#stop katniss hate

[literallymikewheeler]

i could literally talk abt quotes from thg for HOURS like im not even kidding (i have) ....however, it has come to my attention that some people GENUINELY agree with the quote haymitch says in catching fire "you know, you could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve him." which could not be more false. i believe they both deserve each other EQUALLY like there is no "one deserves the other more" type of thing going on. its like. they have both gone through the hunger games TWICE, peeta has been taken and hijacked, and katniss (a 17 year old keep in mind) is basically forced to become the head of this revolution. the worthiness of the other ones love should NOT be the first thing on their mind. "but she was literally soooo mean to him!" 1) womp womp 2) stfu. like i do NOT want anyone to ever call this girl mean. like ever. ESPECIALLY not to peeta. lets keep in mind what this girl literally said about peeta before "what i need is the dandelion in the spring. the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. the promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. that it can be good again." hm does that sound remotely mean to u? or how abt "no one has held me like this in such a long time. since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe." or maybe "i realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if peeta dies. me." does any. ANY. of that sound like someone who is "being mean" to peeta rn???? like i could go on for HOURS abt how much katniss was in love with that boy. however. i feel like the people saying mean stuff abt katniss isnt actually made abt her actions towards him, but more the fact that she didn't really show HEAVY romantic feelings towards him until the quarter quell. which is first of all, unfair. u want this 16 year old girl who was just thrown into a DEATH ARENA have her first thoughts be "hm i wanna kiss peeta" like NO. she was much more focused on trying not to die thank u very much. AND THEN. as soon as she finds out that she can save peeta, she YELLS HIS FREAKING NAME AND GOES TO FIND HIM. like girly didnt have to do that! BUT. SHE. DID. anways.... if u agree with that quote ur wrong. have a nice day!

[ninjapiratelady]

"GALE WASN'T THE RIGHT CHOICE FOR KATNISS BUT HE ABSOLUTELY WASN'T THE ENEMY!" I scream as I get dragged away.

[sanjarka]

if you don't buy the importance of the love stories in the series - whether that be everlark, snowbaird, aberdove. you will be missing the point. or not enjoying the prequels and thinking they were not necessary. because of course it was katniss with peeta that made snow truly lose his mind. katniss's luckier nature hides in a bunch of places but peeta being reaped with her was the biggest piece of it. him, so immediately understanding the importance of performance and being willing to play by the rules so they could be broken. katniss protecting him where she should've killed him, letting him bleed out. because that was snow's last wish. for peeta to eat those berries, back to katniss. him trusting her. her betraying him. to hijack peeta to kill katniss, for katniss to shoot at peeta, hijacked. what he wanted was to be proven right. but he never was.

[rewritingcanon]

my sister and i just yapped for almost three hours and we were just talking about how genuinely weird people in fandom are surrounding characters who have explicit mental illness. like they can never ever be normal. there are characters who are romanticised and glamourised for their mental illness (eren. wanda. joker. kaneki. nico. almost any danganronpa/ddlc character). characters who are consistently ridiculed for their mental illness either because it simply isn’t getting taken seriously (reiner) or because no one takes the character seriously (armin). and there are the characters that get blatantly outright DESPISED for it (basil, harry potter, korra, gale, also eren etc etc). like yes im seeing a correlation but its still so astounding how selective people are about where they draw the line with mental illness and what traits they can accept.

[clovemaysilee]

she said "it's on SIGHT Cato"

[evermarch]

me reading this:

just dropping in to remind everyone that when Katniss said "Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there.” she was SPECIFICALLY talking about Peeta. She said this about Peeta because it HAD ALREADY HAPPENED. He was the FIRST kind person to work their way inside her heart and root there. It's why she'd been keeping tabs on The Boy With The Bread. It's why she KNEW to be afraid of the kindness that he represented. His kindness was a risk to her getting back home to her family.

[kneelbeforeclefairy]

What I think is most different and most striking about Sunrise on the Reaping is how CYNICAL it is. To some extent we knew it was going to be. This is a midquel. That the reapings go on and the Hunger Games only ends 25 years later is a forgeon conclusion. We know nothing that happens here is going to work.

The book is about implicit submission, and why, with numbers on their side, the many submit to the few, even when the few are unjust. And it's because, the book seems to say, numbers aren't ENOUGH. the Newcomers alliance is much bigger than the Careers. They should be able to team up and defeat them easily. But they don't. Eighteen of them are killed outright, because the Careers have the strength, the skill and the training. And that's just that.

Plutarch asks why the tributes don't overwhelm the Peacekeepers during training, and Haymitch is rightfully outraged at the privilege of this question. Why don't they? Because they probably couldn't kill them all, and even if they could, what good would it do? It wouldn't stop the Hunger Games. It wouldn't change a thing. No one would even know about it outside that room, because the Capitol would change the narrative. Just like Katniss and the Star Squad can't REALLY take on the Capitol single handed and assassinate the president, the scrappy alliance of kids can't really do any real damage to the system the Capitol has in place. All they can do is choose if they want to die now or later. So why don't they, if there's no difference to them, as Plutarch asks. Because, as Snow puts it. Hope. The slight chance that one of them will come out of it. And, more cynically, the hope that if they are good tributes and obey, their families will be left alone. If they choose to rebel and choose to die now they guarantee retaliation against their families and perhaps their entire district. We see that even in the tributes that attack the Gamemakers in the arena. They rise up, they break that bond of implicit submission--and they die bloody for it.

Why don't they rebel? Because they don't have the privilege to lose.

Even Lenore Dove, the Joan of Arc of Twelve, fails to do any real damage or have any real effect. All she does is get herself a reputation for being a trouble maker, and eventually get herself killed. Was she killed as part of the retaliation against Haymitch, or was her punishment because she's a rebel, and that's what happens to rebels? (and Snow hates covey girls.) but she fails because she IS alone. She focuses on small, symbolic acts that do nothing, but that she hopes will rally the people to action.Unfortunately, the people of Twelve don't want their lives to get any worse, and they don't have the privilege of spending time and energy on revolution the way a teenager girl whose family doesn't need her income to survive does--sadly, Twelve will remain this way, in an uncanny valley where they're beaten down enough to need change, but not enough to have NOTHING to lose. They are not one of the districts that rise up. So acting alone does nothing, teaming up does nothing. How does one fight an enemy with better technology, better weapons, and better organization? Beetee's plan doesn't work out. Of course it doesn't. Could it ever? Was it just borne out of grief for his son? And even if it had, then what? What was the plan? Haymitch's poster gets edited away. The Newcomers fail. Lenore Dove dies. The most you can say is Haymitch himself becomes too important to kill, like Beetee, and Snow let him live to fight another day, but so destroyed that he no longer WANTS to.

So, then, what WORKS?

The answer is, quite cynically, Plutarch's version of the world. Numbers mean something, there are more of US than there are of THEM , but that isn't enough. You need weapons, you can't bring a knife to a gun fight, you need EVERYONE on your side. You need organization, not just a series of disconnected rebellions, and you need an Army, provided by Thirteen, as problematic as they are. The timing just needs to be right. And most crucially, what I think Plutarch and everyone involved here learned is that victory belongs to those who control the narrative. Those who control the flow of information and tell their story. And it's not Plutarch, for all his cameras and his propos and his idea behind The Mockingjay, who eventually does that well.

It's Haymitch.

Who learned to tell a story and sell a narrative with himself and the Newcomers. Who tried to paint his poster in the arena only to see it rewritten in front of him. Who won't make that mistake again. When it's time for the deciding factor in the revolution, it's Haymitch who creates the Mockingjay-- and is he also using Katniss and her image? Yes. but he at least sees Katniss and the human she is inside it, unlike Plutarch who hasn't changed much from the man who makes a grieving family do reshoots over and over so he can get his footage, while congratulating himself for letting Haymitch have his goodbye.

