing in the dirt. “You're a terrible liar, sweetheart.”

She stiffens. “Go away.”

“I can't. This is my favorite drinking spot.” He sits down beside her, and nudges gently. “Out with it, sweet girl. What'd the flowers do? Insult your knitting?”

She doesn't take the bait. “You promised her that— that if Peeta is reaped, you'll volunteer for him.”

“Yes.”

“And then, you'll die saving her.”

Haymitch shrugs, and then regrets it when he sees the look on her face. “Hey, look at me,” he says softly. “Worst-case scenario? You finally get the house to yourself. No more socks on the floor. No more me drinking all the—”

“Stop!” she says. “You don't get to joke about this.”

“I absolutely get to joke about this. It’s my impending death. I’ll make as many quips as I wa—”

“No! You don't get to joke about this. You don't get to make me care about you, and then make jokes like it doesn't mean anything. I won't let you.”

He reaches out, and wipes away the tears spilling out with his thumb. “Don't cry, sweetheart. Not for me.”

She grabs his hand and presses a kiss to his palm and then his wrist, all quick and fierce, and then she clumsily shoves a delicate flower crown on his head.

Haymitch touches it, bemused. “Is this my execution garland? How charming.”

“Shut up,” she says.

“Make me.”

There's a short pause, before she's leaning in and pressing her lips against his— and well, turns out she has a vested interest in shutting him up; an interest he happily encourages, laughing and kissing her back because he's a man of numbered days.

She leans into him.

The sun sets.

(They don't talk about tomorrow.)

They will, eventually, when it's impossible to ignore; but right now, this little bit of happiness is enough.

a/n: so that's that then! i hope you liked it. please don't forget to like, comment, and reblog.

also please let me know if you want to be added into my hunger games tag list, so you may be notified when i write something else for this universe.

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @illiana-mystery

warnings: mention of the hunger games, swearing, age gap (everyone's legal), smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), first time (reader is a virgin)

AN: I am back on my bullshit cuz guess what book I bought.

The door to the compartment slid shut behind me. Haymitch looked up from the bar cart in his room. I rung my hands nervously as I looked around his room.

"They're all the same darling." Haymitch muttered. "What do you want? Come to yell at me some more?" I shook my head. "Then what?"

"I don't..." My voice cracked and I winced. Haymitch's expression softened slightly. "I don't want to go into the arena..." I paused and looked up at the ceiling.

"No one wants to go into that arena. There's nothing to stop it now though." Haymitch took a drink and looked at me. "You never get off this train. Win or lose."

"I know that." I huffed. Crossing my arms and taking a deep breath, I finally looked at him again. "I don't want to go in there a virgin." Haymitch nearly choked on his drink. "I'm legal. Well legal as far as the Capitol is concerned. You wouldn't be doing anything I didn't want." Haymitch put his drink down.

"And why don't you ask the other one?" He nodded towards the door. I scoffed.

"The other one, as you so kindly put it, is 11." Haymitch grimaced. "Yeah. That's not quite what I had in mind."

"Why me?" He asked, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "You couldn't wait until we got to the Capitol and find someone willing there?"

"I don't want anyone to know." I shot back. "This is for me. No one else. ME. To not go into the arena feeling like a scared little kid. To go in feeling like an adult, someone who maybe just maybe has a chance no matter how small." Haymitch nodded with a small smile.

"You might just have one anyway sweetheart." He said, raising an eyebrow at me. "Alright. I can't promise I'll be the best of lovers..."

"I don't care. Just make me feel something aside from the fear and anger." I said. Haymitch nodded as he moved towards me. Gently gripping my neck, he paused.

"Have you even been kissed?" He whispered, breath fanning my lips. I nodded.

"There was someone back in 12. But it was a dare. Never meant to mean anything." I said, eyes dropping down to his lips. Haymitch nodded as he rubbed circles into the spot where my jaw met my neck. "I guess that's my lot in life. Nothing is ever meant to mean anything."

"Our lot in life sweetheart." Haymitch chuckled darkly before kissing me. He forced me back against the wall as my hands came up to tangle in his hair. "Nothing that happens to us will ever mean anything. Not until this ends." He whispered as he pulled back, smirking when I chased his lips. "Is that something you are prepared to live with? Or do you want to change it?"

"Fuck the Capitol." I whispered, eyes shining in the low light. Haymitch smiled. "Fuck the Games."

"Take that fire into the Games and you just might be able to break the board." He promised. I nodded. "Now..." He looked me over as he stepped back. "Show me what else that fire can do." I grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it off. Haymitch looked me over appreciatively as I did the same with my pants.

"Your turn." I said as I stepped back into his space. Haymitch cupped my cheeks as he kissed me again, less forceful this time but just as commanding. He deepened the kiss as he guided my hands to the top of his shirt. I pulled back to look down at our hands. Haymitch watched me as I hesitantly started to unbutton his shirt. "Everytime I see you in the Hob, you're dressed like everyone else. Why do they do this to you?" I whispered. Haymitch chuckled dryly.

"Like I said sweetheart. You never get off this train." He settled his hands on my hips. "I am still their plaything. All these years later." I looked up at him, watching the way his eyes were guarded even if he was letting me in. "That is never gonna change unless we break the board." I reached up and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Haymitch watched me carefully as I reached for his belt. His hands slid to the small of my back as he leaned in to kiss my neck.

“Oh. Haymitch.” I whined as he dragged his teeth over my pulse point.

“I can’t leave any marks. Which is a shame honestly.” Haymitch chuckled as he pressed an open mouthed kiss to my shoulder. “Get out of the Games alive and I’ll make it up to you.” I chuckled as I pushed his pants down with his boxers.

“Giving me pretty good incentive to survive the arena.” I teased. Haymitch pulled back and cupped my cheeks before kissing me.

“Good.” He smiled. “Now that I’ve got a taste, I don’t want to give it up.” He hoisted me up into his arms and pressed me back against the wall. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. Haymitch grunted as he used his weight to pin me against the wall next to the door. I brushed his hair back behind his ears as he looked up at me. "You sure you want to do this sweetheart? There's still time to back out." I nodded.

"I'm sure." I whispered before kissing him. Haymitch hummed as he reached between us, gripping his dick before rubbing it against my entrance. He slowly thrust into me. My fingers dug into his shoulders as my head fell back against the wall. He grunted as he slowly pushed in until he bottomed out. I whined and tried my best to breath through the pain as my head fell forward. Haymitch's head fell to my shoulder as he took deep breaths.

"Just keep breathing sweetheart." He whispered, kissing my shoulder. "It'll pass." I nodded as his thumb rubbed circles into my skin. "I've got you." I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before resting my head on the wall. The pain started to subside, being replaced with the feeling of being completely full. I whimpered again as I slowly shifted my hips. Haymitch's breath caught as he raised his head. "Ain't so easy up there is it?" He teased as he pulled out only to slam back in. I moaned and dug my fingers into his back.

“shut up Abernathy.” I whined as he thrust into me and ground against me at the same time. “Oh shit.” I breathed out as haymitch repeated the action. He grinned as he pressed his face against the base of my throat.

“hold on a little longer sweetheart.” Haymitch breathed out. “I know you’re close. Probably better than you know yourself. Just a little more.” I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt the pressure grow.

“please. Haymitch.” I breathed out as he kissed along my throat. He growled as he pinned my wrists to the wall. “Please. Please. Don’t stop.”

“didn’t plan on it sweetheart.” Haymitch dragged his teeth over my collarbone as the door slid open.

