Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was the quiet that ruined him the most. The relentless quiet of the Victor’s Village house that was now his own.

Not that it was ever entirely silent.

The television was always on, the flickering light casting shadows against the walls. Ads and news and endless rot from the Capital. The Games played on a loop—tributes fighting, dying, victors crowned, their favourite moments and highlights of children being massacred by each other. Year after year, a fresh batch of kids who would never go home.

But it was the absence of people that gnawed at him the most.

The absence of his Ma humming as she worked. Of Sid’s constant chattering, always filling the space with noise. Of the soft shuffle of feet, the gentle weight of a body beside his.

The absence of her.

His Lenore.

Her scent, her laughter, the warmth of her hands. Gone.

And Haymitch was alone. But then again, not truly alone.

He had the bottle.

He drank from it like water. Like the milk he had stolen from Snow, gulping it down in spite. Like the fresh water in the Arena that had kept him alive.

Like her kisses. Oh how he had drank them greedily.

The liquor burned as it went down, always had and always would, but it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

—

At first, he welcomed the oblivion. He needed it. The sweet, numbing release that blurred the edges of memory, dulled the faces burnt into the backs of his eyelids.

But it didn’t erase them.

Didn’t erase him.

He still saw Ampert’s skeleton, the mass of squirrels atop him like a broken toy. Still saw his sweetheart’s blood pooling beneath her skull. Still saw Lou Lou—small, thin, screaming as blood leaked from her ear. Saw those birds as they stabbed Maysilee over and over again to punish him, watched as she drowned in her own blood. Always because of him.

The faces never faded. They just waited for him in the dark.

So he drank more.

—

Weeks then turned into months, and he drank so often and so violently that eventually he couldn’t tell how long it truly had been. He lost track of the world around him, and the people of District 12 left him alone.

Just like he wanted.

Mostly.

A few people he’d once called friends tried. They had knocked on his door. Left food on his porch, came inside to try and soothe him. Begged him to let them in, to let them help. But he never did. Couldn’t let them in. Not now. Not ever. He couldn’t let anyone in again. Couldn’t care for anyone else again.

Because Snow was watching, always watching, and waiting for him to slip. To let someone in, anyone at all. An old friend, a family he would pass by, someone he had helped with laundry, or bought wares from. He couldn’t do it. To be amongst someone he could care for, someone he had known, or known of. It was a risk. It would always be a risk. And it would be his fault.

He couldn’t let anyone get close, lest they end up like the rest.

Dead.

So he slammed the door in their faces. Snarled at them until they stopped coming. Hurt them. Made them bleed.

He didn’t want their pity.

He didn’t want anything.

Just the next drink.

—

One night, he shattered a bottle against the fireplace, watching the shards scatter across the floor. He swayed on his feet, staring at them, vision swimming.

He thought about picking one up.

Pressing the jagged edge to his skin.

Would it make a difference? Would it change anything?

He thought about it often.

But then he thought of them.

And it would have been for nothing. They would have died for nothing.

His Ma. Sid. Lenore. His sweetheart Louella. Lou Lou. Maysilee. Ampert. The Newcomers he had let die. Let down. They were all gone. And yet, somehow, he was still here. Still breathing.

Rotten luck.

Or maybe not luck at all.

Maybe this was punishment. A life sentence for surviving when they hadn’t. For being the one left standing. For daring to survive even when he hadn’t planned to.

—

The years blurred, slipping away as easily as the days. Haymitch had stopped keeping track. Stopped counting the birthdays that came and went, each one marking another year of sending two more kids to die. Sitting in the train with them as he escorted them to their deaths. Drinking to escape. Just like what they had done to him.

Just new faces to add to the endless supply of those he tried to forget.

But he couldn’t.

He could see himself in them. How scared they were. How unsure. He would watch their widened eyes that were filled with tears, or their shock filled stares, or watch as their violence and defiance would burst from them like animals backed into a corner.

Because that’s what they were; animals. At least, in the eyes of the Capital they were.

The only thing that made it bearable was the bottle in his hand.

But his body never forgot.

His stomach ached constantly, twisting with a pain he knew was deliberate. The scar puckered and long healed, but in a way that spoke of poor craftsmanship. Sloppy work. A haphazard job.

He’d seen firsthand what the Capitol could do to a person’s body, how they could change their appearances to suit the season, saw it each year he came to the Capital, each year he sent those kids to slaughter. He saw each year what the Capital was able to do to those kids in the arena. Had experienced it himself. So that’s how he knew the scar on his stomach and the pain he felt from it was no accident.

The Capital could sew someone up just wrong enough that they felt it forever.

Snow had done it.

Wanted him to remember—even as he desperately tried to forget. But there would be no way to forget it. The arena, or what transpired in the after when he returned. Each time the pain came, his fingers pressed against where the gash in his stomach was, and he would be there again; where he had been trying to hold himself together, trying to hold his insides inside. The moment he should’ve died, but didn’t.

A reminder.

That he belonged to them.

That he would never truly leave the Arena.

—

Haymitch never used to dream much.

Before the Games, sleep had been standard—sure, there were nights he lay awake listening to Sid’s quiet breathing, the hum of his Ma moving about their house, the bird call outside. But sleep had still been his. A refuge. A place to slip away from the harsh reality of District 12.

Now, sleep was a battlefield.

When he closed his eyes, the arena swallowed him whole.

The scent of blood and damp earth clung to his skin. The copper tang in the air. The sound of flesh tearing. The way the other tributes looked at him—desperate, starving, waiting for their chance to kill or die or be saved. The Games had been over for years, but in his dreams, he never left. He was always running, always fighting, always watching the life drain from someone’s eyes and it was always his fault.

And then there were the nights where he wasn’t in the arena.

Those were worse.

Because those nights, he was back home.

The house was warm, fire crackling in the hearth. His Ma sat at the table, rolling out dough with flour-dusted hands. Sid sat beside him, laughing over some joke Haymitch couldn’t quite hear. And Lenore—Lenore was next to him, leaning against his shoulder, her fingers threading through his.

It felt so real he could almost believe it.

Then the dream shifted, and they were laid out in green grass, and there was a gumdrop in his hand. A delicate little thing, blood red.

Lenore smiled at him, trusting, always so trusting of him, and he lifted it to her lips, just as he always did, and dropped into her waiting mouth. Whether in his home that no longer stood, or in the meadow. Or in the arena itself.

It was always the same.

Haymitch would feed her those gumdrops and feed her her death with loving and reverent hands. Hands that had caressed and held her. And hands that had killed her.

He had killed his Lenore Dove.

He had killed her.

Gasping, covered in sweat, the taste of death on his tongue he would wake after she stilled.

It never changed. Night after night, he saw her face, felt her warmth, held the sweet in his palm. And watched as she choked and died in his arms.

Haymitch sat on the edge of his bed, fingers tangled in his hair, the room spinning around him. His head ached, his stomach churned, and his throat was raw from whatever he’d screamed in his sleep.

He reached blindly for the bottle on the nightstand, knocking over various empty ones and other trinkets atop it in the dark. The liquor burned its way down, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Nothing could erase the memories.

Nothing could bring them back.

Would.

Sid. His Ma.

Lenore.

Gone. All of them, gone. And yet he was still here. Living in this too-big house in Victor’s Village, drinking himself into oblivion while their ghosts clung to him like coal dust.

He wished he could say he didn’t know why he drank. That it was something instinctual, something he couldn’t control. That he could blame it on someone else. On Snow. On the Capital. But he did know.

The bottle was a graveyard.

It was the only way he could bury the people he’d lost.

He drank to forget the look on his Ma’s face when he left for the Capitol. The way Sid had cried. The way Lenore had watched him from that hill as the train whipped past. To forget all the people he let die.

It was a slow, miserable kind of suffering. A way to atone for surviving when they didn’t.

Because Haymitch Abernathy wasn’t supposed to be here.

The Capitol had made sure to remind him of that.

They had killed Lenore. They had killed his Ma, his brother. They had taken everything, and yet somehow, he was still here.

Still breathing.

And for what?

So he could sit in this house, night after night, getting so drunk he could barely see? So he could wake up every morning with a pounding skull and the taste of regret in his mouth? So he could see the ghosts that surround him?

Snow had taken everything from him, but he hadn’t needed to pull a trigger to do it.

No, he’d let Haymitch destroy himself.

And Haymitch was doing a damn good job of it.

He took another drink.

It burned, sharp and bitter.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

—

The bottle on the table was almost empty. Haymitch stared at it, fingers drumming against the wood, mind hazy, beside him; a plate of stale bread and jam. He’d have to go into town soon for another. Maybe four. He was getting sick of running out, but the more he drank the more he needed to chase away the shadows that seemed to skirt in his periphery.

Over the short years he had come back from the Games he had aged considerably. The lack of sleep, the alcohol, and lack of any healthy food was one of the reasons for this.

His food was delivered on the same day as it always was every week, and his Victors winnings were given just the same once a month, and almost every single cent of that was spent on booze.

The knock at the door made him flinch.

Right. The food.

He hauled himself to his feet, stumbling slightly as he made his way across the room. The room spun around him as he sluggishly made his way over. Empty stomach and booze never made for great travel.

Empty bottles were knocked over and rolled loudly on the hardwood floors. Floors that hadn’t been washed since he moved in.

The Victors houses were decorated with gaudy items that most in the Districts could never dream of, but for Haymitch, it served as a reminder of what he had lost.

Every single surface was covered in trash, or bottles, or little things that he found and then discarded. Empty plates sat in piles on tables or broken in the sink. If his house hadn’t of been burnt down he would live there instead. In fact, it was Burdock who had found him, laid in the ashes a week after, sleeping to try and forget it all, empty bottles scattered around him.

He hadn’t been back since.

When he opened the door, the Peacekeeper barely looked at him. Just handed over the crate and left without a word.

That was fine.