When Katniss sets off the spark twenty five years later, the world is ready. The work is in place. Plutarch, Haymitch, Beetee, everyone can say GO , and this time it'll work. So buckle in, and wait for the Long Game, even though only Plutarch really has the privilege to wait, the rest of them don't have a choice. It's cynical. It's awful. People die. The lone rebels and the plucky girls and the alliance depending on its numbers all fail. Plutarch motherfucking Heavensbee, the richest of the rich the privilegedest of the privileged, pulls off the revolution, takes the credit, and lives to see the end of it, without ever once examining his own privilege, and unpacking the fact that despite his head being on the right side of history, he's never managed to see the Districts as PEOPLE . (and you could argue, ANYONE as people. ) But it's just the only way.

But this book isn't the middle of the series. It's the end. How awful would it be to read if we didn't know that Katniss and the Mockingjay rebellion would eventually succeed. We know that despite the cynism of a failed revolution and all its players, that one day it WILL work out. This book is called sunrise on the Reaping....the sun rises on a world where this is inevitable. But one day it won't be.

[moved2fshfish]

district 12

note STOP telling me you dont think katniss is tall idgaf . ooh i would switch madge and katnisses height IDC! these are my designs for them and short peeta tall katniss is real TO ME just say u hate tall women 😒

[5sosnobody1420]

I had this thought after reading and then I cursed myself for putting it out into the universe because it would destroy me. But also I already know it to be fact that they rest eternally together and in the movie.

ESPECIALLY if they took Burdock singing the old therebefore from the funeral and layered it over top. Possibly with Lenore or Katniss’s voices tangled in. And as they bury him he says the words “we were like the geese, we mated for life” black screen then credits with hit song the do for the credits as always.

what if in the movie they have haymitch die at the end of the epilogue with jen and josh there and then he reunites with LD a la mary and francis in the reign finale

[leviathanspain]

OMG I am living for the Finnick content!!! Could I request something with angst to fluff, with the prompt “look at me, look at me, you’re okay, we’re okay”? Maybe set after catching fire when they both wake up in district 13? Thank you!!

watercolor eyes

finnick odair x reader

synopsis: you didn’t think you would ever see those watercolor eyes again…

a/n: i used hearing loss as reader’s injury, there is no real explanation, so make one up :)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

it was a stunning color, almost indescribable. he was saying something, his hands moved frantically, you could see them in your peripheral. yet you remained in a trance with his eyes, watching them as they frantically searched yours. then, you realized his lips were moving, and you couldn’t hear him.

“do you think she can hear us?” he blinked, refusing to get emotional at just the thought. from how close you had been, it definitely could’ve resulted in hearing loss. the rescuing of who they could get in the arena didn’t go very well, and he hated to admit that he almost lost you. how he lost peeta and johanna, something that already weighed heavy on him.

suddenly, a scream erupted from you. finnick rose from your side, hands trying to calm you down. you were getting redder as you screamed, exhausting yourself.

“y/n!” he shouted, hoping you’d hear him and stop, but didn’t realize that you were screaming because you couldn’t hear your own voice.

you were panicking. from the looks of finnick, he could hear you, but you couldn’t hear your loud screaming. you felt the vibrations of your own voice, hand at your throat. but nothing was heard. your breath hitched as the stark realization dawned on you. you couldn’t even hear ringing in your ears.

helplessly, you gripped finnick’s arm as he searched your eyes. a doctor practically sprinted towards you. you panicked, gripping onto finnick as you fought off the doctor, a syringe in his hand. you screamed again, now out of reflex. finnick was trying to calm you down but it was hard for someone who had gone temporarily deaf. or at least he hoped it would be temporary. there was no knowing the damage.

“y/n.” he spoke as if you could hear him, shouting wouldn’t change things. you could feel his fingers on your cheek, gently wiping them as tears escaped your eyes.

you wanted to look at him, focus on his eyes, imagine the engulfing waters of the ocean, free to take you and finnick to places you could only dream of.

but the needle stabbing you wouldn’t let you float your mind away.

you wouldn’t be able to hear the ocean, let alone see it.

you grilled finnick’s arm, eyes fighting to stay connected to his, but they fluttered shut, getting one last glimpse of those watercolor eyes.

finnick watched as your eyes fluttered shut. he had been comforting you in a way he knew wasn’t helping. “you’re okay…” he whispered, “you’ll be okay.” he brushed a hair from your voice as your expression calmed. the doctors had decided to sedate you upon your outburst. “i’m sorry.” he whispered more, laying you down back into the bed, words repeating like a broken record.

it had been a week.

your ears were still sensitive, and you had been ordered to stay away from any and all loud noises, which meant you often stayed behind for when president coin called her meetings.

katniss had been making progress, from what you had gathered in whispers from finnick.

“only whispers.” he had whispered the first words you were able to hear. “doctor’s orders.” he smiled brightly. you exhaled, nodding as you matched his whisper. even the sound of your own voice was excruciating in volume. you had tried to force yourself to get used to loud volumes, but it was impossible.

it was more pain than it was worth, that even sometimes the whispers were too sharp.

so you and finnick often settled for a comforting silence. he would hold you in his arms, brushing your hair from your face as you stared deep into his eyes.

he grounded you, from the moment you met him, he had been nothing but kind. he loved you, killed for you, saved you.

“i love you.” you whispered so quietly you wondered if he could even hear you.

he looked down at you, having glanced away for a mere moment. his smile extended up to his eyes, “i love you more.” he whispered, still careful to be quiet.

[norsevvy]

i can't stop thinking about all the parallels and similarities between the three district 12 victors (four with peeta ofc i love that guy don't get me wrong BAHAHA). suzanne collins this is miserable

- lucy gray, haymitch, and katniss were all sixteen at the time of their reaping

- haymitch and katniss both tried to save district 11 girls and failed. both had some kind of mention of willows after death (rue's song, haymitch physically carrying lou lou's body into a patch of willows). you could argue movies-lucy gray had a tie to dill by accidentally killing her (which you could argue happened to haymitch and katniss too)

- all three of them having (mostly) illegal jobs. lucy gray and singing (restricted to the hob), haymitch with his bootlegging, katniss with her hunting. all instinctively rebellious just by nature

- haymitch and katniss both offered some kind of support to their career enemies. haymitch dropped down chocolate to silka after hearing her cry, katniss shot and killed cato to spare him from being (further) tormented by the mutts

- haymitch and katniss have the same family structure; dead father, living mother + sibling (haymitch's brother sid, prim for katniss)

- all of their reapings were never meant to happen. lucy gray's name was intentionally drawn, haymitch's was straight up illegal, katniss volunteered. none of them had their name drawn (save for lucy gray, but that wasn't fair)

- all close with their district partner / partners. admittedly not that surprising, but it's also fully possible to Not be close with them. all three of them risked their lives continuously for their partner(s)

- all related to the covey in some kind of way; lucy gray is just flat-out covey, haymitch is in love with a covey member, katniss has Vague tie-backs to the covey, since burdock had a handful of covey cousins. if anything, katniss is likely to be very distantly related to lucy gray through either maude ivory or barb azure

- all of them were INCREDIBLY popular tributes. lucy gray won most of the capitol over immediately, haymitch's stunt with louella's body + his score of ONE + his interview made him popular incredibly fast, and katniss had the entire world hooked from the moment she volunteered + cinna's outfits + peeta's confession

- all targeted to be more important than their district partner. lucy gray was heavily favoured, jessup went mostly ignored. haymitch was the district 12 victor most people were rooting for, AND beetee asked him specifically to destroy the arena. katniss was immediately favoured, and while peeta was important, katniss had always been "the mockingjay" and was needed more than him

- mockingjays! lucy gray's connection to them is obvious; they loved her and she loved them. haymitch's is more obscure, and is both through lenore dove (who loved them, understandably since she's covey) and maysilee (the original owner of the mockingjay pin). katniss...is the mockingjay BAHAHA but she also has that connection through her father (the birds loved him), and the pin, which is technically relating her back to lucy gray, because tam amber made it for maysilee. the pin dates back all the way to og covey times, albeit it was made after lucy gray's disappearance - also they're all just blatantly mockingjays. in snow's eyes, all of them are birds, which stems from lucy gray and just continues until katniss is outright named the mockingjay (i'm sure haymitch took "all birds i've met are vicious" and ran with it after meeting katniss)

- all three were purposefully hounded and targeted by snow in Terrible ways. lucy gray was the first to deal with his straight up fucking Wrath. snow IMMEDIATELY hated haymitch and told him that he was going to kill him. katniss never had a chance when it came to snow, because he recognised both lucy gray And haymitch in her, and needed to make her life a special kind of hell (and did!)