“Haymitch don’t you…” Effie gasped as she took in the scene before her. Haymitch stilled as he turned his head to look at her, annoyance clear on his face. “Haymitch!”

“can’t this wait?” He panted, raising his eyebrows at her as I weakly tried to grind against him. Haymitch didn’t bat an eye as Effie squeaked and ran out of the room. With a sigh, he started thrusting into me again. “Sorry about her.” He groaned out. “Always in my business.”

“mine too.” I panted, trying to hold onto the fraying thread that was holding me together. “Ever since I stepped on this train.” Haymitch chuckled as he jerked his head to get his sweat soaked hair out of his face.

“Better her in your face than an escort who couldn’t give a shit about you. At least she tries. Not like mine.” He admitted. For a second, the mask fell away and I saw the man haymitch was underneath. A hard thrust had me jerking against the wall as my orgasm washed over me, letting his mask go back up.

“haymitch.” I breathed out as he continued to thrust hard and fast into me.

“(Y/N).” He growled as he finally came, sagging against the wall and pinning me under him. Haymitch gently eased my legs back down as he stood there panting, trying to catch our breath. “I’m going to get you out of that arena if it’s the last thing I ever do.” He promised after a while. I nodded at him, tucking his hair behind his ear before cupping his cheek.

“I know you will.” I said and kissed him softly. “I have faith in you.”

“it’s misplaced sweetheart.” Haymitch said as he let me break away. He watched me as I got dressed.

“come find me at the tower.” I said, squeezing his hand and kissing him one last time before slipping out of his room and down the hall to mine.

[auroralwriting]

gracie abrams songfic challenge

mess it up - billy dunne x reader

us - finnick odair x reader

long sleeves - billy dunne x camila!reader

wishful thinking - haymitch abernathy x reader

this is my first ever songfic challenge and im sooo thrilled to be doing it with my girl gracie! each fic will come out two days after the last one, links to them will be here and on my masterlist! ୨୧

[your-averagewriter]

hi! Would mind writing a part two to your young!Haymitch x reader? Maybe with both of them winning and just developing a relationship through the aftermath.

Summary: Haymitch and (y/n) struggle to adjust after getting out of the Games together but find comfort in each other.

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: Kissing, swearing, mention of gore (a little at the start, not really though).

-

-

“Are you ready to go home?” Haymitch asks, snapping me out of my frozen state, staring out of the window of the train.

I turn to look at him, seeing the empty train cart, unable to stop seeing the two other tributes from our district, they came with us and now we’re leaving without them. Their bodies lie on the floor and are draped across the table, forcing me to see their mutilated states.

“I’m gonna throw up.” I say after a second, standing up and hurrying to the bathroom on the train cart, my hand covering my mouth.

“(y/n)?” I hear before I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, throwing up into the bowl, gripping the sides to stabilise myself. Haymitch pulls my hair out of the way and rests his other hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” He asks during a break in throwing up.

I lean back, sitting on the back of my feet as I look back to face Haymitch, wiping my face with one of the towels provided.

“I’m just not feeling very well.” I say, standing up slowly and walking back out to the main section of the train cart once I’m sure I’m done throwing up.

“Come on, (y/n), what’s wrong? We both know that’s not it.” He says as we sit down by the window again, I turn to look out the window, staring at the scenery despite the train not moving yet.

“They’re not here.” I say quietly.

“Who’s not here? Do you want me to get the escort lady or shitty mentor guy?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly confused.

“The other two tributes from 12.” I say. “They came but they’re not leaving. They won’t ever leave.” I mumble, resting my head on my hand, wiping away a tear by my eye.

“Don’t think about them.” He says gruffly and I’m slightly appalled by his uncaring statement towards dead children.

“Don’t think about them? Are you telling me you don’t feel bad about any of it, sad, guilty, anything?” I ask, my voice is louder as I get more upset.

“No, I don’t.” He pauses as I stare at him confused and disappointed. “Because if it didn’t happen then you wouldn’t be here and neither would I.”

His response shocks me. “What?” I ask quietly.

“You’re alive, I’m alive, that’s all I care about at the moment and so should you.” He says more softly, opening his arms and offering me a much needed hug.

Shuffling towards him, I wrap my arms around him, resting my head on his chest.

“Let’s just think about getting home first and all the fancy food we can eat on this train.” I chuckle at the end of his sentence and it’s clear he’s trying to distract me. He places a kiss to the top of my head before standing up, taking my hand and leading me after him.

“Come on, let’s cost them some money.” I chuckle again, standing up with him and wiping a final tear from my cheek as we walk to the food carts.

Walking into the next heart lays a table full of fancy food and colourful drinks.

“Oh my god they have whipped cream.” I smile as I quickly sit at the table, Haymitch not far behind, chuckling at my newfound excitement. “I’ve only had whipped cream like…” I pause thinking. “Once.” I reach for one of the deserts covered in whipped cream, placing it in front of me and swiping some of the cream with my finger, lifting it to my mouth and tentatively tasting it. “You need to try it.” I smile, reaching for one of the spoons and scooping a bit and feeding it to Haymitch.

“That is good.” He says smirking.

I turn back to the table, seeing a bowl of strawberries and liquid chocolate to dip them in whilst Haymich grabs his own food.

Dipping a strawberry in chocolate, I taste the delicious combination, making a bit of a mess with the chocolate but enjoying it nonetheless.

“You’ve made it a bit of a mess with that chocolate, it’s all over your lips.” He says and quickly moves towards me pressing his lips against mine, cleaning the chocolate with a satisfied hum. “Delicious.” He pulls back, smirking at my flustered state.

“You caught me off guard, don’t look too proud.” I huff, biting into another strawberry.

-----------

The train pulls up to the station and I’m instantly jumping up from my chair to get to the door, not expecting the crowd that appears in front of me when the door opens.

“Mum?” I ask quietly, my voice being drowned out as I search over the crowd, looking for her.

Haymitch appears behind me after a moment and is blinded by the bright light of the sun and deafened by the sounds of the crowds.

“Fucking hell.” He groans as I look over the crowd, still looking until I see her waving, kept back  by the crowd a little while away.

“Mum? Mum!” I shout as I disappear into the crowd, avoiding the questions as I dart past people and into my mum’s open arms. Upon closer inspection I can see the tears that stain her cheeks and the weight she’s lost whilst I was gone, I imagine she can feel the same has happened to me.

After reuniting with my mother, she heads home to pack herself, ready for us to move into Victors’ Village. Some of the crowds have dissipated so I look around for Haymitch, wondering where he went, knowing he’s not the biggest fan of crowds.

“Haymitch?” I cup my hands around my mouth calling his name whilst looking around. “Haymitch?” I wander around before seeing him leaning back against a tree, eating an apple from the train. “Haymitch.” I smile, walking over to him. “You okay?” I ask softly, sitting next to him and resting my head on his shoulder. “I know you don’t like the crowds.”

“What’s there to like? No one’s even waiting for me.” He grunts out.

“Your dad didn’t come?” I ask gently, knowing his dad is a sore subject as he’s always been a little absent in Haymitch’s life. Actually, him not turning up to meet Haymitch is quite in character for him but Haymitch just shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” I say quietly.

“‘S not your fault.” He mumbles fiddling with a small blade from the train, cutting off bits of an apple.

“They gave me a house, a real fancy one in the village down there.” I point. “You’ve got one too, we can move in when we want.” I try to lighten the mood. “Do you wanna check it out?” I offer with a small smile, trying to distract him a little.

“Fancy houses? Like rewards?” I shrug.

“I guess so.” He chuckles darkly. 