Haymitch didn’t ever feel like talking anyway.

He carried the crate inside, setting it on the table.

Milk. Bread.

Always the same.

That goddamn milk. One of his first mistakes.

Another death sentence.

He took the milk and a loaf, and went back to his meal. Bread and some jam that had been in the back of his cupboard for who knows how long.

The chair groaned beneath him as he sat. A chair that had chips all along its dark wooden legs, and scratches covering every surface. It had taken many beatings over the years, been kicked and thrown and knocked over more times than he could count.

The bread was stale and brittle, and he dropped it against his plate, pushing it away with a huff. He wasn’t going to finish it. Usually never did.

But he could finish his drink. It was halfway down his throat when a knock came again. Haymitch frowned. He set the bottle down, rubbing his temples.

Didn’t I just get the food?

Sometimes he did forget things. Did them twice or not at all.

Another knock.

Usually if he didn’t answer they left it on the front step.

Another knock.

His gut clenched.

Had Snow sent someone?

Haymitch grabbed the nearest knife from the table—just in case—and yanked the door open.

A woman stood there. A woman he didn’t recognise.

And he just gaped at her, swaying on his feet.

She was younger than him, couple of years maybe, hair half braided, holding a small bundle in her hands—bread, he wasn’t sure, more fucking bread, or something wrapped in cloth. She didn’t flinch when she saw him, didn’t take a step back, even though he must have looked like hell. Smelt even worse. He can’t remember the last time he indulged in a cold shower.

Yet there she was, undeterred. Another do-gooder trying to fix the unfixable. Another young girl wishing to be with the Districts Victor. Disgust rolled inside of him.

Haymitch stepped back and slammed the door in her face, turning away from it. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

The knocking began again, but more insistent this time. But Haymitch ignored it, went back to his table, back to his drink, the one lifeline he had and threw down the knife, letting it clatter and fall from the table onto the floor.

He took another swig as he sat back in his chair, waiting for her to grow bored and leave him alone. But she never left. She just kept knocking. Insistent as she was, he was more stubborn and kept to the table as he waited, flicking the crumbs from the table onto the floors that hadn’t been washed in years.

But each time the knocks came, he felt the trickle of a memory surface; the loud bang of canon fire.

Every single one.

It was a while until the knocking stopped, and Haymitch exhaled a long breath, going to take another swig only to find the bottle empty.

It was always empty these days.

Unsteady feet carried him to the fireplace, atop it bottles of all shapes and sizes, the last drops that had been inside captured by his waiting mouth. He then moved to the bookshelves, books half pulled out or long forgotten, barren bottles against their spines.

He looked around the floor.

The buffet table.

All of them dry.

The kitchen was his best bet.

He shuffled through open doors to the kitchen, riffling through endless cupboards emptied or full of rotten food and forgotten china. Cans and bottles fell to the floor or rolled inside the shelves, the sound almost deafening, but drowning out the echo’s of that goddamn cannon fire.

The screams.

Nothing.

Empty.

His skin felt too tight, itched. He needed a drink. Needed it so badly it hurt, made him feel ill, made sweat begun to gather at the back of his neck, the corners of his temples. The room was spinning, seemed to shrink around him until he spied the sink, and there, he could have wept—could have curled on the floor and soaked the world with his tears, was a bottle with a third of clear liquor left. He snatched it and drank deeply. Drank until the last drop melted against his tongue.

It was heaven. It was relief.

It was his only escape.

Behind him there was a noise.

Heart racing and instincts kicking in, he spun around throwing the bottle in his hand at the woman who now stood behind him in the doorway. It smashed against the wall beside her, glittering glass spraying around her. She dodged it with a look of annoyance.

Still not deterred.

Maybe she had been sent by Snow after all.

Maybe this was it.

“Who the hell are you?” His voice came out rough, crackled at the edges. It had been so long since he had used it to talk rather than scream himself awake.

She lifted her chin slightly and gave her name, looking around the mess of the kitchen, bundle still in hand, “I brought you food.”

“I don’t need your charity.” He hissed, eyes narrowed, who the hell did this girl think she was? “I got all the money and food I could ever need.” Arms spread, he gestured to the room in ruins.

As quick as a whip, “Is that why you only get bread and milk?”

“Get out of my house.” The world still spun, and he lightly swayed on his foot.

He loathed the loss of that bottle, he could have gotten one last drop from it. Could have somehow scraped the edges to get it all out.

And loathed her presence even more.

Had the others sent her? The ones he had pushed away all those years ago.

She glanced down at the bundle in her arms, then back up at him, “You need to eat.”

Haymitch let out a short, humourless laugh, “Already got food.” He motioned to the crate behind him, where she had already spied only milk and bread, “Go away.”

She didn’t move.

He bristled, and a rage he had only felt towards himself for years began to surface, “Didn’t y’hear me?”

She was a Newcomer all over again.

Come to him.

For guidance.

Protection.

Company.

She would die like the rest.

He would kill her.

“I heard you.” She still didn’t leave.

Was she Maysilee coming to haunt him?

His hand tightened into fists, stumbling forward to grab a dirtied knife from the kitchen table. It scraped along the surface; another scratch. His paranoia was still thrumming in his skull, drowning out rational thought.

He didn’t know her. He didn’t trust her. Didn’t want her here prying and looking at him like that. And right now, that was enough reason to throw the blade towards her, knowing he would miss. A warning.

A threat.

And yet she still didn’t falter.

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that.” She raised a brow at him.

In that moment, he decides that he hates her. Truly hates her.

She strode up to the table, opposite him. He could smell whatever was wrapped in the old tattered rag. Could smell her. She smelt of grass and the forest air and fresh laundry. It made him swallow thickly.

She shoved the stale bread and empty glasses aside to place the bundle down, eyes never leaving his before she turned her back to him and walked away, straight out the door, shutting with a click behind her.

Angry, bitter and shamed, he snatched up the bundle and unwrapped it. Fear made him think the worst. Always did. It was poisoned, his mind thought. Poisoned by the Capital. It was time he thought.

But it wasn’t.

It was a freshly baked pie.

—

Days passed and once again the food delivery came. He unpacked it in silence, unsteady on his feet.

Milk and bread.

Milk and bread.

Always fucking milk and bread.

And that night, the knock came again.

She came again.

Haymitch ignored it, had made sure he locked the door this time. All the doors, and the windows too for good measure. It made the house stuffy, and the smell of rotten food and unwashed clothes melted against his skin.

But it came again the next night.

And the next.

And each time, he pretended not to hear it. Pretended not to smell the fresh food that seeped beneath the door. Her rapping against the wood or the tread of her foot on the gravel outside.

By the fifth day she didn’t bother knocking, just came at the same time, dropped off the food and left. And he left the food at the door, right where she had left it.

But she wasn’t just at his door anymore.

One afternoon, when he finally forced himself into town—stumbling through the dusty streets, ignoring the glances he got—he saw her.

She was standing outside the market, arms crossed, watching him as he approached Hattie. Like she had known he would come.

Hattie had looked more worn of late, and when Haymitch had first come back, she had attempted to console him, but just like the others he pushed her away. At first she had given him pleading looks, then looks of pity. Eventually it turned to anger, and then worse; indifference.

The indifference was more agonising than the anger. He was just another drunk.

His stomach twisted.

Haymitch ignored the woman who seemed to follow him like a shadow. Walked straight past her, grabbing the bottles of white liquor that he had bought, shoving them into whatever pockets he had, holding the rest in his arms. He didn’t have time to shove them in a crate, didn’t think to do it, only one thing on his mind; get away from her.

She didn’t take the hint.

“You look like shit.” She said, little to no emotion present. It was merely a statement of fact; an observation. Sterile.

Haymitch snorted, “Yeah? Well, you look like someone who should mind their own damn business.”

She didn’t so much as blink, “You’re killing yourself.”

“That’s the idea.”

The woman frowned, stepping in his path, blocking him from his escape. “You think Snow didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he let you live?” Her voice was sharper now, quieter, “He didn’t have to put a bullet in you, Haymitch. He knew you’d do it yourself.”

Something inside him clenched.

He tried to shove past her, glass bottles clinking. She didn’t budge, stepping into his path again.

“You don’t know a damn thing.” He growled.

“I know you look like shit.”

“So you’ve told me.” He huffed, stepping around her impatiently, this time she let him, but trailed behind him.

Always like a shadow.

“You ever think about drinking something that won’t pickle your insides? Surely you have water in that fancy Victors house?"

Water.

His hands cupping the clear water, so clear he could see the bottom, bringing it up to his lips. The taste so crisp. So clean. So fresh.

Then the rabbit.

Dead.

The bitter taste of the tablet, the chunks that stuck in his teeth, the taste of yesterdays food passing through his lips the wrong way.

He just wanted to forget. To get away from her. "I’ll get right onto that. Maybe after I throw myself down a mine shaft."

"Long way down.” She mused.

It was like she had every response ready to go before he had opened his mouth. A retort to come back at his own. A way to snap back at him without even snapping.

Haymitch tried to speed up, but she kept up effortlessly.

"I don’t have the energy for this." Haymitch huffed, and sped as fast as he could towards the Victors village, the clanking of bottles loud, the people in town watching the lone District 12 Victor speeding away from a young woman who trailed after him. He just wanted to get back to that damn village.

Population: One.

She continued on beside him, and for one heart stopping moment, she reminded him of Lou Lou.

Following.

Watching.

Trailing along.

“Go back to your family.” He snapped, voice carrying behind him.

Without a pause, without even so much as an inkling of emotion, “Dad died a year ago from Miners Lung, ma went to a mine shaft to be with him. I got nowhere else to be.”

Haymitch stopped walking suddenly, feet scuffing against the dirt floor. He didn’t want to hear about her losses, didn’t want to hear about her life or her grief, he had enough of his own.

She almost crashed into him.