- likely all knew everdeens, honestly. lucy gray's relation to the everdeens is unknown, but it's clear that the everdeens at least somewhat had covey origins. haymitch was good friends with burdock (katniss's dad), and obviously katniss is an everdeen herself. the everdeens might have originally been bairds prior to marriage

- all had a relation to the mayor / mayor's children. mayfair fucking HAAATED lucy gray, haymitch and maysilee had a found family relationship, katniss was gifted the mockingjay pin by madge - all knew about the forest / meadow. i mean to be fair it isn't like it was exactly Hidden, but all of them have a strong connection to it, which is ALSO covey-related - not even related to lucy gray or haymitch, but katniss saving peeta's life, just like burdock saved otho's life. :( - additionally, lucy gray, haymitch, and peeta were all intent on staying themselves in the arena, not letting the capitol use them or their tears

I'M SICK

[district-thirteen-intern]

Katniss Everdeen says Peeta wanted kids. I say Katniss Everdeen is a dirty little liar who spent three books projecting baby fever onto the softest man alive while denying it so hard she almost gaslit herself.

And because I'm tired of arguing that Peeta didn't force Katniss to have kids, here's my probable version of what went down:

baby fever, but make it apocalyptic — everlark

it starts when delly has a baby

and katniss gets to hold it and it squeaks

her uterus literally tingles

cue immediate panic

she hands it back like it burned her

and then she immediately goes outside to shoot at squirrels until the feeling goes away

except—

(it doesn't really go away)

the next two weeks are a torture

"not everyone deserves to be a parent"

"what if they cry a lot"

"what if they're angry like me"

"what if they're allergic to bread"

"what if our child hates me"

"what if our child hates peeta"

no

no one can hate peeta

"but what if—"

it's exhausting

she steers clear of delly and her spawn the next few days

it doesn't work

her nightmares take a strange turn

she sees herself carrying a baby through the woods as she hunts

the baby giggles

another baby sits on the kitchen counter

with peeta's eyes and peeta's face

in matching aprons as peeta

and ugh—

she almost misses the mutts

anyway, she reorganizes the pantry

alphabetizes the herbs

knits something she insists is a herb pouch

but it's suspiciously baby-sized

eventually, it gets too much

and peeta is not helping

he's holding delly's baby when she visits him at the bakery

the baby is laughing

well, fuck

her whole resolve crumbles

he's making bread

she blurts, "your forearms are nice"

"thanks?"

"mm, they would be good for carrying things"

peeta raises a brow

"heavy things— like... sacks"

"sacks."

"or— like, baskets."

katniss is embarassed

peeta is visibly confused

and haymitch—

haymitch is dying of laughter

"did you know babies can't see color for weeks?"

"katniss."

"i just wanted to share a fact."

"katniss."

"it didn't mean anything. shut up."

and then she starts knitting a tiny hat

“is that for delly’s baby?”

"no."

"a friend’s baby?”

"no.”

"...katniss.”

peeta has suspicions

and they're confirmed when he finds her journal open to a page

titled: NAMES FOR HYPOTHETICAL BABY

Ember

Rue Rue ❤

Bread Jr.

NOT GALE

it ends like this—

Peeta, eventually: “Do you want to have ki—”

“YES”

“i didn’t even finish the word”

"i mean... i will if I have to, if you want too much... i mean i want to if you want to, i mean— because i love you so much."

“are you sure?”

“are you sure?”

"uh huh”

oh.

katniss blinks

"wait— that's it?"

"katniss, i've been waiting for you to stop glitching long enough to bring it up.”

she punches his arm

he laughs

haymitch starts prepping a baby-proof survival kit

no one dares ask what's in it

nine months later—

the baby is just as beautiful as she imagined

good thing peeta convinced her to have babies, really

i know it's exaggerated for comedy purposes but this is really not that far from the course of events i imagine happened— katniss is an expert at gaslighting herself after all— and I hope you liked it.

please don't forget to like, comment, and reblog if you liked it. and lmk if you'd be interested in being added to a tag list.

[matchpointfaist]

orpheus!finnick x eurydice!reader “how will you remember?” “that I love you?” “yes” “that’s easy i can’t help it.”

i’d tell them put me back in it

finnick odair x victor reader

tw for memory loss, violence (the hunger games), angst, smut, hurt no comfort for a while!

he loved you. the pain in his head was blinding, and the hands of peacekeepers were all he could feel, all over his body. he loved you. he trembled, truly terrified for the first time in his life as they blindfolded him, leading him to a room deep inside the capitol. he loved you. they had him hooked up to wires, pumping him full of chemically generated memories and falsehoods. he loved you. they twisted you into a monster, the antagonist at the center of his anguish. he woke up. he forgot you.

district 13 was a flurry of movement, dozens of people dressed just alike, footsteps echoing through metal hallways, not a lick of laughter amongst the groups. you were in a small room off to the side, kept away from the real work, left to heal, to rest. rest, as if you could relax when finnick had been taken, as if any of this was alright, as if your body didn’t ache with the knowledge that he was somewhere away from you, probably alone. finnick hated being alone, as long as you’d known him, and the thought of him somewhere in the capitol, lonely and afraid, worsened your condition by the second.

after the quarter quell, when plutarch and coin’s plan played out, they’d prioritized katniss, of course. you just happened to get lucky, really, the closest one to her when they took her away, freed you both from the arena. peeta came later, on their last trip down, by sheer luck. when they returned to district 13, finnick and johanna were missing. they’d told you to calm down, told you they’d find him, that he was safe, but nothing worked. katniss held you while you sobbed, comforted you while you screamed, but it wasn’t enough. you laid in that hospital bed, useless and scared, relentlessly tying a knot in a small piece of rope you’d managed to carry out of the arena; the last thing finnick had touched, besides your skin.

they told you this was the revolution, the path to a united panem, a new start for everyone involved. it just felt like betrayal, cold and metallic, plaguing every waking moment. they wanted to safe everyone, but they refused to send anyone to the capitol, refused to bring finnick to you. finnick, your finnick, hurt and terrified, probably being tortured for information, or simply for their amusement. as if half of his life hadn’t been spent under their thumb already. the nightmares kept you up at night, your screams echoing through the empty halls, your mind full of images you couldn’t erase. finnick broken and bleeding, crying for help, just out of reach.

the first time you see him again, he’s a ghost of the man you knew. they won’t let you in at first— they say he needs time, needs quiet, but quiet is all you’ve had since they took him. quiet and waiting and waking nightmares. so you wait just outside the door, listening. you think maybe hearing his voice again will be enough, but when they finally let you in, it isn't enough at all. he’s sitting up in bed, shoulders hunched, arms pulled in tight like he’s trying to fold himself into something smaller, less visible. his eyes snap to you the second you enter the room. those sea-glass eyes that once looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world now flash with fear, pure, unfiltered panic. you stop dead in your tracks. “finnick,” you breathe, and your voice cracks on his name. his whole body tenses, like you saying it hurts him. “stay back,” his voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming, “don’t—don’t come any closer,"

you freeze, hands half-raised, not in defense but in surrender. “it’s me,” you say gently, like he might remember if you just sound right, if you say it the way you used to when it was just the two of you in the quiet corners of the arena, “it’s okay, you’re safe now," but he just flinches like the words are knives. “i know who you are,” he spits it out like it tastes foul on his tongue, “you’re one of them," his words suck the air from the room, out of your lungs, “one of who?”

“the ones from the capitol. the ones who—who hurt me. you were there," his hands shake, his voice rising in pitch, “you laughed. i remember—you laughed while they—” “no,” you whisper, your heart cracking in two, “no, finnick, they made you see that. they put those things in your head, they made you believe—” "don’t lie to me!” he roars, the sound ripping out of him, painful and raw, “they told me the truth, they showed me. i trusted you, and you—” you flinch, not from the volume, but from the pain, the pure betrayal in his voice.