“That sounds about right from the President.” I nod and we both stand up, walking to the village.

Feeling the cold nipping at my skin I walk close beside Haymitch, reaching for his hand in an attempt to warm myself up.

“There’s like ten houses here, which ones do we get?” He asks, looking around.

“These closest ones have name plaques on them.” I say, leading him to one of the houses and seeing my name engraved on a gold plaque. “I guess this is mine.” I quirk a small smile, excited as the door clicks open and we walk in.

It’s silent except the sound of creaking floorboards under our feet as we explore the house, hand in hand still. 

“This house is massive.” I say in awe as we walk around, inspecting the rooms. “There’s like a million rooms.” I chuckle excitedly as he follows me around, entertaining my exploration with a small smile. “Do you think your house is built differently?” 

“I don’t know, love but I’m sure you’re gonna take me to look in a minute.” I nod, a telling smile on my face as we both know it’s true.

“You know,” I pause. “You could stay with us.” I say, turning to face him as we walk down the stairs.

He quirks an eyebrow, looking slightly confused.

“If you didn’t want to stay with your dad, I mean there’s plenty of space in this house, so many bedrooms!” I chuckle. “You don’t have to, but the offer’s there.” I smile softly.

“No, I’d like that.” He says, a smile emerging on his face. “Sounds real nice. It’d do us both some good.” He says and I look at him confused.

“Your nightmares, I know you don’t think I know about ‘em.” He says as I react a little shocked.

“So you’ll help with my nightmares and I’ll help with your antisocial tendencies?”

“Antisocial tendencies?” He scoffs.

“Your habit of ignoring and avoiding people.” I point out and he is forced to conceive. “You won’t be able to ignore me if we live in the same house.” I chuckle.

“Are you trapping me? This sounds like kidnapping…” He jokes.

“It’s not kidnapping because you want to be with me.” I point out with a smirk as we walk into the kitchen, still looking around.

“Goddamn right I wanna be with you.” He says, lifting me up in the air, causing me to shriek slightly in surprise before he presses his lips against mine.

He places me back down on the ground but doesn’t pull his lips away from mine, instead wrapping his arms around my waist leaving my hands free to reach around his neck, pulling him closer to me. 

He pushes his lips against mine, harsh but not too harsh, pouring all the pent up emotions from the last few weeks into the kiss, the passion and fears combined. My fingers tangle in the threads of his hair, the soft curls situated on the back of his head.

“(y/n)!” I hear my mum shout through the house before walking in the door, not giving us time to separate or jump apart before she appears with a few bags in hand. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She says, looking a little embarrassed although not as much as us. “I’ll leave. It was nice to meet you, Haymitch.” She says quietly before walking out the door.

Once I hear the door close, signalling she’s walked out the house, I bury my head in Haymitch’s chest, cheeks burning as he chuckles lowly.

“Your mother seems nice.” He jokes and I groan only causing him to laugh more.

-

AN: I hope you enjoyed reading!

Sorry I'm taking a while to get through requests!

I have rewritten this part two at least four times, I'm glad I've finally got a better version to post.

[theboardwalkbody]

So I've been kicking around some of those "scenes" from my Haymitch x OFC fic (that's only written in my head). I was thinking about writing one of them but it's kinda the middle of the story (most of these "scenes" I imagined are) so if I post them they are probably going to be out of order and, at the moment, not much connecting them together.

I was thinking about posting each I get to as a standalone thing and adding them to a greater collection so if I do ever end up connecting them I can just stick them together in their own thing.

Anyway- the one that I worked on at work today was a particularly dark scene. Mid Catching Fire. Very, very drunk Haymitch + very, very angry and fearful Haymitch = Very, Very Mean and Aggressive Haymitch.

Starts around the scene where he's watching the quarter quell announcement. I have from there to arrival in District 13 planned so far.

Will be 18+

Wanted to put this out there just to see if anyone would be interested in anything.

[nebulablakemurphy]

Horn Of Plenty

Summary: The Capitol sends a very special gift for Y/N and Haymitch’s son on his first birthday. Set in the Moves & Countermoves universe, can be read as a stand alone. SoTR Spoliers

Warning: SMUT 18 + ONLY, mentions of trauma

Today is a big day.

Through all the diapers and sleepless nights, they made it. One year of being parents to this perfect little boy. Haymitch is still in awe of him.

“Vanity sent clothes.” Y/N tells Haymitch, watching as he turns to her with their son in his arms. “Cameras will be here later.”

“Surprised she’s not here.”

“She’s got a show,” Y/N inches closer, enough to tickle Everest’s little belly. “High fashion waits for no one.”

The boy squeals, hiding his face in his father’s shirt.

Haymitch smiles, keeping hold of the wiggling child. “On a scale from ugly to hideous, how bad are they?”

“They’re pretty tame,” Y/N shrugs.

I love you. Haymitch has to bite his tongue to keep the words from escaping. He just can’t risk it.

————————————————————————

Y/N’s family joins them for the festivities and cake of course. Though there is only so much a one year old can do, Caesar Flickerman is hosting live from the Capitol. And they’ve sent Everest a very special gift.

“Now, we’ve sent this all the way to district twelve.” Caesar narrates, as the cameras in their living room move of their own accord. “I do hope it’s to your liking.”

“I’m sure it is, Caesar.” Haymitch says, “you know us all so well.”

Everest, in his white collared shirt and powder blue overalls, claps his hands, watching his father remove the lid of the box. The sides fall free, revealing a black rocking horse.

“Oh,” Y/N gasps. “This is beautiful!”

Haymitch wants to play his part, to smile and admire the craftsmanship, but he can’t move. He can barely breathe.

Y/N carefully seats her son on the horse, keeping hold as he begins to rock. Drawing the camera away from Haymitch, to a tight shot of the birthday boy.

‘Oh, Horn of Plenty. One Horn of Plenty for us all. And when you raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call, and we should never falther. One Horn of Plenty for us all.’

The anthem ends only to begin again.

Everest babbles, toying with the horse’s mane.

“He loves it!” Y/N rejoices, and through the camera’s speaker she can hear similar applause in the Capitol.

“Ahhaha! We are so pleased to hear that.” Caesar’s voice booms through the camera speaker. “As much as we hate to see you go, I’m afraid it’s time for our next segment.”

“Of course, we understand, Caesar.” Y/N says. “Thank you all for your generosity and for celebrating Everest’s birthday with us!” She waves. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, bye.” The little boy coos.

“Bye, bye!” Caesar replies, tearfully.

The cameras power down and wheel themselves out the open door, leaving the birthday boy and his family.

“Get him off that horse.” Haymitch demands, slamming the front door closed and turning the lock.

“Why?” Y/N’s father laughs, “surely we don’t need to be so strict about bedtime. It’s my grandson’s birthday.”

“Dad,” Y/N whispers, taking Everest back into her arms. “It’s been a long day.”

“Haymitch?” Madge waves a hand in front of his glossy eyes. “Are you ok?”

“I need a minute, Maysilee.” Shit. Fuck. “Madge. I’m sorry. I meant Madge.”

Too late. Y/N’s mother bursts into tears, clutching at her head.

Madge’s face crumples, “it’s ok, Haymitch. I know you didn’t mean to.” This happens a lot, not with Haymitch, but her mother. Maysilee or Merrilee. I’m whoever you want me to be.

He wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole.

“They took them all, they took them!”

“Melodiee, please my love.” Y/N’s father sighs, stepping around his daughters to his wife. “Where’s your medicine?”

With the commotion, Everest begins to cry.

“It’s ok,” Y/N forces a smile, looking down at her son. “You’re ok.”

