#Maude ivory | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ulltraviolences · 7 months ago

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let the light in | haymitch abernathy

pairing: haymitch abernathy x fem!covey!reader

synopsis: deciding to indulge in old habits after a particularly hard night & glimpses of his past life, haymitch doesn’t expect to be comforted by the voice of a beautiful songbird in the hob of 12.

warnings: mentions of war, canon violence, ptsd, alcohol, mention of blood, flirting, age gap (reader is in early 20s), slight sexual themes, kissing, fluff-ish, sweet haymitch

song included: the ballad of lucy gray baird

a/n: this is something I’ve had for so long in my drafts & now that we’ve got the prequel announcement, what better time than to post it! <3

Maysilee’s loud screeches echo through the trees, the mockingjay’s repeating the blood curdling sound as they start to encircle him. Haymitch’s feet moving fast beneath him against the dirt trail in order to lose the career pack behind him. His movements beginning themselves before his mind can process them and the fact that she’s gone. The wind being his sole helper in drying the tears that threaten to keep flowing, catching a glimpse of his hands still stained red from the way he held her before she passed.

The only thing on his mind now being that he survives this, for her, for his family, for his district, and more importantly so he can show that they don’t control him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sound of glass shattering against the hardwood floor is what finally pulls his consciousness out of the nightmare of the arena. Flailing his arms around as if to protect himself from ever being touched again, haymitch is quick to his feet to stand up and surveil the empty dining room for the slight hint of the ghost of a past tribute looking to attempt to take his life once more.

He stands completely still as he finally takes into account his surroundings, his heart still pumping out an extra beat per minute and silently waiting as he catches his breath. it’s just a dream. you survived. you’re here. you’re home. He repeats the mantra in his head over and over again till it hopefully sticks this time.

It isn’t until he feels a slight trickle drip down onto the table that he sees the fallen glass shatter all over the floor and mixed with the hint of crimson from the shards stuck to his palm.

It feels like a cruel joke almost, a reminder. The blood that he’ll forever have stuck to his hands. The mess of blood that no matter how hard he tries to clean up will just keep flowing in an endless cycle no matter what he does to prevent it from happening again.

A bitter chuckle escapes him at the thought. Amused by his own misery and the situation he’s found himself in. He backs up and slowly treks himself to the kitchen sink to turn on the faucet, relishing in the slight sting that the lukewarm water elicits from his wounded hand.

A small price to pay for the families he thinks about every waking moment that he’s, no doubt, wounded for life by surviving the games against their children. Their loved ones that they’ll never get the chance to see again. Yet, whose faces and names haunt him every night since he’s stepped foot out of that arena.

The pain of not only them but his parents. His sisters. His girl. And Maysilee. Her family. People who he couldn’t save even here at home and after the games. All because he wanted to show them, the capitol, that they couldn’t control him they way they did everyone else.

The growing pit in his stomach now feeling inescapable the longer he stands in front of the running faucet. Shaking his head, he slams the faucet switch off, grabbing the alcohol beside him to disinfect the wound. Hissing and banging his leg against the drawer beneath his sink when when the liquid hits his palm. He slowly bends down to open the drawer and finds the bandaging wrap that he keeps for instances like these, which have happened to become routine for him. He bandages up the rest of his hand until he looks down and hums in slight satisfaction at his work.

As soon as he’s finished, his mind is already preoccupied with what the next choice, or beverage, of distraction he is in need of. It can’t be here though. Anywhere but the empty, cold house in the almost unoccupied, lone victor’s village.

Walking towards the front door, he quickly shrugs on a light coat and his boots. Stepping out into the cool, autumn night out in district 12. He continues down the path towards the main part of the district. Letting the sound of the wind be the only thing present in his mind before he decides to sit down at the hob and think more about his decisions in life so far.

As he nears the hob, he can hear the slight sound of music making its way through the open doors to the outside. Both young and old residents of the district out tonight and drinking, the only semblance of fun and normalcy you’ll find them indulging in despite the circumstances of their situations.

He walks in, immediately making a straight beeline towards the bar. Trying as hard as he can to ignore the lingering stares and pointed whispers of those who recognize him. The only lone alive victor of district 12. Eyes filled with both curiosity and pity as they follow his frame to the bar. All were surprised that he had decided to grace them with his presence for once. As his absence was growing long enough for him to almost be forgotten till the painful reminder on reaping day each year.

Haymitch settles onto the stool near the end of the bar, ordering whatever scarce brew is available for the night. Once it’s placed in front of him, it’s almost gone just as it was full. Already raising his hand to catch the attention of the bartender for another glass. Opting to ignore the judgmental stare and low warning given to him before the bartender hesitantly slides another glass his way.