“i would never hurt you,” your voice is shaking. you want, desperately, to reach for him, but you don't, not yet, “finnick, they changed your memories. they wanted you to hate me, because they knew—” “because i loved you,” he says flatly, “that’s what they said, that’s what they took from me," he looks at you, eyes wild and wounded, “so why does it feel like hate when I look at you now?” you don’t have an answer.

you stay frozen as the orderlies come in, gently, slowly, like they’re approaching a wounded animal. he doesn’t fight them, just sits there trembling, sweat shining on his forehead, breathing like he’s still drowning in it. they usher you out without a word, and you don’t resist. the door closes behind you with a final click, and you slide down the wall outside, shaking, trying not to cry too loudly. you press that stupid piece of rope into your palm, tighter and tighter, until it leaves deep grooves in your skin.

days pass. you’re not allowed to see him again, not until they clear him. psych evals, memory checks. behavioral risks. you hear the words like needles, cold and clinical. you wonder how long they'll treat him like something broken. a threat. as if he hasn’t spent enough of his life being owned. you ask plutarch once—“is he okay?” he just sighs through his nose and says, “define okay," that’s all you get.

you wait outside the medical wing every day anyway, silently. they bring you food, which you don’t eat. sometimes, johanna passes by and sits next to you without saying a word. her presence is blunt and solid like stone, a different kind of comfort. she doesn't ask how you are; you think she already knows. then, one evening, a nurse pulls you aside. she doesn’t say much, just nods toward a small surveillance room behind the infirmary. “he’s not ready for visitors,” she says softly, “but you should see this,” the screen is grainy, black and white, but he’s there. finnick sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, back against the far wall. his face is pale, drawn—like the color’s been drained out of him. he’s quiet, focused. in his hands is a thin length of twine, pilfered from a blanket seam or a laundry bag maybe. you don’t know how he got it, you don’t care.

he’s tying knots. slowly, carefully, repeating them over and over. his fingers falter, but he keeps going, like his life depends on it, like the motions are a language he doesn’t quite remember, but his body does. one knot, then another. you press your hand to the screen, tears silently slipping down your cheeks. he doesn’t know you’re there, doesn’t know what the knots mean. but something inside him remembers the rhythm, the purpose, the feeling. a mere whisper of you, still alive in him.

you don’t push to see him again, not yet. you leave things outside his door instead. a little paper packet with another piece of rope. a note with his name in your handwriting. just that, finnick. a reminder of who he is, before and far beyond this. the seashell he once strung onto a necklace for you after a swim in district four. you never know if he looks at them, but the nurse tells you he stopped having the screaming fits at night. that when he wakes up gasping, he holds the rope. that his hands remember before his mind does. you wait. you hope. you tie knots in your own room, every night. you wonder if one day, he’ll remember the shape of your hands.

it comes like a crack in the dam, a single thought breaking free from the crushing weight of lies. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the rope still clutched in his hands, the knots finally becoming smoother, more fluid. it’s a quiet moment, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound in the room. he’s not crying anymore, not screaming, but the emptiness in his eyes is still there, like something vital’s been erased. something important.

then, just when it feels like everything is hollow, it happens. he’s halfway through tying a knot when the memory hits him, sharp and sudden, like an electric shock. his hand jerks, the rope slips from his fingers. his breath catches, and his chest constricts. he blinks hard, as though trying to clear the fog in his mind, but it’s too late. It’s already there. a memory of you, of the two of you. he’s standing on the beach, water crashing against the sand, salt and wind tangling in their hair. you're laughing, head tipped back in the sun, and he’s beside you, his hand pressed to your back as you walk toward the ocean. his voice, full of teasing warmth, echoes in his head, “careful, love, the water’s colder than you think,"

you roll your eyes at him, but there’s that smile on your face—the smile, the one that always softened the hardest parts of him. he can hear your voice in his ears now, soft and teasing, “you think I can’t handle it?” he remembers how you had splashed him, grinning like you were ready to leave him in the wake of the waves. then, it’s gone. just as quickly as it came, it fades, leaving only a soft ache in his chest. his hands are shaking. he doesn’t know what that memory was, who that was, but the feeling of it sticks—like it’s something he should’ve held on to. something he’s lost. his hands move to the rope again, but they tremble so violently now, he can’t tie anything. he sets it down, frustrated, and rubs his face with his palms, as though he could just erase the confusion.

hours later, you’re walking down the hall, passing the room where finnick's been kept, and you hear it—the faint sound of his voice, quiet, hoarse, like he’s talking to someone who isn’t there. you freeze. “...i remember... the ocean, the waves,” he says, as if testing the words out loud, seeing if they fit, “there was someone... the girl. she... she was laughing," his breath hitches, “she—” a shaky exhale, “she loved me,"

the door is barely cracked open. you’re tempted to go in, to step forward. but something in his voice—something raw, broken, like he's afraid of even the memory itself—stops you. you press your hand against the doorframe, leaning in just enough to hear. “she... god... she was everything," the words hang in the air like a curse. then, finally, his voice breaks completely, "i can’t remember why i hate her,"

you spend days like this—waiting, watching, listening. but each time you step closer, each time you try to fill the silence with something that might remind him, you feel it—the distance. the thickening wall between the man you love and the stranger the capitol has made of him. the frustration swells inside you, churning like a storm in your chest. it’s a helpless kind of rage, the worst kind, because it’s not his fault. he didn’t choose this. but god, it hurts. every second. you tell yourself over and over that he'll remember, that he has to. but he doesn’t,not yet. and the longer you wait, the harder it gets to keep pretending like you have all the time in the world.

it’s late one evening when you can’t hold it back anymore. you’re standing at the window of your quarters, staring out at the dull, metallic skyline of district 13. the shadows stretch across the floor like they’re swallowing you whole. it’s quiet here, too quiet. the kind of silence that’s full of too much unspoken pain. your fingers twitch, almost instinctively, reaching for something—anything—to hold on to. but you don’t have anything anymore. The rope is gone. the notes are gone. and even though you know you’re still here, even though you’re still alive, all you feel is the crushing weight of absence.

you turn. the walls feel closer now, like they’re closing in on you. your heart pounds in your chest, louder than the steady hum of the ventilation systems. you want him, need him. you want him to look at you and remember, to see you again. but instead, you see him in your mind—eyes clouded, voice trembling, distant. when he remembers, he’ll remember the pain, not the love. and that’s the part you can’t undo. that’s the part that breaks you.

and then it’s too much, all at once. the tears hit first, too suddenly for you to catch them, and the sobs come right after. you double over, pressing your face into your hands, as though you could somehow block out the ache that’s splitting you wide open. it feels like you’re shattering into a thousand pieces, and you can’t stop it. you want him. you want to fix him.

but all you’ve got are the echoes, the empty spaces where his love used to live. you slide to the floor, your knees pulled up to your chest, curling in on yourself like a child. your body shakes with the force of it—of everything you’ve lost, of everything you might lose if he never remembers you. you hate this feeling. you hate that you can’t fix it, can’t just walk into that room and make everything right. you’ve been through so much, survived so much, and yet here you are—powerless. and somewhere, deep inside, you realize that’s what hurts the most. not the loss of him. not the memory of the capitol’s horrors, but the helplessness.

you don’t know how long you sit there, the tears eventually tapering off into quiet exhaustion, but the emptiness stays. finally, after what feels like an eternity, you whisper into the dark, barely a sound at all. “i can’t keep doing this. not like this," your throat aches. it’s raw, the admission—like you’ve just torn a part of yourself free, but it’s the only way to breathe. you don’t have the strength to chase him anymore. you can’t make him remember, no matter how much you want to. so you let go. you let it all go. all the waiting, all the fear, all the hope, and you let it burn down into the simplest truth you have left. he will come back to you when he’s ready. when he remembers. when the world inside his mind stops spinning in circles. until then, you’ll wait.