Haymitch moves, as if in a trance toward his son. Oh my baby. My poor, sweet baby. What have I done? Can I spare you? He says nothing, caressing the back of Everest’s head. No, I fear, they will not let me spare you.

One might find humor in the fact that a rocking horse could cause a family to collapse; splintering apart on what should be a happy day.

The Undersees clear out, leaving only Haymitch, Y/N and Everest. Who still needs to be rocked to sleep, despite what the morning may bring.

Y/N sits with Everest in the rocking chair of his nursery. They’d hoped to wean him off of nursing, but tonight he is too restless. And Y/N is too tired to be in this chair any longer than necessary.

She hums and sways until the little hand fisted in her shirt releases. He’s out like a light.

Haymitch watches from the doorway as Y/N eases their son into his crib. Waiting until she closes the door to his room before speaking. “I took it to the other house.”

The ‘other house’ had once been hers. Now plagued with unwanted cameras and haunted horses.

She nods, before taking his face in her hands. “Haymitch, I know that after everything we’ve been through, things can seem worse or bigger than they are. It happens to me too. But if anything, Snow just wanted to rile you up. I don’t think the horse means anything.”

“We got thrown off the chariots. Louella died and I took her body to him using a horse that looked just like that.”

“I know,” Y/N nods, “I hear you.”

“Tributes are drawn by black horses in the parade while the anthem plays.” Haymitch snarls, “Snow wants him for the games.”

“Then we have eleven years to change his mind.”

“Beetee had twelve.” Haymitch’s heart is beating itself out of his chest. “We’re raising a lamb for the slaughter.”

“No,” Y/N stops him. “No we’re not.” She passes her thumb over his cheek. “We can learn from Beetee. We’re gonna play our parts, we’re gonna do whatever Snow says.”

Haymitch knows he should object, this isn’t what Y/N wants. She longs to be wild and free, to storm the Capitol, guns blazing. But he needs her, like air, to breathe. “It’s too late, Y/N. He knows.”

“He knows what?” Y/N breathes.

“That I love-” Haymitch tries to stop it, to stuff the words back down, but he can’t. “You! I love you and he knows.”

“Oh, Haymitch.”

He presses a hand to his mouth to contain the unbidden sob.

Y/N wraps her arms around him. “I love you too.”

He clings to her, as though she will slip right through his fingers. “I love-” he wants to tell her a hundred, thousand times, but the words burn, like acid in his throat.

“I know,” Y/N strokes his hair, the same color as their son’s. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

He holds her and weeps. For his Pa, Ma and Sid. For Maysilee and Louella and Lou Lou. For Wyatt and Ampert. And for Beetee, who surely lives in unimaginable pain. For Lenore Dove, who despite her own untimely death, surely sent him an angel. “Everyone I love is dead; except for you and that little boy. Everyone I love.”

“I’m so sorry, Haymitch.” Y/N buries her face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. Kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, doing everything she can to ease his pain. “So sorry.”

Even she can’t stop it. He is broken, defeated and tired. I cannot lose you.

“We’ll be alright.” Y/N promises, “I’ll do what it takes to stay right here with you and keep Everest safe.”

He brings her impossibly closer. I cannot lose Everest. “He’s ours.”

“It’s like you’ve always said, if we make the Capitol fall in love with him, they won’t be eager to watch him fight to the death.” Y/N believes that, she has to.

She’s right, he knows she is. But he’s at the point of no return, words cannot calm him.

“Here,” Y/N snakes a hand between them to unbutton his pants. She knows it is wrong, to comfort him this way. To place a bandage over a bullet wound but she can’t stand his tears. Or the sound of his ragged breathing, cannot bear the thought of him in any kind of pain.

Haymitch helps her shuck his pants down around his ankles, knowing they stand no chance of making it to the bed.

“Ask me again.” Y/N pants, against his mouth. Gentle fingers find the waistband of her panties, forcing them to the ground.

“What?” Haymitch can’t think of anything beyond shoving himself inside her, as deep as he possibly can, on the hallway floor.

“It’s real,” Y/N gasps, welcoming the feel of his length stretching her. “Ask me again.”

“I wanted to do something special.” Not now, within an inch of losing his mind.

“This is special,” Y/N assures him. “Ask me again, I want to be your wife.” If we’re running out of time…I want to be your wife.

“Marry me.” Haymitch says, tugging at her bottom lip with his teeth. “Marry me and you’ll never be alone. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours. I want to be your husband.” He admits, “I want you to be my wife. Marry me.”

“Yes.” Y/N nods.

Haymitch kisses the side of her face, the corner of her mouth, relishing her little whimpers. Rutting against her harder, faster, until he feels the familiar flutter of her walls around him. Milking him dry.

Y/N sighs contently as Haymitch’s arms give out and he rests his full weight against her.

“I wanna do a toasting.” Haymitch tells her.

Y/N yawns. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, angel,” he smiles, “tomorrow.”

————————————————————————

Haymitch wakes to the sound of Everest fussing in his crib. The noise used to send him sprinting from bed, to see what danger had befallen his son, but he knows better now.

“Sometimes babies cry, Haymitch.” Y/N reminds him, “he’s alright. Just wants a clean diaper and milk. Or to be held for a while; he’ll calm right down.”

Haymitch sits up, stretching both arms above his head. Y/N is sound asleep beside him. He presses a kiss to her head before padding down to their son’s room.

Everest leans against the pristine, white slats of his crib. Peeking out to see who’s come to his rescue. “Dada.”

Haymitch grins. “Good morning.”

Everest squeals as he’s lifted from the confines of his bed.

“Well, kid, I’ve got bad news.”

Everest babbles, shaking about the rattle laid beside him on the changing table.

Haymitch tosses the soiled diaper into the waste basket. “Your mama is still sleeping and we need eggs to make breakfast.”

“Mamamamama.”

“Which means we have to raid one of those wild goose nests outback.”

Everest only smiles as his father dresses him for the day.

“They don’t like me very much, so I’m hoping to distract them with your cuteness.” Haymitch tells him. “Not sure how well it’ll work, given that you look like me and all, but it’s worth a shot.”

[notsotrashyromancebooks]

Can you imagine that fiddler in Mockingjay playing all the songs. They danced for hours. Every single song he could. Finally playing to his hearts content. Trying to remember each and every song for each and every member of the covey that died that was killed.

[slaymitchabernathy]

all i fucking do is cry on tiktok. just saw ANOTHER video talking abt how the meadow song is actually the covey’s map to their graves.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow A bed of grass, a soft green pillow Lay down your head, and close your eyes And when they open, the sun will rise Here it’s safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every harm Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true Here is the place where I love you

a safe place away from the capitol GOODBYE SUZANNE HOW COULD YOU?!

[nebulaafterdark]

Exile (Part 8)

Summary: Y/N Undersee thought the games were over after becoming a victor. Unfortunately, life outside the arena has become just as dangerous. Prequel to Moves & Countermoves. SOTR SPOILERS

Trigger warning: forced prostitution, explicit sexual content, alcohol abuse and other mentions of trauma. 18+ ONLY

Part 7

“I’m tellin’ you somethin’s goin’ on with Y/N. The way she’s actin’.” The footage they’re showing of that little girl mentoring the games, makes it look like she’s having the time of her life. “That ain’t her.”

“You need to leave now.” Y/N’s father insists, attempting to close the front door between them.

“Valor, please.” Cherry presses her hand against it. “She’s your daughter.”

The mayor’s eyes narrow, full of rage. “Do you think I’ve forgotten that? Don’t you think I’ve tried to buy her way out? Barter and plead her way out? She’s my daughter, for god’s sake!”