Lost in thought of the nights earlier events and his second helping of beer, his mind is pulled away by the loud cheers of the people in the hob. Still nursing his beer, he takes a small peak from the corner of his eye to where everyone else’s attention is on to the girl twirling her way onto the stage with guitar in hand.

He’s a bit taken aback for a second, not ever having seen much of her before around the district or even hearing of her name. Yet, he might be the only clueless one as to who this girl is, he thinks. Spotting even, off duty peacekeepers who’ve decided to join in once they see the young woman take the stage.

“Well hey y’all!”, The girl beams, “Now just how might all of you fine folks out here in district 12 must be doing tonight?”

The crowd roars in excitement at the question. Never had he ever seen in life someone command the attention of a majority of a district in such a way that wasn’t related to the games. In a joyful way, nonetheless.

“Alright! Alright! Settle down y’all, I hear you all quite clearly, no need to go rupturing my ears now!”, You say as you playfully roll yours eyes at the crowd, “For those of you who may not know, or have been living under a rock, my name is Y/n Ivory!”

As the crowd around him laughs at the charming display of your personality in full force, Haymitch finds out he’s not immune to the power of your charisma either. He finds himself, still secluded in the dark corner of the room, cracking a small smile at your undeniable stage presence.

Pale white dress flowing freefully over your body landing just right above your knees with flowers woven through your hair and all. You’re the purest untainted vision of beauty he’s ever seen dancing in a place that has seen so much violence and pain as 12. It’s a wonder, he thinks to himself, how he’s gone so long without ever seeing or hearing of you.

He doesn’t know if he should be mad at himself for not getting out more or grateful for the fact that he chose to leave tonight. By having it lead him right here tonight as he watches you illuminate the room with every step you take and smile never breaking off of your face for even a second.

“Now don’t you worry, I’m gonna sing y’all a special one tonight,” you say, strumming the guitar as you continue to speak, “this one is a little tune some of you might know, a ballad we’ve all heard passed down, figured something slow is fitting for a nice night like this”

Haymitch watches you slightly clear your throat a little as you strum the chords on your worn leather guitar. He marvels at the intactness of it, such a prized possession to be in hold of that he’s sure has seen so much in its time. Figuring to himself that it has to be some sort of heirloom, as he knew at least no one, not even him, could afford such a luxury except if you lived in the capitol.

“ When I was a babe I fell down in the holler

when I was girl I fell into your arms

we fell on hard times and we lost our bright color

you went to the dogs and I lived by my charms ”

Your voice is sweet, he thinks. Melodically beautiful, just as he expected, yet it doesn’t take away his surprise nonetheless. The glide of the strings paired with your voice forces him to shake his head a bit just to make sure he wasn’t dead yet from the alcohol and your voice was mistaken as angel from above.

He concludes that regardless, there’s not much of a difference. As he takes in your frame, almost floating above the crowd as high as the sound of your lungs can take you, he figures that you might as well be an angel.

“ I danced for my dinners, spread kisses like honey

you stole and you gambled, and I said you should

we sang for our suppers, we drank up our money

then one day you left, saying I was no good

well, all right, I’m bad, but then you’re no prize either

all right, I’m bad, but then, that’s nothing new

you say you won’t love me, I won’t love you neither

just let me remind you what I am to you

‘cause I am the one who looks out when you’re leaping

I am the one who knows how you were brave

and I am the one who heard what you said sleeping

I’ll take that and more to my grave ”

The lyrics are familiar, he concludes to himself. He remembers the ballad well, one his mother would often sing to him & his sisters when they were younger. It would be a way for her to calm them down each night before a reaping.

He remembers the stories she would tell along with it, of how before the rebellion, there were these people who’d call themselves, “covey”, traveling from district to district singing to their hearts content for the enjoyment of others. She knew them well, she’d tell them. Telling them how the covey eventually settled into district 12.

His mother would talk about the nights where she would go to the hob and dance away. Making great friends with the girl who sang these infamous songs that had been passed down. The girl who also coincidentally introduced his mother to his father one night. Pushing his father until he asked his mother for a dance.

She would end each story by telling Haymitch, “well, now you know that you have someone to be thankful for making sure that you exist”.

The story seemed so mythical to him then, as it still does now. To think of a time when there was so much free will that people once held, especially outside of the Capitol’s restraints. To how something so frivolous as singing was enough to be one’s way of survival. A life of fulfillment and light melodies sung with no threat or existence of the games to ever ruin them.

The sound of Y/N’s voice sweetly coaxes him out of his thoughts. It is then, as he hears her, that he does believe in the stories. That if he continued to hear her voice for the rest of his life, it would be enough to ensure his survival for good. Not even the games would be enough to take him away from her. Not if he could help it.