it’s early morning when the knock comes at your door. you’re not expecting it—no one’s ever come for you this early—but the sharp sound rattles you out of sleep. for a moment, you just lie there, the weight of the blanket like a heavy thing over your chest, your mind slow to catch up with your body. then, another knock, a little softer this time, almost hesitant. you blink a few times, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, and pull yourself up. the silence in your room is thick—suffocating, almost. you reach for the door and pause, your fingers hovering over the handle for just a second. then, you open it, and there he is. finnick.

standing in the hallway, looking as lost as you’ve ever seen him. he’s thinner than he was. his hair is unkempt, like he hasn’t bothered to comb it in days. there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and something else—a flicker of confusion, maybe even a little fear. his body is rigid, like he’s bracing for something. you take a step back without thinking, your heart pounding in your throat, and his eyes follow your movement like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything. but the words catch in your mouth, and all you can do is look at him, waiting for the moment to break. he clears his throat, his voice hoarse, "i don’t know why i’m here,”

it hits you—this is it. this is the moment where it either breaks you or pulls you together. his words don’t make sense. he doesn’t know why he’s here, but you do. you know exactly why. it’s the moment you’ve waited for. the moment where he takes one step closer. your throat closes up, and you manage to choke out a single word, barely audible, “finnick,” he flinches, just slightly, but it’s enough to remind you that even though his body is here, the man you love is still somewhere buried under the rubble. the capitol’s poison still clings to his mind. “i remember,” he shakes his head like he’s fighting something off, running a hand through his hair, “i remember the ocean. the knots,” his voice falters, and his gaze drops to the floor, his fingers curling into a fist, “but i don’t remember you,”

your heart shatters. you want to reach out, but you can’t. you’re too afraid to move, afraid he might break further, and you might not be able to piece him back together again. he stares at the ground, his shoulders trembling, “i remember you, i think... but i don’t,” his voice cracks, raw with something close to despair, “how do i remember you if i don’t remember me?” for a long moment, neither of you move. the distance between you feels like miles. then, without thinking, you take a step forward, and then another. he looks up at you in surprise, his brow furrowed, “what are you—?”

you stop right in front of him, not touching him, not yet. just standing close, close enough that your breaths are the same, and you can feel the heat of his body—the warmth that’s always been him. you’re shaking too, just a little, but you can’t stop yourself from reaching for him. “finnick,” you say again, quieter this time, like you’re testing the name out, like maybe if you say it enough, he’ll remember, “you know me. you know me in here," you press your hand over your chest, where your heart is thundering, “you feel me, don’t you?” he doesn’t answer right away, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for something he’s afraid to find. you take another step closer, just a fraction, but enough for him to feel it, for him to sense the truth in your presence.

“you loved me,” you whisper, each word weighted with years of lost time, “i loved you, and I’m not going anywhere, finnick. i’m not,” he stares at you, his face hard with frustration, but you see the struggle there—the war in his mind between what the capitol made him believe and what his body knows to be true. and in that quiet space, with everything hanging between you, you realize something. he’s not lost. he’s just been broken. and breaking isn’t the same as disappearing.

he takes a breath, the sound ragged. his eyes flick to your hand, which is still hovering, a fraction of an inch from him. and slowly—so slowly, like he’s afraid of the consequences—his hand moves toward yours. the air around you crackles. his fingers brush yours, hesitant, unsure. but then, he closes his hand around yours completely, as if your touch is the anchor he’s been searching for. you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. his eyes are still wide, but the fear in them is softer now. he’s not fully back—not yet. but there’s something in the way he holds your hand, the way he lets himself feel you, that tells you everything you need to know. he's still there.

the first time he speaks your name again, it’s in the middle of the night. you’re lying in the bed they gave you, the one that still feels too cold even when you wrap yourself in the thick blanket. the room is dark, save for the dim light from the corridor creeping in beneath the door. it’s quiet, except for the soft, steady hum of the ventilation systems. and then you hear it. a whisper. his voice, hoarse, uncertain. your heart stops, and you sit up so fast you almost knock the pillow off the bed. his voice—so soft, so tentative—has a crack in it, like he's testing the waters. as if he’s unsure whether the sound of your name still means something. whether it still belongs to the same world.

you push the blanket off and stand. without thinking, you cross the room and open the door. there he is, standing in the hallway, leaning against the wall, his face drawn and pale, eyes searching for something that makes sense. you don’t hesitate this time. you reach for him, your hand instinctively going out, and he looks at it like it’s a lifeline. “i’m here,” you say softly, almost breathless. “i’m here, finny, i’m right here,"

he flinches just slightly when your hand touches his arm, like he’s still not used to the warmth of a touch that isn’t laced with pain. but then, slowly, his hand comes up to meet yours, and he holds it—not tightly, but enough for you to feel that small connection. you lead him back into your room, wordlessly, and sit together on the edge of the bed. there’s a silence between you now—soft and awkward, but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that feels like an unspoken promise. his voice comes again, quieter this time, “i don’t know how to fix this,” he admits, his eyes downcast, his hands trembling in his lap, “i don’t even know if i can.”

you take a deep breath, steadying yourself, “you don’t have to fix it,” you say gently, “we just need time to remember, time to heal,” he looks at you then, those sea-glass eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden, “but what if i don’t remember everything? what if—what if you’re still just a stranger to me?” you squeeze his hand, your heart aching, “you’ll remember. i know you will," and for the first time since he came back to district 13, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. not the fear, not the confusion, but a spark—like he’s beginning to recognize the familiar warmth in your touch.

the next few days pass slowly, like the breaking of dawn, inch by inch. each time you see him, it feels like you’re meeting him again for the first time. there’s no rush—just patience. you bring him small things that used to matter—pieces of the life you once shared. you show him the knotting techniques again, with slow, careful fingers, and he watches, silently, as if trying to remember the rhythm of it, the feel of the rope in his hands. “you used to do this all the time,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, “i’d just sit there, watching you, and you’d make knots for hours,”

he tries, his hands fumbling, but he doesn’t stop. the rope slips through his fingers, but he doesn’t give up. “i used to like doing this with you,” he says, voice thick with something that feels like regret, “i’m sorry i can’t remember more,” but you just shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips despite the tears in your eyes. “you’re here, okay? that’s enough. you’re already remembering, little by little,” and little by little, he does. it starts with the small things—the laughter, the teasing, the quiet moments when you both sit together, when he leans his shoulder against yours without thinking, and you let the silence speak for you. there’s a tenderness now, a slow rebuilding, like rebuilding a house brick by brick.

then one day, after a long morning of training, he comes to you with a simple question. “do you remember the first time we kissed?” his voice is hesitant, like he’s afraid of what you might say. you look at him, feeling the weight of the question, but also a familiar warmth spreading through your chest. the answer is obvious, even though it’s been buried under everything that’s happened. “of course i do,” you nod, your voice soft, but filled with love, “you were so nervous, finnick. you kept saying you didn’t know how to kiss someone in a way that would make them stay. and i—” you pause, letting the memory flood back, “i told you it didn’t matter. i would stay anyway,"

his face softens, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “i don’t remember it exactly, but i think i believe you,” you reach out, cupping his cheek gently, and for a moment, the world feels still, safe. he leans into your touch like he’s searching for something. and in that moment, you know—it’s not just the memory that matters. it’s the feeling underneath it, the connection, the love that’s always been there, even when it felt lost. “i’ll help you remember,” you whisper, “we’ll do this together,” he nods slowly, his eyes dark and soft, “i want to. i want to remember you, remember us,"

he comes to you later that night, after everyone else has fallen asleep, his movements quiet and his face hidden under the vale of night. he knocks on your door, familiar by now, bright blue eyes meeting yours the second you open it. “are you alright?” you ask, brows knit in concern. he nods, quick and eager, “i had to see you,” he pushes into your room, closing the door behind him, unlike himself, “i remembered- we were home, in four, and we were in bed, you were reading to me. mags was there, she came in and brought us tea-“ he pauses, running a hand through his hair, “you had a ring, a silver ring on your finger,” he grabs at your hand, pulling it to him, “where’s your ring?” your heart aches, threatening to crack open, to spill out everything you’d been holding back, “i lost it during the quarter quell,” you tell him softly, “my hands were slick, it slid off. i’m so sorry,” “we were engaged,” he says the word like it pains him, “you were going to be my wife,” “yes,” you nod, eyes brimming with tears, “you remembered that all on your own?”

he doesn’t answer, taking a rushed step closer and pushing you back to your bed, catching your lips in a kiss. you gasp, hands on his shoulders, heart racing as he kisses you like he’d never forgotten how. “i love you,” he sounds like the words are tearing at his throats, “show me how, please, show me how i used to love you,” you don’t have it in you to protest, to tell him that this isn’t a healthy coping mechanism, finding yourself at a loss for words as he kisses you frantically, tears mixing with your lips. you’re unsure who the tears belong to anymore, if it’s one or both of you, fully overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands all over you, clutching and grabbing like you might slip away again.