“So what then? You just give up?” Tucker places his boot between the door and its frame.

“My daughter will be home from the Capitol any minute.” Valor reminds them. “After which time, I have one year to come up with a solution that doesn’t end with my entire family dead. I advise you to do the same.”

Tucker yanks his boot free of the slamming door. “Prick.”

“What do we do now?” Haymitch doesn’t have any family left. No real friends. Just that girl and him, exiled in Victors’ Village.

“There is someone who might know something, but it’s a long shot.” Burdock hasn’t spoken to Haymitch in years. Not since Haymitch started pelting him and his girl with rocks.

Doesn’t matter who it is. “It’s the only shot we’ve got.”

————————————————————————

Burdock and Asterid are not expecting visitors. So when there is a knock at the door after supper, Burdock answers, warily.

Waiting at the stoop is their neighbors from a few blocks down. Cherry and Tucker Carell, lost their oldest in the games a few years back.

“We need to speak with you about Haymitch Abernathy.”

Burdock steps out onto his porch, floorboards creaking beneath him. “What about him?”

“I remember you were close as kids.”

“We’re not kids anymore.”

“Please,” Cherry cuts in. “It’s Y/N. I know you don’t know her, but we do…we did.”

“The laryngitis girl?” Haymitch’s wife.

“Yes,” Cherry snaps her fingers. “She said she lost her voice because she didn’t want them usin’ her words to glorify somethin’ she didn’t believe in.”

Burdock sighs, “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Their loss. They’ve lost that girl.

“We want to get her back.” Tucker explains.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you can’t. Once a person belongs to them, there’s no turning back. Whatever is happening to her…cannot be undone.”

“That’s not true.” It can’t be.

“Haymitch was my best friend.” Burdock presses on. “He changed, and I don’t blame him. For all he lost…the things he’s seen…”

“Did it happen all at once? The change in em?” Cherry asks.

“No.” Burdock admits, “it took time.” The drinking didn’t help.

“This happened in a week.” Tucker points out.

“Are you sure it is her?” Burdock mutters.

“Who else would it be?”

“I don’t know how true this is,” Burdock clenches his jaw, “the person who told me was…indisposed at the time. But there was a tribute from twelve, reaped for the Quarter Quell who was killed in the parade. They replaced her with a girl who looked enough like her…”

“A body double?” Cherry’s brows pull together.

“She had something in her ear to control her. They could speak into it and even pump some kind of medicine through it.”

“Some kind of bug.”

“Must’ve been.” Burdock nods. “Haymitch said it would bleed.”

“Haymitch told you this?”

“Like I said, I don’t know how true it is. He wasn’t well. But Wyatt Callow died before her,” or so the story goes. “Louella’s casket smelled a lot worse than his when we buried them.”

The silence hangs heavy between them. 

“You seem like good people,” Burdock says, “and I am truly sorry you’re wrapped up in all this. Please be careful, or people are gonna start dropping like flies again.”

Tucker tosses an arm around his wife, leading her away. “Thank you for your time.”

Burdock watches them go, with a heavy heart. To the victor go the spoils.

Cherry and Tucker make their way back home, leaning into each other as they walk.

“We gotta do it.” Run. This could be their last chance.

“We can’t take her.” Not like they wanted to. Not the way they planned it before.

Tucker hangs his head, staring down at the ground. “I know.”

Can’t even tell her goodbye.

“This is what she would want.” He reminds his wife. “The little girl who showed up on our doorstep with flowers for our boy and a gift for each of his siblings. She would’ve wanted us to go.”

“We could leave her somethin’ at least.” Cherry suggests, “a letter.”

————————————————————————

“We’re packin’ just a couple things, like we talked about.” Cherry reminds her children.

“When are we leaving?” Micah, her second oldest son, asks.

“After dinner.” Tucker tells him.

“Can I take my bear?” Peach, their youngest, newly six, holds up her favorite stuffed animal.

“Of course,” Cherry taps her nose. They’ve already packed up everything the little ones would need.

Interdistrict travel is strictly prohibited, but Cherry’s mother was always telling stories about when she was a girl. ‘Free as birds, we were. There’s life outside these districts, Cherry. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.’

District thirteen was said to be destroyed by the Capitol, turns out that isn’t true. A couple of their friends have trickled out to test the waters, sending signs that the coast is clear. They were only waiting for Y/N to get home.

Cherry sits down at the table, paper and pen in hand.

‘My dearest, Y/N.

I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. I once suffered from some delusion that Tyson’s memories are tied to the walls of this house. That some part of him resides in the bones, buried outback. But I was wrong. My son is not trapped in a place, or a body or even this earth. We are.

Trapped in a district the president has no love for. Where children are starved and slaughtered for entertainment. There’s got to be more than this. We’re going to find it, for our boy, for all of our children, for you.

We tried waiting for you, couldn’t bear leaving you behind. I can hardly bring myself to do it now, but you belong to them. And they will never let you leave.

I know, in my heart, that if the girl we opened our home to and love like our own is still inside you; she’ll understand. I hope we find each other again, somehow, someway, in a new, free world. But for now we’ve gotta go and you’ve gotta stay. We’re still rooting for you, little girl.

Love always,

Ma, Pa, Tyson, Micah, Hudson, Rixi, Adelaide, Hoytt, Valley, Iverson, Olivette, Harvest, Fauna, Wells and Peach.’

When she is finished, Tucker raises the letter to eye level. Resting a hand on her shoulder as he reads it over, then folds it in eighths. Taking the pen in his own hand to jot down, ‘burn after reading.’

“I’m going to sit with Ty for a while before we go.” Cherry tells him, leaving the note and their simmering stew, in his care.

“Alright, baby.” Tucker presses a kiss to her cheek as she passes.

Cherry treks through the house and out the back door. Tyson’s headstone is decorated by a beautiful arrangement of wild flowers. Each picked by hand. She all but collapses onto the ground beside him.

“Tyson, I need a sign.” She murmurs into the evening breeze. “Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

Nothing.

Even the electric fence beyond the yard is silent. Silent because it’s off.

Knocking from the front door carries through the house. Cherry rises, brushing dried grass and dirt from her dress. “Tucker, who is that?” She closes the back door behind her, watching her husband peer through the peek hole.

“It’s Y/N.”

————————————————————————

When Y/N is finally permitted to leave, Cherry and Tucker are left with a truth much more devastating than any hypothetical they’d considered.

Y/N is still herself.

Fully aware; in her own body.

What controls her now is the fear of losing people she loves.

“We can’t leave her. Not now, not like this.” Cherry whispers.

Tucker covers his mouth. “Cherry, I put the note in her pocket.”

“What? Why?”

“Because nothing changed,” he takes her face in hand. “All we’re doing by staying here is giving Snow more leverage against her. Are you willing to put the blood of every name you signed in that letter on Y/N’s hands?”

“No,” Cherry shakes her head.

“Neither am I.” Tucker huffs, “we have to do this now. Like we planned, the fence is off. It’s now or never.” He doesn’t want to do this, he has to do this.

————————————————————————

Valor is still pacing in the foyer, after his unexpected visit from the Carells. Given their status, they’re not being watched by the Capitol very closely, if at all. They may be able to help Y/N in ways he can’t.

Donning his coat and shoes, Mayor Undersee sets out to visit the seam. The stares he receives from those who reside there are not the kindest. Still he waves and offers a quiet, “hello.”

There’s some commotion, near the far end, the very house he’s headed for. Smoke and screams greet him as he rounds the bend. The Carell house is on fire.