He spun around to face her, though not as gracefully as he would have liked. He felt so sick that it made him think about the poisoned water again from the Arena. How sick he had felt. How he had laid half hidden in those bushes thinking he might die.

“I don’t care.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the weight and shape of each bottle pressed against his body. It excited him knowing they were there. But still she didn’t budge. She didn’t even look mildly offended by what he had said.

But the longer he stared, the more familiar she became. The slope of her nose, the shape and colour of her eyes.

“You’re Silton’s girl. Your ma…” Haymitch trailed off trying to think of her name.

Delae? Deline?

“Delphinia.” She nodded in confirmation.

Then it came to him, the fog parting for the first time in years.

“You and your Ma would come with laundry.”

She smirked, and it looked like triumph, “It was my favourite day of the month.”

The conversation seemed to sober him. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to think about his Ma, or Sid. Or how her Ma would come to him, younger her in tow to give their laundry. Always watching him. Always there.

He wanted to forget.

Haymitch turned around, “Nice reunion. Now get lost.”

All he wanted was a drink. Needed to taste it. To feel it on his tongue. But his hands were too full of bottles to take the cork out of one to drink. Too shaky to be able to balance them all to drag one up to his lips and rip the cork out with his teeth.

Haymitch needed a drink so badly that he felt that he might die.

He just needed to get home.

Needed to forget.

Needed a damn drink.

“You snuck me candy once.” She breathed from behind him, and he felt it all come back. Ice ran down his spine.

The gumdrops.

Blood red.

Feeding them into the lips he loved to press his own against.

Her smile as she laughed as he fed her another.

The fear as he yelled at her to sick them up.

Her eyes when she realised she couldn’t.

“I did the same to Lenore Dove.”

Her name felt like ash in his mouth.

Lenore Dove.

I love you like all-fire. Always will.

His fault.

He stalked away, stomach beginning to ache. But she didn’t relent. She wouldn’t let go. She was his shadow. And he wished the sun would disappear so that she would too.

“Did you eat the pies?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Go away.”

“It’s wasteful.”

“Finally you’re learning. Now scram.”

“The Mellark boy made ‘em. They got meat inside.”

“Still don’t care.”

Up ahead he could see the beginnings of it. The Victors Village. His sanctuary and his prison. His pace quickened.

“I’m just gonna keep bringin’ ‘em.”

Haymitch let out a frustrated growl, “Do whatever the hell y’want.” He called over his shoulder.

He moved through the centre, up the stairs to his home, his full hands wrangling with the door, the rattling of bottles louder than his struggling kick to fling it open. It crashed against the wall and he stepped inside, using his heel to kick it shut behind him, not bothering to look back to see that she had stopped at the stoop of his steps.

He needed a drink.

He needed a drink.

He needed-

He knew you’d do it yourself.

Damn her.

Damn her for being right.

—

The rain was coming down hard, hammering against the roof, turning the world outside into a blurry, grey mess. Haymitch sat slumped on his dirtied couch, the half-empty bottle resting between his legs, his mind drifting in and out of consciousness.

A knock at the door broke a bubbling thought. It was seeping into the back of his mind. Something Plutarch had said to him. Something he wished to forget.

He ignored it.

The knock came again.

Haymitch groaned, head rolling back against the dirtied couch.

"Go away.”

She was so persistent. So utterly stubborn in her way. She reminded him of Maysilee in that respect, and it made him sick.

Another knock, more forceful this time. He hoped that this was her growing tired of this, that she would soon leave him alone. Grow just as irritated as he was and give up. But instead of silence, he heard a faint scratching at the door. His head flopped forward as he looked out of the lounge room towards the hallway.

Then—

A sound.

A scrape.

His body tensed instantly, muscles locking up before his brain even had time to catch up.

Something was outside.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He strained his ears, listening. The wind howled, but underneath it—there. A creak on the porch.

Someone was at his door and they were trying to get in.

His heart pounded in his chest.

Not again. Not again.

His fingers fumbled for the closest thing to a weapon—a fire poker, heavy and cold in his grip. His breaths came sharp and fast as he stood, keeping to the shadows, every inch of him screaming that this was a trap.

It’s Snow. It’s another test. They let you live before, but not this time. They’re here to finish it.

The doorknob rattled.

His grip tightened on the poker.

Knock, knock.

His mind twisted violently, dragging him back, back, back. To the Arena. Panache. To the Capitol. To the nights when the door wasn’t a door—it was a beautiful landscape, and the knock wasn’t a knock—it was a warning before the pain.

His throat dried up. His stomach clenched.

Move, move, move.

He raised the fire poker, ready to swing.

And then—

“Haymitch?”

The voice cut through the fog like a blade.

Not them. Not the Arena. Not Panache. Not Snow.

Her.

Standing in the doorway, rain dripping from her hair, eyes wide she took in the sight of him—chest heaving, shoulders locked up with tension, a goddamn fire poker likely worth more than she has ever owned in her life gripped tight in his hands like he was ready to use it.

She looked at the weapon, then back at him, “What the hell?”

Haymitch couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak.

He dropped the poker. It hit the ground with a hollow clang, rolling slightly before stopping. His hands were shaking. His breath was ragged. His entire body felt like it was on fire.

And then the anger hit.

Hot. Furious. Drowning out the fear.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She blinked at him and it only made him angrier.

He snapped, stepping toward her, "What the hell do you think you're doing, breaking into my goddamn house? Sneaking up on me like that?"

She crossed her arms, her jaw tightening, "I knocked."

“How many times do I gotta spell it out for you. I don’t want you here.”

Her eyes flicked down to his shaking hands, then back to his eyes. A flash of recognition bloomed across her face, “Jesus, Haymitch,” She muttered, “You thought I was—?”

“Get out of my house.” He cut her off, voice rough. His blood was boiling. His skin too tight, “Leave."

She didn’t move.

"Haymitch—"

“Get the fuck out.”

Still, she stayed planted right where she was, searching his face. He hated that. Hated the look in her eyes. Pity. Understanding. Like she got it. Like she could see every broken, twisted thing inside him.

That made it worse.

"I’m not going to hurt you.” She said quietly.

“You don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

She let out a sharp laugh, “Right. Because this is ‘well enough.’”

His eyes snapped to hers, “Get out.”

She didn’t.

“You stupid or something? I said get out.”

She studied him. He hated that. Hated how she observed his every move, his every gesture. He swiped up a bottle and downed the drink, setting the glass down harder than necessary.

Silence stretched between them.

Then she sighed, shaking her head, “You’re angry at the wrong person.”

Haymitch barked out a humourless laugh, “That so?”

“Yup.”

Everything about her pissed him off. The way she wore her braids. The way she wore a dress that was heavily patched and hung against the tops of her knees. The way she smelt like grass and earth. Always like the earth. Hated the way she looked at him. And right now, he hated that she popped the P as she spoke.

The woman dropped another bundle, smaller than the days before onto he table, half wrapped in a faded handkerchief. The smell came quickly. Fresh pastry, and meat and something else.

"Eat.” She said simply, nodding to the sandwich as she looked him over again.

The alcohol burned as he drank again, "Fuck off."

She just sighed and moved toward the door, ”I’ll be back."

Haymitch scoffed, already looking for another bottle to begin, “‘Course you will."

Then she left.

And Haymitch drank.

Chapter Text

—

He didn’t bother getting up when he heard the door creak open.

She didn’t knock anymore.

There was no point in pretending it surprised him. No point in pretending that she would leave if he didn’t answer. There was no falsity in politeness. No politeness at all. She came almost every day, like clockwork. Same time, same way. Always with something wrapped in cloth, or tucked into a basket like she wasn’t walking into the home of a drunk. Like this was just something people did. Something that she should do.

That damn miner’s daughter with a stubborn streak and a face too earnest for District 12.

Haymitch lay half-sunken into the couch, one leg over the armrest, bottle resting against his chest. He didn’t even turn to look.

“You ever think about getting a lock?” She said as she stepped inside.

“I have one,” He muttered, “You just unlock it.”

She hummed as she dropped the bundle onto his table with a dull thud. Another pastry of some sort probably. Soup if she was feeling ambitious.

He thought of the soup his Ma made. Ham hock.

He glanced over at her with one eye open. She was scanning the room now, nose wrinkling at the mess.

“Place smells like something died in here.” She said, pulling her coat off, revealing slender shoulders beneath a grey coloured dress.

Dove.

“Here’s to wishful thinking.” He said, voice dry.

She shot him a look, stepping over a pile of plates and something that might’ve been a shirt or a towel—hard to tell anymore.

“You know, I think your floor used to be made of wood.”

He took a long swig from the bottle, letting the silence stretch, “I hadn’t noticed. Now get lost.”

She raised a brow, “No.”

“Why are y’here?”

“Because I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“You got a real saviour complex, you know that?” He took another swig from his bottle, the burn was a comfort, a tender embrace from a lover, “Go find a stray dog or something.”

“I’ve already got one.” She gave him a pointed look.

He let out a low breath, sharp and bitter, “Wonder what that says about you.”

She shrugged, glancing at the table and pushing aside a crusted-over plate with one finger, “That I’m fond of lost causes.”

He sat up slowly, wincing as the world tilted sideways and the pain in his scar ached dully, “I’m not a lost cause. I’m a dead one. You’re just too dumb to tell the difference.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to it. She just looked at him, then at the bottle in his hand.

“You eat today?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

She walked to the table and unwrapped the cloth—bread, cheese, meat and greens, and something in a jar that might’ve been stew.

Haymitch squinted at it, his stomach tightening. It smelt good. He hated that it smelt good. He hated that he wanted to eat it. Hated that his mouth watered slightly at it.

He didn’t move to get up. Just leaned his head back and closed his eyes, “Why are you here?” He asked again, it felt like a goddamn nightmare. Or like the plug had been pulled in the bath and he was spinning round and round in the drain.

She shrugged again, “I like the challenge.”