“finnick,” you whisper like a prayer, running your hand through his hair, “maybe we shouldn’t rush it,” “not rushing,” he mumbles into your skin, “been waiting to remember, this is a good thing, right? show me, show me how i used to touch you,” you let yourself give in, leading his hands over you, his touch gentle and hesitant, testing the feelings resurfacing for each of you. you take it slow, getting used to each other again as you both peel off each others layers, soft kisses pressed to each others shoulders and shaky hands discarding each others clothes. “you’re so beautiful,” he sounds truly awed, his eyes shining as he looks you over, “never dreamed you’d be this beautiful,” “you’ve seen it before,” you flush, pulling him down to kiss you again. “not like this,” he mumbles into your lips, his hands sliding between your back and the mattress, arching your spine into his touch.

he’s patient, but when he finally pushes inside you, the sound is guttural, his voice raw and breathless, your name falling from his lips like he’s delighting in the memory alone. “i remember this,” he pants, dragging his lips across your chest, hips rocking just slow enough to have your eyes rolling back, “i remember how you feel, how beautiful you are,” he holds you tight and delicate, treating you like some sort of holy figure, like you’ll break if he’s a touch too rough. “i love you,” you bury your face in his neck, your legs locking around his waist, holding him close, “knew you’d remember,” “i love you,” he chokes out, hands gripping your thighs, “could never forget this,”

he takes his time with you, learning all the motions, absorbing the way you look as you come undone like it’s the first time. when it’s over, he stays wrapped up around you, holding you to his chest, kissing your head and running his fingers through your hair, his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. you wake in the morning to him still beside you, watching you as your eyes open, a soft smile on your lips. “hi,” you murmur, kissing his shoulder, “how’re you feeling?” “like i woke up,” he can’t wipe the smile from his lips, kissing your cheek, “thank you,” “mm, don’t have to thank me,” you shake your head, but you know he means it- you brought him back, whether you thought you could or not.

years later, when the war has been won, when katniss and peeta have little children running all over their fields, when johanna is in love with a woman she no longer has to be afraid to lose, people will ask. they’ll ask how he returned from that place, how he remembered when they’d tortured him so extensively. he’ll look at you across the room, a shadow of a smile on his lips, “i couldn’t help it,”

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Shoulder to Shoulder - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i fear that writing this series is beginning to consume my whole life, i graduated from my probation classes so now i just sit at home and write for hours on end😭 but this is my fav part so far hehe

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.21k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Some days feel heavier than others. Today presses down on your chest like the weight of a hundred unsaid things.

It started before you even opened your eyes. That thick, dull ache in your stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. That quiet, gnawing voice in the back of your mind, the one that sounds like your mother when it’s tired of pretending to be your own.

You sit at the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, fingers digging into your scalp like pressure might make the thoughts stop. It doesn’t.

They’re going to get tired of you.

Haymitch already looks at you like he’s waiting for you to mess up.

Peeta’s kind to everyone—it doesn’t mean anything.

Katniss puts up with you, but how long until she gets sick of your damage?

You close your eyes, trying to breathe through it.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

But it doesn’t work as well as it usually does. The thoughts come louder today, faster. And worse—some part of you believes them. That creeping fear that the more you let your guard down, the more visible you become… the more likely they are to leave.

You’ve been here for three months. Three months of finding comfort in their presence, in the slow rhythm of healing, in the strange softness of routine. And still, you feel like an echo in someone else’s house. Like a visitor overstaying her welcome.

Your chest tightens. You stand too fast, the room tilting for a second as you brace yourself on the doorframe. You think about going next door, maybe pretending like nothing’s wrong. But what if they can tell? What if today, they notice you’re too much?

You swallow down the rising panic and drift toward the kitchen, just to have something to do with your hands. The walls of the house feel too wide today. Too empty. Too quiet.

You don’t cry. But your throat burns with the effort of holding everything in.

The same thought repeats over and over: Maybe you don’t belong here at all.

You move through the house like a ghost, drifting from room to room with no real purpose. You wipe the kitchen counters even though they’re already clean. Rearrange the books on the shelf. Fold the same blanket on the back of the couch three times before you finally throw it to the floor and walk away.

You make tea and forget to drink it. It goes cold on the table while you stare out the window, watching nothing.

The sun climbs, then falls. You don’t step outside.

You hate days like this. Days where you can’t turn it off—can’t quiet that voice that tells you this is temporary, that the people around you are only being kind out of obligation. That they’ll get tired of the cracks in you, the way you flinch when someone raises their voice, the way you sometimes hesitate before you speak like you’re waiting for permission to exist.

You think about Haymitch’s gruffness, Peeta’s gentleness, Katniss’ steadiness. How easily you’ve started to slot into their world. How natural it’s started to feel. And yet—

You don’t trust it. Not really. Not enough.

You curl up in the chair by the window, knees to your chest, arms around your shins. The cushion beneath you is soft, too soft, like it doesn’t belong in a house you live in.

What’s wrong with me?

You’ve asked yourself that more times than you can count, but today the question lingers longer than usual. How can you be so surrounded by warmth and still feel this hollow ache? How can you laugh with them for hours and still feel like a burden when you leave?

You hate that part the most—that you can feel all the warmth around you and still question it. Still brace for the moment it’ll vanish. You feel like an awful person for that. For still carrying so much doubt in your chest when they’ve done nothing to deserve it.

They deserve better than someone who can’t stop looking over her shoulder.

Evening stretches across the sky. You watch it through the window, how the golden light slowly softens into blue. Eventually, the stars begin to appear—faint at first, then bolder, clearer.

You want to go outside. You want to sit on the porch, look up at the sky, maybe pretend for a while that everything’s okay. But a flicker of fear stops you.

What if Haymitch is out there?

You’re not in the proper state to see him tonight. Not when your mind feels like this. Not when the sight of him might knock something loose in you you’re not ready to confront.

So you stay seated, chin resting on your knees, watching the stars from behind the glass.

It’s not the same.

But it’s the closest you can get.

The knock that comes a few minutes later makes you flinch.

It’s not loud—more of a sloppy rhythm, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t quite steady on their feet. But still, it cuts through the silence like a warning.

You freeze in the chair by the window, pulse jumping. You already know who it is. No one else would come to your door at this hour. Not unless something was wrong.

You don’t move at first. Maybe if you just sit here, still and quiet, he’ll go away.

But then another knock. And a voice, gruff and unmistakably Haymitch.

“Did you die or something?”

You wince.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer, like he’s letting the worry leak through: “Haven’t seen you all day.”

You swallow hard, throat tight. The part of you that wants to stay hidden—curled up in this house, away from everyone and everything—pulls at you like a weight. But there’s another part, just as loud. The one that whispers he’ll hate you if you don’t answer. That this will be the moment he gets tired of you.

You drag yourself to your feet.

When you open the door, Haymitch is leaning against the frame, flask in one hand, expression somewhere between annoyed and relieved. His eyes sweep over you.

“Well,” he mutters, “you’ve still got a pulse. That’s a start.”

You force a thin smile. “Hi.”

He lifts the flask in a mock toast. “Nice of you to rejoin the living.”

You glance past him at the porch, then back. “Did you want something?”