“Get up! Everyone, out of your houses. There’s an active fire. We need water.”

————————————————————————

Y/N is still holding the letter when Haymitch wakes the next afternoon. She’s so far gone that she doesn’t even realize he’s behind her, until a pair of arms encircle her waist.

“They’re gone.”

“I’m so sorry, angel.”

“They left,” Y/N waves the proof at him. “The fire was a distraction.”

Haymitch inspects it carefully, reading over the letter twice, before clearing his throat. “Gotta get rid of it.” Too damning all around.

“I know.” Her fingers clutch the corner.

“Come ‘ere.” Haymitch turns her away from the fireplace. Slowly working the parchment free from her hand. “Hold onto me instead.”

She does, desperately fisting his shirt in her hands.

Haymitch tosses the evidence into the fire, watching flames eat away at the words, until there is nothing left. He keeps her close, shuffling backwards toward the sofa.

“Don’t go anywhere, Haymitch.” Y/N says, softly.

Haymitch mulls it over for a moment. Hoping that some great words of comfort and encouragement will flood his brain. But there is no divine intervention, just the weight of her head against his shoulder. “I won’t.”

“Hold onto me instead.”

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @ancientbeing10 @1-800-styles @l3xi3luv @lam-ila @druby2011-blog @liballer @readinginthe-am @rae-11 @champomiel @mariechristine00 @solacestyles @inky-sun @dadbodfanatic-x @sandorcleganeslutt @indigoashh @mustainelove @darkened-writer @ch3rrybutterfly @boredomquest @theladyofmanyfandomsofficial @kisskittenn @kwllakka @feeblemindedfool @oopsieikilledan @that-one-fangirl69 @just-levyy @thisisthepartwhereishutup @alixxhere @quackitys-amor @pepelachanel @lurkingsparrow @faithalsip09 @cwallace02sblog @animaloversammy @peachiesnsilk @libbyaller @juiceboxfullofslime @libra-2409 @heidiland05 @evansorry @caraxes-syrax

[drfleetflower]

Mislaid Conviction (Part Three)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Reader

Summary: What was once strange becomes heartbreaking. You learn what about your time in District 13 was setting you on edge and what's worse... You learn about Haymitch's involvement in it. Your feelings for Haymitch versus what he has done creates conflict. Especially while you're still trying to grapple with the trauma from your imprisonment in the Capitol.

Warnings: ANGST, fluff, descriptions of torture, claustrophobia, coercion/bribery, drug use (morphling), mentions of alcoholism/substance abuse, bedrest and restraint

WC: 4.3k

Part One Part Two

You sat on the floor of some closet you found while running away from your problems. It was surprisingly empty, so you had no problem sitting in the middle away from the walls. Even so, it felt suffocating. You had to close the door, but the darkness didn’t bother you. In fact, it made the walls harder to see, tricking your mind into thinking maybe you were in a wide room instead of a restricting cage. Deep down though, you knew that you couldn’t even stretch out your arms. And unfortunately, the absence of light was too soon to disturb you, despite being comfortable at first. It made you realize the reality of being underground and that felt constricting too. 

At some point, you had begun gasping for air. Your hands found your throat and you clawed at your own skin. You were certain the walls had begun to squeeze you, the oxygen pulled from the room. It must be a vacuum, a machine targeting your lungs and ripping the air from them. Another, forcing the walls in on your body, squeezing you. Did Coin make this trap? Somehow knowing you’d pick this place to run?

Your hands broke free of your neck, giving up on scraping their way to your trachea. They grasped in front of them, desperate for the control to open the door. It slid open once your hand slammed against the control. You fell forward and caught yourself with your hands. You wheezed and coughed, eagerly swallowing gulps of air. 

You didn’t notice the pairs of feet until you had begun to breathe evenly, though still slightly shallow. You looked up to see two soldiers, noticeable by the communicuff they wore on their wrists. Neither of them were familiar to you. And, before you could bolt, they had grabbed you and were dragging you by your arms. You didn’t fight, too exhausted from the previous lack of oxygen. You had been running all day anyway. You couldn’t do it anymore.

You looked at the open closet before it was out of sight. The walls were just how they had been when you entered, and the walls, ceiling, and floor were all barren. No possibility of a vent sucking out the air. 

You were crazy. You realized this as the closet became a speck in the long line of doors. You hoped they were going to lock you up somewhere. You were hurting the cause, the rebellion. Wasting valuable time and energy on keeping you out of trouble. 

The men plop you down onto a hospital bed, restraining your waist, arms, and legs. Then came the syringe. Despite the fact that you weren’t resisted, it pierced your skin and you felt your arm become cold. Lights out.

---

When you came to, you squinted at the bright hospital lights. Deja vu. You were still strapped down and you had an IV stuck in your arm, but you could at least lift your head to find the room empty. When you turned your head, your neck stung and you realized you had done some actual damage to yourself earlier. Was it earlier? Was it yesterday? It was impossible to tell time. Your wounds itched like hell and you had conflicted feelings about your hands being inaccessible at the moment. 

It could have been minutes or hours until someone walked into the room, you didn’t want to lift your head again for fear that your wounds might just break open. Although, you didn’t actually know how bad the scrapes were.

“I didn’t think we’d end up back here, sweetheart.” Haymitch looked down at you, he didn’t sit like before. You wouldn’t turn your head to look at him if he did.

Not very sure of yourself, you glared up at him. Genuinely, no words came into your mind. What was the proper response? Even if you had one, you worried that if you tried to speak, tears would wet your face that you couldn’t wipe away. 

Haymitch looked from your eyes to your neck. There was a look of fear that crossed over his face, not concern. His gaze was distinctly fearful. Of what, you weren’t sure but a nagging voice in the back of your head told you he was scared that you’d hurt yourself. That you were beyond saving. 

His thumb and forefinger found your chin and he tilted your head from side to side, examining the harm. It stung but all you could focus on was his touch, it seemed to numb any other feeling. 

“Why did you do this?” He asked.

“Do what?” Your voice was hoarse, your throat sore, and you determined it must have been at least a day that you were put asleep.

His hand lingered on your chin before he retracted quickly, as if you hurt to touch. “Damnit! You don’t understand do you? You just don’t have a clue what’s going on here.” His voice was harsh and patronizing. “Coin played it nice at first. All you had to do was-” He stops himself, a huff leaving his lungs. 

“What?” You were genuinely confused now, but he didn’t answer. He looked off in the distance like he was listening to something else. “WHAT?!” You screamed. 

That caught his attention. But, before he could calm you down, nurses came into the room and inserted something into your IV. 

“You don’t need to do that.” Haymitch objected. 

You began to thrash, it didn’t make much of an impression though because of the restraints. “Haymitch!” You yelped.

In response, he became a bit frantic too, pleading with the nurses that he could calm you. They didn’t listen to him. Lights out.

---

When you awoke again, the familiar face was not the one you wanted to see. You groaned as the drug worked its way out of your system. 

“Do you even want to help the rebellion?” Thom lifted a brow. His speech warbled in your brain. 

“Yes-” You choked.

“Then why don’t you tell me what happened while you were in the Capitol?” It was a demand, not a request.

“Why…” You couldn’t wrap your head around this. This was extreme. 

When Haymitch had made the first inquiry into your stay at the Capitol, it was done out of care (or so you thought). The therapy sessions made sense, they couldn’t have another crazy Victor be the face of the rebellion or a face at all really. With how you had ended up, it was a good idea. Then, there was Thom’s first inquiry. That was strange, especially coupled with the continued interrogation from Haymitch. The attempted coercion? It didn’t make any sense. And now this.