This line of thinking scares him as it does entice him. He hasn’t felt this way since his first love, the one that they took away him. He feels like a teenager once again, heart practically bursting at the sight of the girl in front of him.

Her eyes roam the crowd as she continues singing, before they eventually catch his awe stricken expression. She smiles slightly, lightly fluttering her lashes at the attention. All before closing her eyes, swaying and losing herself in the music once again.

Not one for ever caring about appearances, he suddenly feels hyper aware of himself. He’s not used to feeling like this, he’s not quite sure how to process it. Just desperate, hoping that when her eyes linger a bit longer on him that she hopefully is feeling what he is too.

When she eventually looks away, he finds a part of himself chasing the high that she had bestowed upon him. Thinking how nothing could ever compare to the way he’s feeling now, not even the smooth liquor that would soothe his mind enough to make him forget things that have happened to him.

Now abandoning the half drank pint in front of him, he finds himself wanting to remember this night. This moment where he doesn’t need anything stronger than your presence to tell him that everything is okay.

The song ends, much to his dismay. The last few chords of your guitar lingering in the air before the hob breaks out in a harmonious applause, praises & hollers being shouted out your way. He watches you graciously thank the crowd, letting the band behind you take over. His eyes linger on you as you exit the stage, watching you laugh & thank everyone who meet on your way through the crowd.

It isn’t until he sees your frame slowly getting nearer that he suddenly feels shy, quickly diverting his attention down to his drink. Hands getting slightly clammy as he registers your sweet voice beside him, asking the bartender for a pint for yourself.

“Well my, my, to what do I owe the pleasure of dragging a victor out to one of my shows tonight?”, you say while letting out a slight giggle at the sight of him.

He’s a bit bewildered at first. Not exactly not knowing how to respond out of fear of embarrassing himself. His mouth slightly opens, letting out a playful scoff at the nickname victor, before replying back in the same playful manner you had.

“Just had to come down to hear what all the yapping around the district was about a pretty girl singing her heart out here each night”, he lightly flirts, hoping it lands well with her.

The action is thankfully welcomed as her laugh floats through the air. He wishes he could bottle the sound up so he could hear it over and over again.

“Now you’re just a peach aren’t you? Trying to butter me up .. hm?”, she says. Poking fun at his attempt of flirting before adding on, “And? Did I meet your expectations?”

His heart flutters at the question, chuckling to mask his nervousness that she so easily seems to trigger.

“That you did, sweetheart. Better than I could’ve thought”, he says, relishing in the way her wide eyed expression lights up at the praise he gives to her.

He feels himself mirroring her contagious smile. Nerves still present, but easing themselves when he sees her relaxing into his gaze.

“You’re a very sweet man, Haymitch Abernathy”, you tell him. Warmth slightly flooding your cheeks as his eyes remained fixed on you.

Quickly, taking the opportunity to glance away from the intense eye contact to take in the details about him. You take notice of the way his hair falls around his face, carefully framing it in a way that was too-professionally done to be of his own doing as the rest of the men in the district. A small testament to his time back and forth between his home and the calling of the Capitol. His slightly rugged appearance combats this, a small show of rebelliousness in the appearance the Capitol attempts to smooth over in a Victor, yet still seeming so distinctively him.

To anyone else, his demeanor would have been enough to ward off lingering stares here in the district. To you, it radiated a rare aura of comfort & warmth around him that you had never felt around another man before. You had wanted to get lost in it, envisioning yourself spending late mornings, running your fingers through his locks and humming a secret tune just for you both.

He chuckled dryly, swirling around the ale in his pint before glancing back up at you, “Sorry to disappoint sweetheart, tell anyone else here that and you might get a different answer”.

He watches as you cock your head to the side, a sly smile on your face, “Well good thing I wasn’t planning on asking anyone else”, sternness lacing your tone before scooting closer towards him, “Anyways, I think I like that I might be the only one in this damn district that can tell the difference”.

Haymitch could feel the way the way his heartbeat practically sped up, his hands fidgeting around the handle of the pint in front of him. Taking a deep breath before turning his attention back to the way your wide eyed gaze is fixated on him, eyes slowly analyzing him as if he’ll run right off. The thought crossed his mind for a minute, more so out of fear of embarrassing himself.

Taking a leap of faith, he brings his hand up to run his hand through a lock of your hair, tucking it behind the flower adorned between your ear. He hums at the pretty detail before plucking it to hold out in his palm, “A primrose?”.

You can feel your body still at the motion, warmth pooling in your chest at the feel of his hand. Carefully eyeing his expression, something that reads as a mixture of wonder and adoration at you. You remember to let out a small breath in the midst of the intimacy this situation, softly smiling as he hums in notice of the flower that lays against your hair.