Haymitch snorts. “No, I just enjoy knocking on doors at random while tipsy.”

You huff a breath. He’s still watching you too closely. You hate how naked you feel beneath that look.

“I can come back later,” he adds, voice less biting now. “Or never. If that’s the vibe.”

You hesitate again. Every part of you wants to tell him to go so you can retreat back into your shell, preserve the last bit of quiet you’ve clung to all day. But your fear answers for you before the rest of you can.

“No,” you say quickly. “You can come in.”

His brows lift, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. But he doesn’t push. Just steps past you into the dim house, his movements slower than usual, a little unsteady.

You close the door behind him, heartbeat still racing.

Haymitch drops onto the couch cushion like he usually does, elbow resting on his knee as he takes another sip from his flask. He eyes the room—untouched dishes in the sink, a half-eaten piece of bread on the counter, your blanket still crumpled on the floor where you threw it this morning.

“You’ve been in all day, haven’t you.”

It’s not really a question.

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just tired.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Tired, huh?”

You nod, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t feel like going out. That’s all.”

He takes another sip, lets the silence stretch just long enough to make your skin itch. “You sick?”

“No.”

“Bleeding?”

You huff a dry laugh. “No.”

He leans back, propping one foot on the edge of the coffee table. “Then what, kid? House full of ghosts today?”

You stiffen.

You hate how easily he sees it. Like you didn’t even do a good job pretending.

You cross your arms, gripping your elbows. “Just wanted to be alone. Everyone gets like that sometimes.”

He hums. “Sure. Most folks don’t look like they’ve been trying to disappear through the floorboards, though.”

You flinch, just slightly. “I’m fine.”

Haymitch watches you, the usual sharpness in his gaze dulled by whatever he’s had to drink—but not enough to miss anything.

“Peeta said you skipped out on breakfast. Katniss looked like she was about to go hunting for you with her damn bow. Figured someone should check on you before they broke down your door.”

“I didn’t mean to worry them.”

“Didn’t try not to.”

You press your lips together. He’s not being cruel, but it hits anyway. You sit next to him, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. You wish he’d stop looking at you like he knows.

“It wasn’t anything they did,” you say quietly.

Haymitch tips his head. “Didn’t think it was.”

“I just…” You trail off, then shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He lets the silence sit for a second. Then, “Still doing that thing where you decide what matters for everyone else?”

You glance at him, annoyed and grateful at the same time. “You’re drunk.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” He takes another drink, then gestures vaguely in your direction. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

You look away.

There’s a beat before he speaks again, this time a little softer—still scratchy, still laced with sarcasm, but something gentler underneath.

“You get like this often?”

You shrug. “Depends what you mean by ‘like this.’”

He gestures with the flask. “Thinking you’re a burden or that the minute you let your guard down fully, we’re all gonna turn on you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t say it,” he cuts in, “but I ain’t blind.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Haymitch leans back, resting his head against the back of the couch. “It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? Surviving long enough to wonder if the people who stick around are just waiting to leave.”

You swallow hard. “Yeah.”

His voice is quieter now. “That’s the worst part. You never really stop waiting.”

You sit with that. Let it settle.

Then you say, barely audible, “I hate that I still feel like this when everyone’s been nothing but kind.”

“You think kindness rewires a person?” He scoffs. “Please. If that were the case, I’d be a damn saint by now.”

That actually earns the faintest smile from you.

He glances over. “Glad you didn’t disappear.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “You say that now.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

You press your lips together, then add, quieter, “Give it time. You’ll get sick of me.”

He exhales through his nose. “I’d have to like people first to get sick of ’em.”

You huff something that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

A pause. Then, without really planning to, you say, “Some days I think I’m doing okay. That I belong here. That maybe I’m not just… taking up space.”

You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers.

“And then I wake up and it’s like—nope. That was a nice lie. Back to feeling like a mistake.”

Haymitch doesn’t move. Just takes a slow sip from his flask and looks at you like he’s hearing every word.

“Not sure how to stop feeling like that,” you admit. “Or if I even can.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you don’t.”

You glance up, startled.

He lifts his flask slightly. “Some things don’t go away. You just learn to live around them.”

You nod slowly, the tightness in your chest easing—not all the way, not even close, but just enough to breathe.

Then, trying to shift the weight just a little, you murmur, “You’re not as bad at this as I thought you’d be.”

Haymitch snorts. “I’m a delight.”

You snort too, barely. “A real ray of sunshine.”

“Don’t spread that around,” he mutters.

You rest your head on the back of the couch for a moment, voice softer now. “I won’t. Promise.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you notice—he doesn’t leave.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

You pull your legs up, wrapping your arms around them. The weight in your chest still lingers, but it’s settled now, dull and familiar.

“I didn’t mean to disappear today,” you say eventually. “I just… couldn’t.”

Haymitch glances at you but doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to do things. Kept busy. Told myself I was fine.” You let out a breath, bitter around the edges. “Didn’t work.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re tellin’ me you didn’t solve your lifelong trauma with a productive day of pacing and pretending?”

You crack a smile, barely. “Guess I’m underachieving.”

He taps his flask against his knee. “We can’t all be prodigies.”

You let your head rest against your knees. The quiet that follows feels easier than the silence before. You’re still unraveling, but at least you’re not doing it alone now.

Haymitch shifts slightly, gaze flicking toward you again. “You think too much.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

He grins faintly. “Fair.”

A pause.

Then you ask, not quite meaning to, “Do you ever… feel like it wouldn't matter if you were here or not?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the question hang there, weighty and real.

“Every damn day,” he says finally. “Since I was sixteen.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Because you get it.

You both sit there for a while—two people shaped by grief, by things that don’t go away. Two people who know what it means to be haunted by the versions of themselves they couldn’t save.

Eventually, you shift a little closer, just enough for your shoulder to brush his.

He doesn’t move away.

And you don’t apologize for needing the contact.

For a moment, you let yourself just exist in that sliver of comfort.

“You ever think it’ll stop?” you ask quietly, still not looking at him. “Feeling like that.”

Haymitch exhales through his nose. “No.”

That makes you laugh, sharp and dry. “Comforting.”

He shrugs. “I could lie if you want.”

“No,” you say. “Don’t.”

He leans closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly into yours now. The contact is light, careful. His flask rests between his hands, but he doesn’t lift it.

“It dulls sometimes,” he says. “That’s the best I’ve got for you.”

You nod slowly. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But it’s honest. And right now, honesty feels better than comfort ever could.

“I hate that I don’t trust it. Any of it,” you murmur. “Katniss, Peeta… you. You’re all kind to me and I just—keep waiting for it to go away. Or explode.”

“You think we’re all ticking bombs?”

“No,” you say. “I think I am.”

That hangs in the air like something you shouldn’t have said. But it’s out now, and you don’t want to take it back.

Haymitch doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t throw a sarcastic remark at you like he usually would. He just presses his shoulder fully against yours, grounding you with the weight of his presence.

“You ever think maybe the reason you’re still here is ‘cause we’re all messes too?” he says, voice low. “Not in spite of it. Because of it.”

You glance over at him. “You’re saying we’re trauma bonding.”

“I’m sayin’ you fit better than you think, kid.”

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat. “I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m good at that.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dry. “Me too. Real talent of mine.”

You huff a quiet breath. Then, “I think… I want to believe it’s real. The friendship. The way you all treat me. I just—don’t know how to let myself believe it.”

“Then don’t rush it,” he says.

You furrow your brow.

He gestures vaguely. “Just let it be what it is right now. Doesn’t need to be all or nothing. Doesn’t need to be permanent or perfect. Just… real enough for now.”

You glance at him, and after a long pause, you tentatively rest your head on his shoulder. He tenses for a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. But then he relaxes, just slightly, enough for you to stay.

“I used to think I’d never have people again,” you whisper as exhaustion settles over you. “That I don’t deserve them.”

Haymitch nods. “Lot of us think that.”

You glance up at him. “Do you?”

He gives a small shrug, your head lifting with his shoulder. “Sometimes. Then one of you idiots shows up on my porch or forces a dessert on me, and I remember I’m stuck with you all.”