“It’s not easy to talk about.” You finally answered. 

“How would you know? You haven’t said a word.” He said, an unhidden frustration in his voice.

“What does it matter? What does that have to do with the rebellion?” Your brows were deeply furrowed. 

Thom sighed and leaned against the wall. “We had liked to know if you were compromised at first, but quickly ruled that out after you talked to Haymitch. You see, Peeta was less than pleasant with his love.”

His words implied that Haymitch was your love and it sent a heat through your body. You felt the need to clarify, “Haymitch is not-”

He interrupted you. “After that, the goal was to learn the Capitol’s tactics. Maybe what you went through could give us ideas, or information to help Peeta.”

“So why not tell me that from the beginning?” You raised your voice and then your eyes darted to the door but no one came to knock you out.

“You would have been open if we had?” 

You were silent for too long, and if it wasn’t an immediate yes, it was clearly no.

“Right.” He said. “So talk now.”

You swallowed a lump in your throat. “Did Haymitch know?” You asked, despite knowing the answer.

He laughed in your face.

“Answer me!” You shouted, bracing yourself for the surge of nurses and the subsequent sleeping drug.

Still, they didn’t come.

“Do you want something to actually scream about? I can put you back in that closet. There’s a story there, huh? They put you in closets?” He was treating you like a petulant child and his threat rang in your ears.

“Give me Haymitch.” You demanded in a shaky voice. “Give me Haymitch and get me out of this bed and I’ll talk.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands.” He said.

You kept your mouth shut then, looking away from him as if he was nonexistent. You were in no rush.

“You-” He stopped, like Haymitch had, and grunted. “Fine.” Like his frustration from before, his annoyance went unhidden.

Thom unbound you from the bed and poked at your back, leading you to Haymitch’s room. With your hands free, you itched at your neck. Everything bothered you; your neck, Thom’s incessant poking, the sterile smell, the blinding lights. This place had not been what Haymitch presented when you arrived. Maybe that was due in part to your erratic behavior, but you had a feeling that District 13 was more brutal than you thought. This whole secret plan, the threats, the coercion. 

Haymitch seemed caught off guard by your presence. Maybe he didn’t know the extent of the plan Coin had concocted? 

You itched at your neck anxiously. Thom was still there. 

“Can I get privacy?” You scoffed.

“No.” Thom answered.

“Thom.” Haymitch said.

Thom rolled his eyes and left.

Then, silence engulfs the room for a long moment before you get the nerve to speak to him. 

“So, you knew about this whole plot against me?” You said.

“There is no plot against you, sweetheart. They just wanted all the information.” Haymitch sat down on his cot sluggishly, you could tell he was tired.

“Oh, okay. They just wanted to secretly lure me into spilling all my trauma to you, so they could use it to their advantage. Yeah, that makes it all better.” Your voice was thickly laced with sarcasm.

A weak argument, but Haymitch rested his elbows on his knees and said, “There weren’t many options.”

“And you love to lie, so why pick anything else?” It wasn’t hard to be mad at Haymitch, it never had been. But this was different from when you had first met. This wasn’t a petty fight started only because you liked getting on his nerves. Even when you were angry at him for leaving you in the arena it was different. Because, at least you understood his reasoning. You understood that it wasn’t a betrayal; it was a consequence of the plan. This time your anger could eat you alive. Your boiling blood could burn a hole through your heart. 

No, this was the easiest it had been to be furious with him. This was indeed betrayal. You just had to know to what extent.

“You didn’t answer my question.” You said after he didn’t reply to your insult.

“Which one?” 

“The plot against me. How much did you know?”

Haymitch was hesitant to answer. “About as much as you’d expect.”

“Haymitch!” The volume of your voice alarmed him.

“If you want Thom back in the room, you can just ask. I could get him. No need to get loud, sweetheart.” It was a subtle threat.

You called his bluff. “You could, but you won’t.” 

One of his shoulders raised. “Yell again and see.” He challenged.

All his response did though, was make you realize that you didn’t trust that he wouldn’t. You didn’t trust him. You were losing the only person you felt safe with. The only person you- You shook away the thought and tried to hold onto the last sliver of hope there was.

“How much did you know?” You asked again.

There was no point in him answering, nothing had changed since the first time you asked him, but he didn’t anyway. “I knew I had to get you to talk.” 

“When did you know that?” 

“The moment you got here.” He admitted. 

And out the window was the hope you held onto. You didn’t understand his motives. What would push him to let Coin use you in this way? Was he that invested in the rebellion and whatever possible use they could have for the ‘information’ you had? Or… Maybe District 13 was as brutal as you had wondered. 

You looked him over. He looked fine. Well, he looked better than when you had first been reintroduced. The lack of his favorite beverage wasn’t doing him many favors, but maybe he had managed okay without it. Unless, he wasn’t managing without it at all. Unless, that was the deal.

“What was in it for you? Or do you enjoy violating my trust?” 

“I think it’s your turn to start answering questions, darling.” He avoided the question.

“Don’t call me that.” You scoffed but scooted closer to him.

He laughed. “You’re giving me mixed singles.”

You don’t give him anything in return, using the closeness to scrutinize his eyes and attempt to smell his breath. His eyes didn’t seem all there as they traveled around your face, but as far as you could tell, he didn’t smell of alcohol. His breath fanned your cheek before he swallowed, only today’s lunch was present. He cleared his throat and roughly faced forward. 

“Are you claustrophobic?” He asked, clearing his throat again.

“What?” Your eyes remained trained on him and you weren’t moving an inch. But, he didn’t attempt to either.

He also didn’t take the bait to look at you, he kept his head facing the wall in front of him. “Your outburst in the closet. Don’t like tight spaces? That’s claustrophobia.” He explained.

“Then yes. I’m claustrophobic. But you would have been too. The walls were squeezing me to death.” You said. You knew it was ridiculous, that you must have imagined that aspect of your time in a random storage closet here. But, it was easier to open up this way.

“The walls were squeezing you?” He pokes.

“Yes.” 

“Not sure why they’d be doing that, sweetheart. Anything else happen?” He prods.

“Yes.”

“What?” Poke.

“The air was sucked out of the room.”

“Really? That why you scratched up your neck?” Prod.

“I couldn’t breathe.”

Poke. Prod. Poke. Prod. Poke. Prod. That was the rest of your conversation. A constant intrusion into your stay at the Capitol. Reliving the torture you had been put through for the sake of the rebellion. 

It seemed each one of the Victors had gotten their own brand of torture. Peeta had been hijacked, used as a weapon against Katniss. Johanna was waterboarded and electrocuted, and at the same time. You didn’t know the details on Annie and Enobaria, but they had nothing to do with the rebellion. You on the other hand, very much did. 

You explained to Haymitch, in gruesome detail, the extent of your suffering. Every night, you were put to sleep in a coffin, locked on the outside. On regular occasion, you were forced into a room where the walls crushed you. Not enough to cause too much damage, but enough to let the air leave your lungs. In the moments when the walls would let go, they only gave you minimal time to breathe, before they would turn on the vacuum attached to your head and over your nose and mouth. These instances were happening in between the usual torture, of course. The beatings.

Your words were visibly taking a toll on Haymitch. He looked sick, his skin drained of color and clammy. When he blinked, his eyes stayed closed for a long time. It seemed like he was trying to drown you out with whatever was going on in his head. He made indication he was even listening and you assumed there was a listening device on him or somewhere in the room. 

When you finished speaking, he hoarsely said, “Morphling.” 