He snorted, “Romantic.”

“Realistic.”

She walked past him, brushing his shoulder lightly as she went to the kitchen. He heard her fiddling with cabinets, the occasional clatter of dishes, maybe hoping something clean would turn up.

“I could make you coffee,” She called, “Or whatever you have that resembles it.”

“This is my coffee.” He held up the bottle.

“Then you need better mornings.”

He needed better everything.

He opened his eyes again. Watched her from the couch, eyes scanning shelves like this was just another chore, shoving things aside, tossing others into the sink or overflowing trash can.

“You know, some people would classify this as trespassing.” He sneered.

“If there was anything of worth in here, yeah.” She said, finally pulling down a mug, “But it seems like you’ve already pawned a lot of it off.”

“Don’t you have friends to harass?”

“Nope. Just you.”

“Pity’s a hell of a drug.”

“Better than whatever you’re drinking.”

“Better than coming here when you’re not wanted, sweetie. Clearly no one around here is petitioning for your stellar company if you’re forcing it on me.”

He hated how she didn’t flinch when he was cruel. Loathed that she kept coming back anyway. She turned back toward him, holding the mug and giving him that look. Not soft. Not sympathetic. Just tired. Like him.

“You’re a bastard.” She breathed, like it had been wrestling with her to get out, but it was so exhausted that it had no real bite.

A dogs last bark.

“Never claimed otherwise.”

She set the mug down beside him, “Drink something that doesn’t kill your liver for once.”

Letting his eyes lock on hers he tipped whatever she had tried to make in the kitchen straight onto the floor, it splashed against his pants and bare feet, seeping into the wood before lifting his bottle to fill the cup up to the top, bringing it up to his lips.

“You’re pathetic.” She sighed, no real venom in her words.

Haymitch didn’t answer. Just knocked back another gulp and let his head flop against the back of the couch. Stared at the ceiling as she moved around the house, pretending not to care, pretending this didn’t mean anything. That she didn’t exist.

But when she left, the food stayed.

And this time, he ate it all.

If it was poisoned maybe finally he could rest.

But it didn’t taste like punishment.

And that made him angry.

—

He woke up to the sound of birds.

Distant. Irritating. Too cheerful.

His mouth was dry, back and neck stiff as he lay oddly on the couch, leg half off the edge. His head ached, gods, everything ached, sharp and throbbing like something had lodged itself between his eyes. The bottle on the floor was empty. A couple others, too. One had rolled under the table, half shattered from a clumsy drunken hand.

Same as always.

But something was different.

There was no smell of rot this morning. No rank sourness of spilled drink and stale food. The air was... cleaner. Marginally. Haymitch sat up, slow, steadying himself with one hand on the edge of the couch. He scanned the room with crusted eyes.

There, on the table.

A plate. Bread—still soft. The jar of stew—half full, capped. Someone had folded the cloth neatly beside it. Around it, mess of months gone. Tidied. Cleaned.

She came again.

He groaned. Ran a hand through his hair and stared at the food.

His stomach twisted. Not with hunger—he was used to that. With something else. A gnawing resentment that it was there. That she was doing this.

That part of him wanted to eat it.

He staggered to the table, the room far too bright for his eyes, grabbed the bread and tore a piece off with his teeth. Chewed slowly.

It was still warm in the middle.

Still warm.

—

Later, he sat on the front porch with a mug of clear liquor. Not coffee like she had tried. She could keep trying until she died, he wasn’t ever going to stop. But she had tried, left a little honey she must have brought from town, tucked it in the pantry beside the Capitals bread like she was stocking his house on purpose.

With purpose.

For what he didn’t know.

In some ways he felt like she was trying to fatten him up. Like a pig for slaughter.

The morning grew cloudy, and he preferred it that way. Sunlight had become too sharp over the years, too headache inducing with his drink.

She hadn’t come yet.

Maybe she wouldn’t.

Maybe last night was the last time she’d let herself in and talk at him like he was a person instead of some broken-down mutt.

That should’ve brought him relief.

It didn’t.

Three days passed. No knock. No creaking door. No sound of boots tracking across his floor like they had every damn week.

Haymitch told himself it was good. Told himself it meant she’d finally gotten bored, or smart. He was safe now. Alone again. Everyone would be safer if he was alone.

Then on the fourth day, he heard the door open just after sundown.

She didn’t say anything.

Just walked past him like it was normal, like she hadn’t stopped or they hadn’t spoken, holding a sack under one arm and her coat dripping from the rain in the other. She looked annoyed. Her hair stuck to her cheeks and her boots left puddles.

“Floor’s still disgusting.” She muttered, “Glad to see you’ve kept up appearances.”

He didn’t say anything. Just raised his mug—half full of his self prescribed medicine and gave her a sly smile.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at that, “You sick or something?”

“Nope.”

“Then you’re either going soft or you’re dying.”

“Flip a coin.”

She dropped the bag on the table and started unpacking. Another pie. Some potatoes. Cheese wrapped in wax paper-

A bar of soap.

He scoffed, “I’m starting to get the sense that you can’t take a hint.”

“Neither can you.”

“You’re not my wife.”

No one ever would be.

“Thank Gods for that.”

They fell into silence, the kind that wasn’t warm but wasn’t hostile either. Like two people sharing a room out of necessity, neither one willing to leave. But it wasn’t necessity, and he hated that he had become so complacent.

Complaisant as the kids sent off each year to slaughter. Complaisant as the Districts. Complaisant as Lenore as he fed her those gumdrops.

She sat on the arm of the chair across from him, watching the rain hit the windows.

“Don’t you got somewhere to be?” He growled, putting the mug down to pick up the bottle instead.

She ignored him. Seemed to do that quite well.

Most people did.

After a while, she spoke, voice low. “You eat the bread?”

“No.”

It was a lie and they both knew it.

He looked at her for a long moment. Really looked at her.

She wasn’t trying to fix him. Not really. She was just there, like a splinter you stop noticing until it shifts and aches again.

Like his scar.

Haymitch leaned back, let the silence fill the space again. The house didn’t feel quieter this time.

It just felt... lived in.

For now.

—

She came back.

Of course she did.

She was like the black mould that came in the winter months when it was wet. No matter how much you would scrub at it, spray it, it just kept coming back.

Haymitch never bothered to lock the door anymore. Doesn’t need to. No one else comes to see him. No one would would want to. No one but her. And even if he did, she would get in anyway. She doesn’t wait for him to say anything, just steps inside, her boots leaving damp prints on the wooden floor.

Haymitch didn’t move from his chair. Didn’t bother with the usual fight. He was so damn tired. Hadn’t gotten any sleep last night, and kept dreaming of those gumdrops over and over again until his throat was hoarse and his face was streaked with tears.

It didn’t help that she was chipping away slowly at his resolve now that he was simply not fighting anymore. Too tired to fight anymore. He just watched as she set a small parcel on the table, shaking out the rain in her hair onto his floor.

No words. No argument.

And then she left.

It happened again the next day.

And the next.

At first when she had begun coming, Haymitch ignored the food. Let it sit there, untouched, watched as it began to rot and fester like the others, the smell clogging the air of the house because he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. But then he’d catch himself glancing at it. Hunger gnawed at him in a way he’d been content to ignore, but the smell of warm bread, roasted meat, fresh herbs—it chipped away at his stubbornness.

Eventually, on some forgotten night, he caved.

He didn’t think much of it as he tore off a piece of bread, chewing slowly. It was fine. Basic.

Then he tried one of the sandwiches.

The first bite was easy enough to ignore. But the second—damn it.

It was good. Really good.

The kind of good that made his fingers tighten around the crust, made irritation creep up his spine. He slammed the rest of the sandwich down on the plate, scowling at it like it had personally offended him.

She was doing this on purpose.

Had to be.

Some pathetic attempt to prove a point, to keep him alive despite every effort he made not to care. At times he wondered if this was another Lou Lou. Kept thinking that it might be. Some sort of new Capital mutt sent to ruin him. That eventually when he lets his guard down for her, Snow will snatch her away just like he did Lenore.

Weeks passed like this.

She came. She left food. She didn’t talk much, didn’t try to force conversation after the last time. And Haymitch let it happen. Let her waltz in and out of his home leaving him tributes of her own. And he guzzled them down just as greedily as the Capitol does. Saved him the trip to the kitchen to look at the rotten milk and mouldy bread.

However, his dreams about the Games had become more frequent. More violent. More anxiety inducing. He would wake with his head throbbing, tongue dry and feeling alien within his body before he would reach for the bottle again and drink.

He wanted to forget.

He wanted to drown in alcohol.

But she was making him remember.

It was worse now, when he dreamt of his Lenore Dove, of her soft hair in his fingers, her lips upon his, and those Gumdrops he dropped readily into her waiting mouth. It always ended the same, her looking up at him as blood and froth seeped from her mouth.

Always the same, except more than ever he felt it.

Like all-fire. Forever.

Lenore had told him that she would stay true to him forever, even if he had died in the Games. And he felt that he was breaking this promise to her. Felt that he should honour her in her death and never speak to anyone again, never breathe near anyone again, let alone another woman.

He had tried. He had been trying. He stayed away. He stayed alone. He isolated himself. But she just kept coming back. Kept pressing in on him like the walls of his guilt and his grief and his fear.

It was suffocating, and she woke him from yet another blood red sweet being dropped into his lovers mouth.

But this time was different. This time was later than usual, and Haymitch had been upstairs in bed, dirtied shoes atop the sheets as he lay sprawled on his stomach, dull ache spreading though his scar.

The door shutting is what woke him up. He would always be a light sleeper after the Games, even when he was drunk. He sat up with a start and felt his heart race, and once again he was back in the Arena. Once again he was desperately and hopelessly trying to save them.

Louella. Ampert. Lou Lou. Maysilee.