“It was one of my mama’s favorites”, he can feel the wistfulness in your tone as you recall her, “She used to tell me stories of how my grandma and her great aunt would collect different flowers from their travels in the covey to use to bathe her and her cousins, since the borders between districts closed in the dark days, she gathered primroses here from the fields instead for me”.

He takes notice of the way you softly grasp onto his hand, your smooth palm contrasting with his hardened one and its tiny scars littered that hold unspoken memories of the arena. Your finger lightly traces the petals he holds in his palm, he watches as the mixture of nostalgia and sadness battle in your mind as you recall these memories.

Haymitch feels his own heart twinge, thinking back to what he can remember of his own mother, her voice, her stories, her mannerisms, anything. There’s a thick layer of understanding in the air between the two of you, unspoken feelings and experiences of loss and familiarity. The scattered chattering of the hob and instrumentals seem far away as the two of you take in each other’s presence.

He makes the first move to break the stillness between you two, bringing his hand back up to place the flower in your hair once again. You sigh softly as you feel his hand go to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb softly tracing back & forth on your skin. Haymitch feels the ghost of a smile threatening to overtake his lips as he feels your nestle your face further into his grasp before asking, “Would you wanna get out of here?”.

You softly nod at his question, not trusting your own voice to betray you and tremble at the delicateness in which he’s treating you. Standing up, you envelope your hand into his as his other finds it’s way onto your waist to lead you through the crowd. A motion so easily done as if it is second nature to you both. There is nothing but comfort and safeness in the act.

The cold air hits you both as you walk out, not feeling quite sure if the goosebumps forming on your skin is a result of that or the proximity of the man that still has a firm hold on you. You don’t seem to mind either way. You take a small peek over to him, watching the internal battle with himself as it plays on his face, eyebrows creased in deep thought. Yet still, he holds onto you, as if it’ll ground him.

You stop walking after a minute or so, watching the confusion in his expression as he snaps out of his thoughts. You pull him over to the small alley way, taking his face in both of your hands and forcing him to look into your eyes. His eyes trace over your questioning expression, taking a hard swallow before he speaks, “I .. I haven’t done this in a long time, sweetheart”.

“And what exactly are we doing?”, you say while lightly laughing.

He feels his nerves dissipate little by little at the sound of your amusement, still battling with the lingering fear in the back of his mind. He hesitates in his action, slowly leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, hands tightening their hold around your waist.

He can feel your breath hitch, your nose slightly touching against his own as your lips part, begging for him to make a move.

“If I do this, I don’t think I’d want to ever have another day where you’re not near me, at least to where I know you’re safe”, he whispers gently as his lips begin to ghost above yours.

“You won’t have to, I’ll be right here”, you whisper back. Your voice filled with reassurance and desperation, willing to give almost every part of you to him if it takes.

You feel the wind knocked out of you, as if you’ve forgotten to know how to breathe once you feel his lips against your own. Your mouths molding perfectly against one another as if this is what you’ve both have been waiting for your entire lives.

You whine softly as he deepens the kiss, his mouth claiming you with purpose. Whether it’s his way of subconsciously ensuring to himself that he won’t let anything happen to you or to convey his own worthiness to you, he can’t tell. The only thing taking up space in his mind being the way you sound as he familiarizes himself with you, tongue exploring yours while his hands grasp at your body.

You both finally break apart after what feels like an eternity, your heart racing as you try to catch your breath. Unable to shake the burning feeling of that his lips left against yours in their wake. Your lids flutter open, already finding his gaze with what reads as both love and protectiveness staring back at you.

“I …”, he clears his throat before finding a way to gather the right words he wants to say to you. He goes over every possibility of what this could mean between the two of you, of letting you in. It would be easier if he could just act like this was meaningless, that he could walk away now and never think of it again. But as with everything else, he knows that you will ruminate in the back of his mind forever with no avail. Not now that he already has you in his arms.

“I won’t be able to give you much”, is all he is able to choke out. A twinge of disappointment lacing his words.

“That’s okay, I’m not looking for much anyways”, you hum. You tip your head up slightly to look at him, “Just want you, it’ll be enough for me”.

“Yeah?”, he says softly. His eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, relief blossoming in his chest when he doesn’t find any. The only thing staring back him being the firmness in your vulnerability as you hold him in your palm. He pulls his hand from your waist to grab ahold of your hand against his face, bringing your knuckles to his lips, before leaning back in to press another kiss to your lips.

A part of him knows that it’ll always never be this simple. He will do his best to make sure he can protect you from what he can, if it ever comes to it. But right here, right now, in this moment. It’s not something even, Snow himself, can ever take from him.

#haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x reader #the hunger games #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg #thg series #sunrise on the reaping #lucy gray baird #maysilee donner #maude ivory #coriolanus snow

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