This only served to confuse you. “What?”

“They’ve been giving me morphling.”

Oh. That was the deal. Something to numb the pain in exchange for getting you to share yours. They didn’t produce liquor here for obvious reasons, but morphling was fair game. They seemed to have an endless supply of it, so it was more sustainable than the rubbing alcohol. And, probably better for you. 

“So you traded me for drugs.” You said, though your words weren’t as bitter as you would have liked them to be. 

Haymitch’s hands were twitching and against your better judgement, you felt bad for him. Not only that, but getting all of that off your chest… It helped, if only a fraction. You would never admit that, of course. Haymitch wasn’t allowed to be right about anything. Not right now, at least.

“Does it help?” You asked.

“Not right now.” He wiped his damp forehead and looked at you for what felt like the first time in hours. Maybe it had taken you that long to account for all of the things the Capitol had put you through. His eyes were red and puffy, but you hadn’t noticed him crying. Was it the morphling? “I’m sorry.” He said.

The sincerity of his words struck you like a knife to the heart. That, and the fact that now you could clearly see tears staining his face. You had never seen him cry, you wondered if anyone had. The sight made your body seize and the words: stop it, to force their way from your throat like vomit.

There wasn’t much humor in it, but he did laugh and wipe his face. “Can’t.” He said, tears still breaking through his eyelids. He was a very quiet crier. 

That was a tame response, as you realized it was an awful thing to have said, especially coupled with the million times he had comforted you as you cried. He had also caused your tears the last couple days though too. But you had a deep urge to comfort him like he had you. 

Instead, you ignored his state altogether. “Are they going to take me back to the hospital?” 

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” He stood up, patting your leg, and you grabbed his arm.

“Are you miked?” You kept your grip on his arm as he sat back down next to you.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, wiping his cheeks again.

“Can you turn it off?”

He sighed, “Sort of.” He took off the small device, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with his foot. He smiled. “I think they’ve taken enough, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

You nodded and suddenly noticed the still close proximity. His now shaky breath fanned your cheeks once again. “You really are high.”

“No, I just got my priorities straight.” 

“Are they going to send someone back?” 

He shook his head. “They'll be busy.” 

You took that in, instinctively wiping away the evidence of tears from his face. The flow had stopped for the time being. Your hands lingered. Your body screamed at you to let go, that he had yet to gain your trust again. You couldn’t bring yourself to listen. 

There was only breathing. Haymitch’s stubble lightly pricked your palms, and your pinkies felt the smooth skin of his neck. 

“Y/n…” He whispered, causing the moment to become more intimate, one of those rare times he used your actual name.

“What?” You whispered back.

He pulls your hands off his face gently. “I don’t deserve this.” 

“What is this, exactly?” You quirked a brow.

“Forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.” He clarified.

You considered this for a moment. “I haven’t forgiven you yet.” 

“Don’t.” He insisted. 

He was starting to get on your nerves again. He had caused this whole problem, and now he wanted to control how you reacted? You hadn’t even suggested forgiving him and here he was demanding you that you don’t. It made you want to contradict this, to forgive him out of spite. Maybe this was reverse psychology. He should know you well enough to know how you respond to being told what to do. You’re naturally drawn to do the opposite, to defy authority. 

You decided on a teasing approach, finally tired of the layer of seriousness that had settled over you. “I didn’t think I annoyed you to the point that you’d be willing to scheme your way out of my life.”

Like you refused to earlier, he didn’t respond to your attempt at banter. 

It was infuriating; the song and dance that you and Haymtich had fallen into. Nothing was ever simple. Every interaction you had with him since you were deposited in District 13 was a simultaneous push and pull. Maybe even every interaction you had ever had with him. And yet, as you had said many times, he was the only person you really trusted. Now, that was broken. You tried to force yourself to believe that was broken. But with the betrayal, there wasn’t a single other person in District 13, in all of Panem, that you were willing to be this close to. Maybe it wasn’t healthy to hang on to him as the only scrap of comfort you currently had, but you were still drawn to him despite all of the downs. 

“You know, whether or not you like it, whether or not I like it - which trust me, I don’t… We’re stuck together. I won’t have a moment of peace here without you. And I’m not going to let you start a morphling addiction.” You said firmly, “So, I’m forgiving you because you will make it up to me. I’m not infallible and I’m not going to pretend that if I had a substance that took away my pain even for a moment, I wouldn’t be tempted. I know I would. Because, in a way, you’re that substance. And we both know how well I’ve handled without you.”

Not well at all. Every time you had chosen to be away from him, you regretted it. Every time you had been forced away from him, you begged for him back. Like you were going through withdrawals. Of course, you likely handled it better than Haymitch parting with his alcohol, you were sure that adjustment was brutal. And for Coin to offer a different form of escapism to him? It was sick. A psychological form of torture she had inflicted onto him. And on you. 

It didn’t matter how much suffering the two of you had already been through, to her, even the slightest bit of information was worth putting you through more. For the sake of the rebellion? More likely, it was for the sake of control. It was another Game. And to survive Games, you needed Haymitch.

“Well?” You pushed for a response.

“Well... How do I make it up to you, sweetheart?” Haymitch was still so close, a breath away. 

Again, everything inside you was screaming at you to not do what you wanted to do, to not say what you wanted to say. But again, you didn’t like being told what to do. “You could start with a kiss.”

He barked a laugh, a genuine, hearty laugh. The idea was apparently so humorous to him. The sound was only quelled when he caught sight of your incredibly serious expression. Then his laughter was replaced with a look that was somewhere between horror and absolute confusion. “You don’t want that.”

You furrowed your brows. “Do you?”

“It’s not about what I want.” He brushed off.

“Well, I’m not going to force you to kiss me, so yes it is.”

Haymitch shook his head. 

“No? You don’t?” You tried to make out the movement.

“You don’t.” He stated again.

It was hard to believe he wasn’t deliberately trying to rile you up. “Yes, I do.”

He continued to shake his head. “You shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t.” 

“You shouldn’t kiss me or you shouldn’t want to kiss me?” You asked, hopefully.

“Both.”

You had almost forgotten what it was like to smile. “Then, I’ll kiss you. Win, win.”

Haymitch closed his eyes when your hand met his cheek and your lips soon made their acquaintance with his. He tasted like the grainy toothpaste every District 13 citizen was required to use. You had always expected that when you kissed, the sharpness of alcohol would flood your senses, but it seemed Coin had done her job in erasing that part of Haymitch. At least mostly, because in some odd way, he still faintly smelled of the stuff. Though, it was entirely possible that was all in your head. 

Yes, Haymitch was definitely your substance of choice. You let out a soft hum as the tension left your body and a pleasant fog passed over your mind. Haymitch’s reservations seemed to leave him as his arms wrapped tightly around you and his kiss became more careful. If he was rusty, muscle memory had kicked in quick.

You unconsciously chased his lips when they left yours, causing Haymitch to chuckle: hold on, sweetheart and recline harshly. 

“Sorry.” You breathed, slightly embarrassed. 

“I should be saying sorry.” He said.

“For what?” You wrapped your arms around him too.

“For kissing you. For everything.” He sighed.

You shook your head and corrected him. “First of all, I kissed you and I’m not sorry about it. Secondly, everything is much too much to be sorry about.” 

“Then I’m just sorry about hurting you.” He redirected.

“You already apologized for that.” You reminded him.

Haymitch seemed baffled by this. “And that was enough? Some words and a kiss?” 

You hummed in amusement. “Oh, not even close.” And went in for another.

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

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. 

Haymitch has a wife.

And she was about to die.

Next Chapter