His panicked eyes flickered across his room, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He wasn’t in the Arena. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was alive. He was in District 12, in the Victors Village, in his Victors home.

He was alone.

But he wasn’t alone.

The soft footsteps downstairs lured him, the sound of glass clanking against surfaces as she moved around. He tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes, the dried spit from his chin, but as he walked down the stairs he saw the shadow of her walk away from him and to the lounge, and for the barest of moments he thought it was his Lenore. Saw the slender shadow and play of the lights, his heart leaping up his throat. But it couldn’t be here. It could never be her again. Not until he joined her.

Haymitch snuck down the stairs and watched her from the shadows, being as quiet as he could. She was stretched out on his couch, legs tucked beneath her, a bottle of his liquor against her lips.

She swallowed, lips pressing together as she made a slight face, “Gross.”

Haymitch raised a brow, walking up from behind her, “Not what you expected?”

She didn’t even jump.

It was like she expected him to be there.

“Tastes like shit.” She muttered.

“Yeah, well.” He circled the couch, hand snatching the bottle from her hand, “Does the job.”

Haymitch studied her, searching for the reason—why. Why she was here, why did she kept coming back, why was she was sitting on his goddamn couch like this wasn’t insane.

She didn’t offer an explanation.

There never was any.

Bu then again, when was there ever?

He shuffled, legs feeling like lead before sitting heavily onto the couch, taking a long swig before pressing the bottle against his chest. They sat in silence, the bottle between them, the rain tapping against the window.

When she stood to leave, he expected some parting comment, some half-hearted joke. Instead, she just nodded at him. A quiet acknowledgment before stepping out into the night.

Haymitch stayed where he was, staring at the empty spot beside him.

The bottle felt heavier in his hand than it had before.

He took another drink.

And told himself he wasn’t waiting for next week.

Chapter Text

She kept coming.
Every single day.

Haymitch counted the footsteps now, like he used to count cannon blasts. Soft boots on the front porch, the creak of the door like a damn ritual. She didn’t ask. Never asked. Just walked in, dumped her little offerings—pies or sandwiches, soap, sometimes stew—and poked around like she lived here. Tidied up after him like she cared.

It made his skin crawl.

Today, he didn’t let her surprise him. He was waiting. Bottle already in hand, half-gone and bitter. But it wasn’t in a way where it was just a dull-edged, ever present blur to the world around him, not that sweet numb release—he was drunk, angry drunk. That kind of sharp, simmering burn in his chest that made his skin itch, his teeth clench. The kind that made the world tilt just enough to feel like it was about to fall off its axis.

He watched her come in through bloodshot eyes, her damp hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, a basket on her hip like this was a friendly visit, not an invasion.

He needed her to go away.

To never come back.

He needed her gone.

“You know,” He said, voice low and venomous, he just needed to be that rascal again, be the boy who abandoned all those Newcomers to die, “If you were aiming to be a parasite, you’ve succeeded.”

She paused, arching a brow, “Charming, as always.”

“I mean it,” He slurred, “You’re in my house every damn day. Fixing this, scrubbing that, feeding me, pretending I’m a pet project. You ever stop to ask or think why I don’t want you here?”

In reality, he didn’t have to act much at all. He was angry. Furious with her. But more with himself.

She dropped the basket on the table with more force than usual, “You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“Then get the damn hint,” He snapped, rising from the couch, “Go home. Go to your friends. Oh wait—that’s right.” He smirked, eyes cold, “You don’t have any, do you?”

That made her blink. He saw the flicker of hurt.

He thought of what Ceasar Flickerman would find entertaining.

He went for the jugular.

“You’re just the sad little miner’s daughter with no one left to bother or care for. No purpose. So you come here instead. You need someone to take care of so you don’t have to deal with the fact no one wants you around.”

“Shut up.” Her voice was tight, low.

Haymitch stepped closer, swaying slightly, “You think this is noble, don’t you? Following the Victor around like a loyal mutt. Must give your pathetic little life purpose.”

“Shut up.”

“Why?” He snarled.,“Because I’m right? Because nobody else wants you either?”

She slapped him.

The sound cracked through the house like a whip. He froze, cheek stinging. She was shaking—eyes wet, shoulders squared.

“You don’t get to talk about them,” She hissed, “Not my family. Not what I lost.”

He stared at her. Fury, shame, and something uglier twisting in his gut. But still, he couldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

“And yet, here you are,” He spat, “Following around a man who’s told you again and again to leave. You’re just like Snow. You don’t care what I want. You just show up. You control when I eat, when I talk, how I’m allowed to feel, what I’m allowed to do. You make me feel sick.”

Her jaw clenched, “Stop acting like caring about you is some goddamn sin.”

“You’re not listening.” He growled, stepping closer, crowding her space, “I want you gone.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His eyes flashed. “No one ever lets me decide anything! You want to control me, just like they did.”

“I want you to get your damn life back. To train those kids properly so maybe we have a chance of having one more Victor. You’re sending them off to slaughter with nothing. You don’t even care that you’re doing it.”

Horror barrelled through him.

“I don’t want it! I don’t want this! Do you think I want to send ‘em to die? None of them kids will ever come back. I never asked for this. I wanted to die in that Arena, hell, I tried to die.” He roared, “All I want is to be left the hell alone!”

And then his hands were on her.
Around her throat.

Not crushing, but hard. Controlled, but barely. He shook her hard, all heat and teeth and panic disguised as anger. A warning. A scream without sound. A dogs last bark.

She didn’t flinch, her eyes only widened slightly. Her hands went to his wrists—not to pull him off, but to hold him there. Hold him against her.

A challenge.

“Do it.” She snarled through gritted teeth, “Go ahead. Prove everyone right. Be the monster they all say you’ve become.”

His grip didn’t tighten. But it didn’t ease.

“I could kill you.” He hissed, face looming above hers.

“Then do it, Haymitch. Be a good dog for the Capital.”

That cracked something in him. Not guilt. Not regret. Just pure, furious frustration that she still wasn’t afraid. That she didn’t realise how dangerous it was for her to be near him. For her to care about him.

He shoved her back. Not hard, but hard enough to make her stumble. The look on her face darkened, and in that moment he had to reevaluate if she really was all bark and no bite.

“I’m not your Lenore Dove,” She sneered, eyes sharp with rage, “And I’m not some Newcomer you can save or sacrifice. I’m here because I choose to be.”

Lenore Dove.

How dare she even say her name.

A new anger stirred within him.

He hated her.

“No,” Haymitch breathed darkly, “You’re here because no one else wants you.”

Crack, her hand landed straight across his cheek again, and he welcomed it. Wanted it. He wanted to hurt. He wanted her to hurt too.

“Say that again.” She said, trembling with rage, “And I’ll put you through your own goddamn window.”

He bared his teeth in a bitter grin, “There she is. Thought you were hiding behind all that pity.”

“You don’t get my pity, Haymitch. Just my time. And you're not even worth that right now.”

She turned without waiting for a reply, yanked the door open, and slammed it so hard the walls shook.

Haymitch stood there, chest heaving, throat raw. Alone again. Just like he wanted. So why did he feel worse than ever?

He took another swig and hated the way his hand trembled.

—

Three days passed.

Three days of silence. Of bottles emptied and broken glass covering the floors. Three days where the house reeked of sour drink, sweat, and a guilt he refused to name.

Haymitch didn’t sleep. Not really. Not in the way that made a difference. He drifted in and out of fractured dreams, flashes of her face twisted in something he couldn't name—anger, disappointment, maybe worse.

A new face to dream about.

But it hadn’t been fear. She hadn’t been afraid. That was the part that clung to him most.

He told himself she wouldn’t come back. That he’d done what he needed to do—shown her the kind of man she was, the kind no one in their right mind would keep showing up for.

She’d gotten the message. People don’t come back from that.

But on the fourth day, the door creaked open again.

He didn’t turn his head. Sat in the chair like stone, eyes on the dead fireplace. He didn’t need to look. He knew her step by now, knew the stubborn weight of it. She walked in like always—like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

She didn’t say a word.

She set a wrapped bundle of food on the table like she always did. He could smell the pastry, something warm again, warm like her. Her hands lingered there for a second too long. Still, no words.

Haymitch’s knuckles tightened around the bottle. He wanted to lash out. To say something cruel, to push her away again with words sharp enough to gut. But the words didn’t come. Not this time.

So instead, he grunted, “I don’t need your goddamn charity.”

Still no reply.

She just walked to the sink and started cleaning dishes—his dishes. Like she hadn’t been half-throttled in this very house days ago. Like he hadn’t tried to break her the way everything else in his life had broken.

It made something inside him burn.

“You deaf now?” He snapped, “Or just decided I’m not worth speaking to?”

Nothing.

Just the sound of water running and plates clinking.

He hated her for that. For making him the one who felt ashamed.

His jaw clenched, “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just kept scrubbing a plate that didn’t need it.

He wanted to scream. To throw the bottle across the room and shatter the silence along with it. But his limbs were heavy. His mouth tasted like rust. And beneath it all, guilt gnawed at him like a wild animal under his ribs. He saw the faint bruise around her throat when she reached up to wipe her face with her sleeve.

His stomach turned.

Still, he said nothing.

Couldn’t.

So he leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. “You come back here again, you won’t like what happens.”

An empty threat, just as his hands around her throat had been.

And she knew it.

The silence between them was loud—louder than yelling, louder than fists. It was a standoff. One he was too tired to win. When she finally left, the smell of bread lingered. And so did she, in the house, in his head.

—

She came back the next day.

And the next.

And the day after that.

Haymitch stopped acknowledging her after the second time. It was easier to pretend she wasn’t there. Easier to sit in his chair, drink in hand, staring out the dirty window like it held something worth watching. But she moved around him like furniture—part of the house now. Part of the routine.

It pissed him off more than anything.

She was like a weed that refused to die. And he was tired. Too tired to rip her out again.

But on the fifth day, she spoke.