You yawn into your sleeve, your voice slurring a little as you mumble, “Do you think I’m annoying?”

Haymitch barks a short laugh. “That the sleep talking, or is this a new spiral?”

“Both,” you mutter. “Maybe.”

“You’re definitely more tolerable when your words are half-melted together.”

You lift a hand and wave it vaguely. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

He smirks. “This is the closest I’ll ever get to seeing you drunk, I guess.”

“Mm,” you hum. “I’m way more fun than this when I’m drunk. I used to dance.”

Haymitch raises a brow. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

You let out a quiet giggle, half-asleep now. “Sorry, this show’s retired.”

“Tragedy.”

The room settles into a soft quiet, the kind that feels earned. You don’t speak, but you don’t move either. His shoulder is warm beneath your cheek, solid and real.

For the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

Just drifting.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this happened?” you ask, your voice slow and drowsy against his shoulder.

Haymitch hums like he’s considering it. “I try not to.”

You smile faintly. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t like torturing myself.”

“Fair,” you murmur. “I think about it all the time.”

“What’s your version?” he asks. “The alternate life?”

You shrug, your cheek rubbing against the fabric of his shirt. “I probably would’ve married Dewydd. We’d maybe have a kid by now. Something quiet. A little house. Not being scared all the time.”

“Sounds… horrifying,” he says flatly, but there’s no bite in it.

You laugh softly. “Yeah, yeah. Domesticity, the real nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t’ve lasted a week.”

“You would be a good dad,” you say, surprising yourself.

He glances at you, startled, but doesn’t say anything right away. Just swallows, then mutters, “You’re half-asleep. Can’t take anything you say seriously.”

“Mmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Still true though.”

Haymitch doesn’t argue. Doesn’t make a joke.

He just sits there, shoulder warm beneath your head.

You shift the smallest bit, tucking your legs up, and feel the weight of the day—of everything—start to fade.

“You’re not so bad,” you mumble.

“Thanks, honey,” his voice is softer now.

You smile. It’s small. Barely there. But real.

Your breathing slows. Your grip on the moment eases. And you fall asleep, right there on the couch, with Haymitch beside you—solid, silent, and still awake.

Next Part

[kneelbeforeclefairy]

More SOTR thoughts

I think we were all surprised that the tribute center hadn't been built yet and the tributes are being treated ....like that. But hear me out, I think the debacle that was the 50th led to it.

You're Snow. You've got 40-some victors and growing. You're trying to contain them to seperate apartments. You keep the tributes handcuffed and locked in. There's Peacekeepers and surveillance everywhere and no one's afraid to use force to subdue. And STILL they do this. They still manage to team up, to build a coalition. And on top of that, you've got people who have NO RESPECT for the Games, and no respect leads to slip ups, leads to mistakes, leads to people seeing the holes in the capitol's security, and more importantly, in their STORY that the Games are necessary to live and the Capitol is all knowing and all benevolent. You've salvaged it THIS time. But they only have to be lucky once and it all comes tumbling down.

So what do you do? Do you increase security? Go back to the zoo days? Keep the tributes chained in their rooms? Take away their mentors?

No, you can't do that. People like the spectacle. You NEED the spectacle. Furthermore, If you go backwards, you look weak, you look like they won something. You have to go on and pretend nothing happened so the rebels don't get the wrong idea, so the truth doesn't spread, while still increasing security so it doesn't. Happen. Again.

So what do you do? You stop trying to seperate them. You put them all together, all 50 traumatized, fucked up, teenage to 50 something victors, in one place, with the 24 terrified teenagers they are in charge of, so no one can escape each other. A place CUSTOM built to hold them, where YOU control their every movement. No more transporting them from place to place, everything is controlled from the train arriving under the remake center to the chariots entering the tribute center to the helicopters to the arena. Smooth. You have a state of the art surveillance system but one that doesn't draw attention to itself, which encourages looking for where the cameras aren't. You let them meet, let them have the hope of each other's society to keep them calm, but if tempers and grudges fly, that's fine too.

And most importantly, because it's Panem Et Circenses, you make them A SHOW.

You hide them in plain sight. You take them out of their gilded bird cages and let them see and be seen almost, but not quite, like a free citizen of the Caoitol. You get the victors dressed and fancied up too. You put them in the crowds during the interviews and cut the camera to them. You bring them out for interviews and retrospectives, make them talk about their lives, all with gratitude to you. You show off how rich and HAPPY they are and how much the capitol LOVES them , so their districts hate them. You keep them busy, so they have no time to rebel. You keep the trauma fresh, by making it impossible for them to hide from the cameras and drop their personas. You turn them into archetypes, into people they'll have to PLAY for the rest of their lives. You tell the tributes they're your honored guests, you treat them like celebrities so there's no holes in the story that they're anything but respected and cared for by the benevolence of the capitol. And maybe, keeping them distracted with luxuries for a week keeps them content. Less time to mull over how miserable they are when they're being treated so well.

Give them Circenses. Make them BE Circenses. An animal in a cage being treated poorly fights back and tries to get out. An animal in a safe warm enclosure grows to like the safety and luxury of it. They'll start acting like calm little zoo animals if they don't realize they're in cages. All, of course, under your complete control.

And it works. Mostly. Katniss can't imagine running from the reaping. She has no idea that tributes HAVE run in the past, just a speculation. The tribute parade goes off without a hitch. Everything runs so, so smoothly.

Except what Snow doesn't realize is the victors become friends. They become allies. They become FAMILY. it's harder to plot sedition under strict surveillance, but they manage it. And it doesn't take long for them to regroup and try again.

And this time, it works.

[loungemermaid]

Things I’ve just chosen to believe:

Katniss goes grey young. By her mid twenties she has strands, by mid thirties there’s streaks, and by her forties she’s salt and pepper. Peeta doesn’t look like he’s going grey because he’s blond, and to be fair it takes a little longer, he starts later, but one morning it’s like his hair went white overnight.

Katniss never stops delighting over new food. The food obsession from her younger self, when she was starving, is permanent. She acquires a lot of tastes, especially spice and herbs, but she can’t ever get over unsweet tea and black coffee. Whenever she makes iced tea she has to make two pitchers.

Peeta hates cooking on an electric stove and throws theirs out for a coal one. It’s what he’s used to, he knows how it works, and damn it, he don’t wanna learn anything else. He still, until the day he dies, spends hours cleaning and polishing it, every week.

Speaking of, they both live to be insanely old. Into triple digits. (This is not impossible, most of my family considers “dying young” to be 75). They meet their great great grandchildren. They get wonderful healthcare. That and Katniss’s herbs ensure a long, sweet, happy life. Haymitch does too. He thought he’d die at 40. He meets the grandkids. Katniss and Peeta’s, not just his. (The new liver buys him decades. So does him not putting said new liver through the wringer.)

Even though Katniss greys earlier, Peeta wrinkles quicker. Because he’s white. And very pale. And doesn’t wear sunscreen until his twenties. That’s okay, Katniss thinks his crow’s feet are sexy.

Peeta finds a stray cat while Buttercup is still alive. A girl cat, fluffy and black. Then there’s kittens. And after that, there’s almost always kittens around. Yes, the kittens do try and fuck with Haymitch’s geese. They only ever try that once though. Very little makes Haymitch laugh near as hard as seein’ a six week old kitten ballsy enough to try and pounce a gosling before mama or daddy goose swoop down and bite the shit out of them. It happens every year. And he always loves it.

Haymitch talks about his ma sewing and patchworking his clothes when he was younger, and Katniss gets inspired. She hated knitting, but she’s fantastic at quilting. Her first ones are pretty simple, nothing fancy, but she saves every single scrap. Not because they have to, because she wants to. Because all of them have so little material things left. So, a scrap from a favorite shirt. Another bit from some extra soft blankets that finally bit the dust. Baby clothes. Hair ribbons. Apron strings. She turns it all into beautifully patterned quilts, with small running stitches and (ethically harvested) goose down for batting. She has trunkfulls, gives away the ones mostly made with bought fabric to anyone who wants or needs one. The ones with special fabric she never parts with.