“You haven’t touched your stew.” Setting another bowl on the table beside the full one from yesterday.

“I’m not hungry.” He muttered without looking up.

“You said that yesterday.”

“Then stop bringing it.”

“You said that three days ago.”

He glared at her now, slow and cold, “You cataloging my complaints now?”

“No. I’m just trying to figure out how many times I need to hear the same crap before I start taking it personally.”

He scoffed, “Maybe you should take it personally. Maybe you’re slower than you look.”

She stepped closer, “No, Haymitch. I just haven’t hit my limit yet.”

“Then maybe I should dumb it down for you.” He raised his brows like you would to a kid, spoke to her like you would a kid, spelling it out in sharp tones, “I,” he pointed at his chest, “Don’t,” he shook his head, “want,” he laid his hand out, “you” he pointed at her with his dirtied fingernail, “here.” His hand circled around in the air of the room.

She didn’t react, “You’re good at that. Pushing people away cause you’re scared of them dying.”

His eyes snapped to hers. The bottle in his hand flying towards the wall behind her where it crashed against books and paintings.

Too far. They both knew it. But she didn’t back down.

“Say what you’re thinking.” He bit out.

“No need.” She said coolly, “You already know.”

The silence cracked between them, sharp and brittle.

He stood, slow and unsteady, swaying slightly as he moved toward her, “You think you know me?” low and sharp, “You think a few bowls of soup and honey give you the right?”

“I don’t want the right. I want you to stop pretending like I’m the enemy.”

“You are the enemy,” He snarled, hands clenched to tightly his knuckles ached, “Because you won’t leave. Because you act like this is some damn charity case you can win. I want to be left alone.”

She snapped, “I don’t want to win you, no one would. I want you to stop being a damn coward.”

That one landed.

His face twisted—not in rage, but something colder. More dangerous.

“I’ve killed people braver than you. Worth more than you. More than you could ever be worth.”

She smiled and it didn’t reach her eyes, all vicious distaste and teeth showing, “They’re dead. And I’ve stood here longer than them.” She hissed, voice tight, “So what does that make me?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned to walk toward the door, but paused just before opening it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Because they both knew she would be.

And they both knew he wouldn’t stop her.

—

She came again.

Same steps. Same creak of the door.

And it made Haymitch’s stomach turn.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to. He could feel her presence like a splinter under the skin.

She walked in like she owned the place. Didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. Just dropped her coat on the chair across from him and sat like she’d done it a hundred times before.

And maybe she had.

Haymitch’s hand tightened around the neck of the bottle, “No food today? Waste all your money then?”

“No.” She said plainly, “I figured if you’re going to waste it, I might as well stop pretending you deserve it.”

He chuckled, bitter, “Finally catching on.”

“But I did bring something.”

That got his attention. He looked at her—really looked.

She pulled a flask from her pocket. Metal. Old. Something that had been well loved previously, and he got the distinct feeling that it belonged to her father. She unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and handed it to him without a word.

He stared at it.

“Trying to poison me now?”

“If I wanted you dead, Haymitch, you’d be dead.”

He took the flask.

Drank.

It was something different to the white liquor he usually had. Something more refined.

Expensive.

He wondered how she afforded this all.

How she got this.

What she had to do to get this.

He decided he didn’t want to know.

The silence between them stretched again, dense and stifling. She didn’t move. Just sat beside him, close enough that he could smell the dirt from her coat. Her presence prickled at his skin.

“You ever get tired of this?” He asked, not looking at her.

“This?”

“This game. Playing nurse to someone who’d gladly watch you bleed out just to get rid of you.”

She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was cool. Even.

“You don’t scare me, Abernathy.”

He bristled, jaw tightening, “I should.”

“No,” She sighed, “You think you should. But you’re not scary. You’re not even dangerous. You’re just pathetic.”

He turned to her sharply, “Pathetic.” He parroted her, anger making heat rise up his neck.

She leaned in, calm, deliberate, “You’re tired. And weak. You don’t want to die, but you don’t want to live either. You’re stuck. And you want someone to hate for it, but I won’t let it be me.”

The words hit like fists, and he hated that they were true.

He stood up too fast, nearly tipping the bottle.

“Get out.”

“No.”

“I said get the hell out.”

“No.” She said again, head craned to look up at him, voice sharp, “I’m not leaving because you’re spiralling.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“You gonna make me?”

He paced like a caged animal. His heart was racing. His palms itched. He could feel the familiar pull—the need to throw something, to hurt something, to drown the noise in his head with violence or whiskey or both.

Instead, he stopped.

Stared at her.

“I don’t want you. I will never fucking want you. Your Ma didn’t want you. Your friends don’t want you. You don’t even want you. You just wanna look after me to forget how lonely you are.” His chest heaved and he hoped that she would go. Pleaded to whatever higher power there was to make her leave. He kept repeating those words to her. Repeating them to himself like a mantra. He didn’t know her. Didn’t know if she had friends. Didn’t know what her life had been like or was like. He just wanted her gone.

Needed her gone.

But she wouldn’t leave.

She wouldn’t fucking leave.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just looked at him like she already knew. It made him feel naked. Like every ugly, broken part of him was on display.

He threw her flask at her feet. Let it clatter to the floor. The noise felt small in the quiet. Whatever amber was inside leaked across the floorboards. Wasted. Soaked up by the expensive timber that he knew the people in District 7 had made.

“I don’t want you here.” He said again, quieter now, meant it with everything inside of him, “I don’t know how to make you leave.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

“If you’re going to choke me again at least follow through and kill me properly this time.”

Any semblance of calm was destroyed.

He sneered at her, “Cunt.”

“Fuck you.”

“Get out.”

“No.” She threw her legs up on the couch and watched him.

Haymitch grabbed hold of a chair and flung it to the ground, the noise loud in the room. The anger took over him, possessed him like mad. It felt like he had lost all control as he swiped his hand across the table and watched as plates and bottles and all sorts of things flew off and shattered against the ground. He yelled and growled and smashed anything that was standing and near him, and all the while she watched.

He was so angry.

Cornered.

Scared.

He just wanted her to go.

Wanted to be alone.

He didn’t want another person near him. To be endangered because of him. He couldn’t do it.

Wouldn’t.

He lost it, grabbing anything he could. Chest rising and falling raggedly as he breathed hard.

The room was a mess.

Books lay strewn across the room, glasses and lamps and plates smashed on every surface. There was nothing left but his anger. Nothing left but his grief. He felt it tickling the backs of his eyes. Felt an urge to sink to the floor and weep. He was so tired. He was so tired of feeling this way but he had to. Had to punish himself for what he had done. What he hadn’t done.

The silence didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a noose tightening.

“Feel better now?”

Her voice broke him out of his thoughts. Out of the deafening quiet.

There was pieces of glass in her hair, a book that’s cover had been ripped off strewn across her lap, and yet she just looked at him blankly.

“I hate you.” Was all that he could breathe, all that he could get out. All that he could muster.

She gave him a smile. It was small, and honest and it made his chest seize, “I know.”

Chapter Text

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. Hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. But she was so persistent. So stubborn in pushing her way in. So resolute in making herself a part of his life despite his protest at every moment.

She had chipped away at him violently, forcing herself into his orbit until he had no choice but to accept her presence. Accept that she was there and wouldn’t be leaving. He tried to push her away, tried to make her leave, but she just wouldn’t go. Wouldn’t let go of him.

It had been messy, drunken, a bruising kiss initiated by her on that stained couch they sat, sharing drinks and sharp words.

There was no love making, he had made sure of that. It was hard and rough and punishing. He was punishing her for being in his life. For wanting to be in his life. Punishing himself for doing this. For touching anyone else but his Lenore Dove. But with every grip of his rough hands or thrust of his hips she mewled for him and melted under his touch. She was so wet, so willing, and yet it was so wrong.

He tried to pretend it was her, pretend that it was his Lenore Dove. Pretend that he wasn’t betraying her. But he couldn’t, and his stomach roiled and he had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. He was betraying his love. And he was using this woman. This woman who pushed and pushed and pushed.

And Haymitch was sickened at himself. Hated himself more than he already did. But she didn’t mind, so he hated her more than himself in that moment.

When he had came against her thigh he had stumbled upright, racing to the kitchen sink where the amber liquid they had shared splattered across the metal. He emptied his stomach that night, emptied himself, all the while she lay on the couch in silence, listening to him. Not saying a thing.

When he had managed to find his way back into the lounge room, tongue dry and mouth tasting acrid, all he could muster was a broken “Get out.” And for the first time ever, she didn’t fight it. Threw her dress back over her legs, the material slightly sticking to the wetness there, stood and walked out the door without a glance back.

She didn’t return until a few days later. Food in hand once again. She didn’t stay, but she placed it on the table as usual and waited for him to meet her eyes. When he finally did, his stomach dropped and he felt ill. She looked tired. As tired as he did, and yet she was still here. The bruises of sleepless nights lined her eyes and he felt the urge to go to her, to see. But she nodded and left.

This continued for weeks. She would come quietly, leave the food and be gone without a word. He felt so ill, so horrified in himself that he could barely stomach what she brung.

But then it happened again.

The storm hit around midnight.

Wind lashed against the windows, and thunder rolled over the Seam like a war. Haymitch sat slumped on the floor beside the fireplace, a bottle in one hand and a burning ache behind his eyes. He didn’t remember when the power went out. He didn’t care. Didn’t need any light to drink.

The door creaked open, and a gust of wind carried down the hallway, the terrestrial rain loud before it was dulled again. She let herself in. No announcement, no apology. Just dripping wet and silent, rain trailing down her neck like sweat. She stood at the doorway, staring at him like she expected a fight.

She wasn’t wrong.

“You’re like mould,” He jeered with disdain, not looking up, taking another swig of alcohol, “Can’t scrape you off.”

“Nice to see you’re as welcoming as ever.”

“Didn’t ask you to come.”

“My Ma used to say distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

His jaw twitched, “I’m still waiting on that distance.”

“You didn’t seem to mind me being close last time.”

“That was a mistake.”

She crossed the room, “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Call it whatever you want.” He finally looked at her, saw the way her skin glistened and her hair dripped, “Doesn’t change that it shouldn’t have happened.”

Something in the air twisted, sharp with the kind of silence that made your chest hurt. She looked down at him, eyes dark and dry, and for a second neither of them moved.

“I wish you’d just be honest with yourself.” She breathed.

Haymitch felt the familiar heat of anger and shot up, stumbling slightly, bottle forgotten on the floor.

They were close now. Too close.

“You want honesty?” He said, voice like smoke, “Fine. I don’t want you here. I don’t want your food. And I sure as hell don’t want your hands on me.”

“Liar.”

His hand twitched at his side, “Say that again.”

“You’re a liar,” She spat, “And a coward.”

And that’s when he grabbed her.

Not to hit. Not to shove. Just—fists in her dress, and yanked her close, breath hot against her mouth, eyes blazing like a man seconds from burning.

He was so close their lips almost met, “You should leave.” He growled.

“You should make me.” She hissed back.

Then it snapped.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was teeth and tongue and punishment again. For both of them. Her nails dug into his arms. Haymitch bit her lip, hard. Hard enough to draw blood. He hoped it did. They clung to each other like drowning animals—clawing, devouring, desperate to feel anything that wasn’t guilt or grief.

When they broke apart, both breathless, her lip was bleeding and he didn’t apologise. Instead he felt a sick moment of satisfaction from it. She touched her mouth, then looked up at him with something like loathing—and something like need.

“You need this.”

“Shut the hell up.” Haymitch growled, crashing his lips against hers again. It was rough. And needy, and desperate. She bit him back when he bit her; she wasn’t going to let him get away with anything he tried to do. Tit for tat. One of his hands skated up her body and into her hair, grabbing it at the root with a sharp pull, a gasp falling into his mouth.

He grabbed her neck roughly with the other, squeak falling from her lips as she was tugged towards him. He kissed her until they were out of breath, hand not releasing itself from her neck, keeping her firmly to him until she parted bare centimetres away to catch her breath, lips brushing against each other as she heaved. 

Haymitch walked her backwards, lips coming to meet each other clumsily. She tasted of air and rain and he tasted of the sharpness of his drink. They stumbled blindly, too caught up in chasing one another as they bumped into the table behind them.

She mewled as he broke the kiss, spinning her around to push her over the edge of the table. He didn’t want softness. Didn’t want kindness in this moment. He wanted a release. A break.

Retribution.

Air was ripped from her lungs as he spun her and pushed his weight onto her lower back with his hand, fingers ripping at her dress, hiking it up to pull her underwear to the side, revealing her slick folds to the room. She was already so damn wet for him.

Again.

There was no preparation, no warning, just the sudden and sharp bite of his length pushing into her walls. She cried out, hands grasping at the scratched table top, items falling off and crashing to the floor as he set a rough pace, his length dragging in and out of her sharply as he grunted from behind. 

Haymitch’s weight pushed into her spine as he continued to rut into her wildly, feet dangling uselessly as he fucked her, her body sliding further up the wood. It was sloppy and rushed and he could hear the breath punched from her lungs as his thighs began to ache from the sudden use.

She whined beneath him, gasping his name over and over, getting closer and closer to her peak, slick coating both of their thighs and his length, the wet sound of flesh against flesh between them. She felt so good, felt too good. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to be her. But it was. It was.

Blinding white pleasure burst through him as he came. It had crept up on him without warning, moaning behind her as he felt her walls tighten around his length. She whined beneath him, body going slack as he sought out his own peak, rutting into her, warmth filling her walls.

He didn’t know if she had cum. Didn’t care. Didn’t care that his weight was likely crushing her beneath him on the table, or that her legs were caught awkwardly beneath his. Didn’t care that she panted or whined shifting backwards against him, desperate for friction. Especially didn’t care that when he pulled out he realised what he had done, watching the mess he made drip from her folds.

It was sickening.

It was infuriating.

It was a release.

A moment where he didn’t have to think about anything but the sensation he could feel.

It was an escape.

She was right.

He needed it.

And he hated that he did.

—

Haymitch woke with the taste of copper and whiskey in his mouth and a body beside him that wasn’t supposed to be there. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stared at the ceiling, the pristine white ceiling that hadn’t yet been tarnished by him.

His breath rattled in and out of his lungs like it was borrowed.

Stolen.

And then the weight of it hit him.

Last night.

Her.
Him.

Skin on skin, desperation, a war waged in the dark. Hands that trembled. Lips that tasted like alcohol and ruin. Her voice—soft, strained, gasping his name like it meant something. Like he meant something. He sat up, the sheet falling away. Cold air bit at his skin but not nearly as hard as the guilt did.

He didn’t look at her.

Couldn’t.

She was still asleep—or pretending to be. Either way, the silence between them roared louder than any fight they’d ever had.

Lenore’s face burned behind his eyelids.

I’m sorry Lenore Dove.

He remembered the scent of her hair, how her skin had felt against his, the way she used to trace circles on his chest when she thought he was asleep. She was the only one who had ever loved him before the Games. Before he became this—

This.

A monster clawing for any sensation that wasn’t agony.

And now he’d replaced her with a warm body and a moment of weakness. With someone who wasn’t her. Would never be her. Could never even touch what she had been.

She was dead. She was gone. She had died for loving him. And now here he was—dragging someone else into the same grave, wearing her skin like a substitute.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His skin crawled. His throat burned. He could still feel her lips on him. Her mouth had whispered his name like it mattered and he let her. He wanted it. And now the disgust—at her, no—at himself—was too much.

He gagged. Almost vomited. Caught it. Just barely. Behind him, she stirred. He heard the shift of fabric. The quiet intake of breath. But he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t face the look in her eyes. Not after what he’d taken.

“You should go.” His voice cracked, voice scraped raw from drink and shame.

Nothing.

Then—softly, too softly—“I know.”

She rose without a sound. Dressed methodically. He heard her fingers fumbling with buttons. He knew she was shaking, and he hated that he knew. Hated that he cared. Hated that he didn’t want to care.

When she passed him to grab her coat, he saw her face for the first time. She wasn’t crying. It was worse. She looked like someone who already knew the ending but read the story anyway. Someone who had chosen this hurt.

He flinched as she brushed past him.

At the door, she paused, “You don’t have to say it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

A beat.

“You loved her.” She breathed, and he felt close to tears again, “Love.” She corrected herself, “I know I won’t ever be that for you. I can see it. Feel it. I’m not dumb, I know.”

Haymitch didn’t move. Felt too ashamed and horrified and angry.

She opened the door, “I want you to know that I know.”

Then she was gone.

He was alone again, the air cold and the room colder. His chest felt hollowed out, scraped clean with a rusted blade. There was no peace in what happened. No comfort. No future. Just two broken people using each other to drown for a night.

He reached for the bottle, drank as much as he could in one breath. His hands shook, his whole body shook. His eyes burned and everything was wrong, everything was so wrong. He could feel every pore on his body, hear the rush of blood in his ears. Feel the presence of everything and absence of nothing.

Haymitch stared at the pillow where her hair had splayed hours earlier and tried not to scream.

—

It became a ritual. Months and months of it.

She’d show up after dark, sometimes with something warm in a pot or a bottle of whatever swill she’d managed to trade for. The words between them had dried up weeks ago, replaced with gestures, grunts, long stares, and clothes hitting the floor. It was routine. Muted. Ugly.

Predictable.

Tonight was no different.

Haymitch was already halfway through a bottle when she let herself in, hair a mess from the wind outside. She dropped her coat on the floor and didn't bother speaking. Haymitch didn't either. They didn’t need to anymore. It had all been said before. She walked to him like it was nothing—like it was normal to climb into the lap of a man who hated himself more than the bottle in his hand.

And they drank.

And they kissed.

And they fucked like it was penance.

But later, when she was curled at the edge of the bed with her back to him, too quiet, something shifted.

He watched her in the dim light—the way her shoulder blades jutted from her skin like wings trying to break free. Her cheeks, once soft with youth, were sharper now. Hollowed. Her eyes had dulled. Not all at once. Not overnight. But it was there, now that he let himself look. The wear. The weight.

She looked worse than when she first showed up at his door.

And it was his fault.

Haymitch rolled over and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

What the hell was he doing?

He hadn’t asked for her. Hadn’t wanted her. But he took anyway. Took the food. Took the comfort. Took her body like it was just another escape hatch, and now she was the one crumbling.

He turned his head to look at her again. She was awake—he could tell by the tension in her shoulders. She knew he was watching. But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

He hated her for coming back. Hated her for staying. But more than that, he hated himself for noticing that she was unraveling—and for caring that she was.

He reached for the bottle again.

The silence between them wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t peace. It was the kind of quiet that comes before the collapse. And Haymitch knew, deep in the hollowed-out wreck of himself, that it was already too late.

—

He was on edge.

Too many sleepless nights. Too many drinks. Too many ghosts. They haunted him more than ever now. Came for him in his every waking moment. They were angry with him. Just as he was himself.

All he could think about was how he had betrayed Lenore. How he had done it over and over and over again. He was a coward. He was weak. He was pathetic and shameful and filled to the brim with anger. Anger so violent that he was fit to burst, fit to explode.

Needed to explode.

Needed to be alone.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t have her around him anymore. It was his undoing. It was torture, slow and agonising torture.

He hated her. He hated her so much that it made him forget how much he hated himself.

He had to end it. Had to make her leave. Had to make her hate him.

He sat slumped in his chair, shirt half-unbuttoned, bottle swinging from his hand like a threat. She stepped into the room, quiet but not careful, carrying a tin of something that smelt good. Real. And all he could feel was a roaring hatred for it. For her. For the comfort she thought she could bring.

"You're late." He grunted.

She raised an eyebrow, "Didn’t realise you kept time."

He didn't look at her. Just kept his eyes on the bottle as he took another swig, "Don't need a clock to know when I don't want company.”

He would do it again. Better this time.

“This old chestnut.” She sighed, and set the food down on the table and hovered awkwardly, looking like she wanted to say something more but didn’t know how. And it made him angrier. That hesitance. That soft patience.

He slammed the bottle down hard, “I wish you would stop."

Her shoulders stiffened, readied herself for another round, “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestured to the food, then back to her, “This shit.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at him, her eyes tired, but still carrying the same damn look that haunted him: understanding. The kind that made him feel naked and furious.

“You think I want you here?” He snapped, the same thing, over and over again, “You think I look at you and feel anything but disgust?”

Her jaw clenched, “No.”

“You’re not Lenore,” He hissed, rising to his feet now, heart racing, “You’ll never be her. You know that. I know that. You don’t get to walk in here, play house, pretend like you mean something to me.”

She flinched, but she stood her ground, “I know I’m not her.”

“Then why the fuck do you keep trying to be?” He growled.

He advanced, voice low and mean, “She had fire. She had purpose. Life. You’re nothing, have nothing. You just come to wet my cock and feed me.”

Her face went blank.

That hit.

Good.

He wanted it to.

It poured out of him, and he couldn’t stop it. An endless stream of vitriol.

“I didn’t ask you to fix me.” He sneered, “Didn’t ask for your company. I don’t want to touch you, don’t want you to touch me. You disgust me. But you—” He pointed at her like she was the filth under his nails, “—you just keep coming back, crawling in like a fucking stray who doesn’t know when it’s not wanted.”

She didn’t move.

Silent.

That silence made him angrier.

“You think this is love?” He snapped, “Is that it? You love me?”

Without hesitation, “Yes.”

It stopped him for a second. Just a second.

Then he laughed. Dark and cruel and guttural.

“Well, that’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. No words came.

He stepped closer, “You’re not wanted. Not here. Not in this house. Not in my bed. You were a mistake. One I made over and over because I was too drunk and too broken to push you away hard enough. But don’t you get it?”

She blinked. A single tear escaped, and she didn’t bother wiping it away. It cascaded down her cheek and a part of him was horrified, wanted to comfort her.

But he couldn’t.

He needed this to end.

He needed to get her away from him.

“You’re just a warm body.” He spat, eyes roaming over her body, ignoring the way she curled in on herself, “You were never anything else. You’ll never be anything else.”

And finally—finally—something in her cracked.

Her lip trembled. Her hands shook. But still, she didn’t lash out. She only nodded.

Once.

Twice.

Then, with a voice so small it barely made it across the room, she whispered, “I know.”

And there was that smile again, hollow and honest and small. And that was worse than screaming. Worse than her hitting him. Worse than any kind of fight she could’ve put up.

She turned away. Not quick. Not dramatic. Just… finished.

And for the first time in years, Haymitch felt something inside him go cold.

Because she wasn’t going to come back.

Not this time.

And he knew it.

—

Years passed. That was the thing no one ever warned him about: time didn’t care if you wanted it. It just kept dragging you forward whether you moved with it or not. Haymitch didn’t move with it. He let time drag him.

The house stayed the same. Rotting slowly, as if trying to match the man inside. Dust gathered like memories he couldn't wipe clean, and the floorboards groaned under the weight of his steps—steps that felt heavier each day.

He didn’t see her often. Maybe once every few months, at most. Across the square. At the market. Near the edge of the Seam where the silence stretched out for miles.

She looked different now. Not older—just emptied out.

Something about her posture had changed. She didn’t walk with that same stubborn defiance. She didn’t dress the same either—no longer tried to look clean or put together. Like she'd stopped trying. Like life had drained her of the little colour it had left.

It didn’t take him long to figure out how she had been funding the meals and booze for him. How she could afford what little dresses she wore. He could tell by the way the Peacekeepers looked at her. At the way that there was a certain edge of familiarity there that shouldn’t be. By the way the people of District 12 looked at her. It made him sick. Sick to think that she had done that for him. Had forced herself to do that for him and he had wasted it. Not eaten the meals that she had payed the price in flesh for. Thrown them back in her face and cursed her for it.

And every time their eyes accidentally met, she still looked at him the same way.

That look.

It gutted him. Not because of love—he didn’t believe in that, not anymore. Not after Lenore. But because it was still there. The way she saw him. As if she was still waiting for something that he would never give her. As if she still thought he could.

And gods help him, a part of him wanted to. A part of him wanted to reach out and fix it, fix her, if only so he wouldn’t have to carry this weight alone. But he never did. He never would.

He couldn’t.

Because every time he looked at her, he saw what he did to her. How he used her like a drug. How she let him. How he hated her for letting him. Hated himself more for taking. For needing.

He remembered her mouth on his, her hands reaching for him, the heat of her skin against his—and the voice in his head whispering this isn’t Lenore. She’s not her. She’ll never be her.

Had even remembered the one time Lenore’s name slipped from his lips, how she had stiffened beneath him but not stopped him. How she had let it continue. How after he had felt the wetness on her cheeks as he bit her neck.

And he did it anyway. Again. And again. Until there was nothing left but her hollow body beside his, and the crushing silence afterward. He had warned her. Told her he was no good. Tried so hard to get her away from him but she wouldn’t listen. Didn’t care. And yet her had still done it.

Ruined her like he ruined everything. Haymitch would always hurt others. Get them killed.

Like he killed Lou Lou.

Like he killed Maysilee.

Like he killed Ampert. His Ma. Sid.

All of them, dead because of him.

Because he lived.

Because he was clever enough to win and cruel enough to survive, but not strong enough to do what mattered.

He should’ve died that day in the Arena. That moment his hand clutched his torn stomach, blood gushing between his fingers. He should’ve let go. Closed his eyes and drifted away. He might’ve seen Lenore again. Or maybe nothing. Maybe just peace.

But he didn’t. He held on.

And now he was here, alive, watching the destruction he’d caused ripple endlessly forward.

But then one day, she was just… gone.

It was a Thursday. He remembered because the air was thick and grey and it had rained, soaking everything into mud. He always thought of her when it rained. Of her soaked in his doorway, puddled steps beneath her feet. He was buying a bottle of white liquor from Greasy Sae, Hattie hadn’t been well enough of late, hands shaking worse than usual.

“You hear about her?” Sae asked offhandedly.

He didn’t look up, placing the coins on the counter, “About who.”

“You know who.”

Silence.

“She’s gone. Packed a bag, or maybe not even that. No one's seen her in days.”

And just like that—she was gone.

No note. No goodbye. No scream. No final slap across the face or bitter word flung at him from across the room. Just gone. And Haymitch stood there in the market, bottle in his hand, the world still turning around him like it always did.

He didn’t drink that night.

Not at first.

He sat in his chair and stared at the door. For hours. Like maybe she'd walk through it one more time. Angry. Cold. Fierce. Alive.

But she never did.

And when the bottle finally reached his lips, it didn’t numb anything.

It never really had.

All it did now was fill the silence that had settled in his chest—the silence where her voice used to echo. The one that whispered: you could’ve tried. And the one that screamed back: she should’ve stayed away.

But she didn’t.

And he let her in.

And now she was gone.

And there was no one left to save him from himself.

Chapter Text

It was raining again. It always seemed to be raining on his birthday.

He didn’t celebrate it, of course. There was nothing to celebrate. Just another year, another Reaping. Two more kids with wide eyes and shaking hands. Two more lambs pushed up the stairs for slaughter while the crowd pretended not to know they wouldn’t come back.

Haymitch stood at the back of the stage like always, arms folded, eyes heavy, heart dead. He didn’t speak much anymore. Effie did all the talking—her voice chirping above the silence like a brightly painted canary in a cage. He just stood there, letting the cameras roll and the Capitol smile.

And when the names were called he felt it. The ache. The gutting sickness of watching another pair of kids begin the countdown to death. None of them survived. Never would, not from District 12 at least. And in some ways it was better that way.

Survival was just another kind of curse.

And Haymitch knew that better than anyone.

Back at home, he drank. More than usual, if that was even possible. The years had done nothing to dull the taste, but he welcomed the burn now. Welcomed the damage. Welcomed the punishment.

Because he hadn’t saved anyone.

Not Maysilee.

Not Lou Lou.

Not his Ma. Not Sid. Not Ampert.

Not Lenore.

Not her.

He remembered her—how could he not? The miner’s daughter with fire in her voice and a softness she tried to hide. The girl who kept showing up no matter how many times he pushed, lashed out, destroyed her. The girl who let him use her because she thought that was enough.

He never said goodbye. Never looked for her. But sometimes he swore he saw her walking past the house in his dreams. Hair wet from the rain, eyes hollow, clothes clinging to her like grief. And now, every year, he sent more kids to die. Just like he did to them all.

Maybe the worst part was knowing he’d keep doing it.

Because the Capitol didn’t stop. The system didn’t stop. And neither did he. He just kept breathing, drinking, watching.

He was poison. He knew that now. Knew it the way he knew how many seconds he could hold his breath under water, the way he knew how to crack a neck, the way he knew how to smile at a camera without showing his teeth.

Everything he touched rotted.

And if someone tried to come close again, if someone tried to reach into that emptiness—he knew exactly what he’d do.

He’d destroy them. Like always.

Because he couldn’t save anyone.

Because he didn’t deserve to.

Because this was the price of living. Of surviving. Of being the last one left.

And Haymitch Abernathy paid it, every year.

With liquor.

With silence.

With blood.

And he always would.

He didn’t remember falling asleep that night, only that when he did, he dreamed of her face and woke up hating himself for surviving all over again.