“why don’t you explain it me, then? tell it to me like i’m ten again, tell me ‘bout this curse and maybe we’ll find a way to break or reverse it,” he softly pleads, hot tears licking at his lower lashes, clouding his vision. he didn’t cry on the reaping day, didn’t cry in front of president snow at the heavensbee mansion, but now that they’re alone in the dark, he can feel himself slowly crumbling to dust, carefully crafted facade falling to pieces. “just talk to me.” he ends up closing his eyes and burying his face in her auburn curls, hiding his fears. he wants to be strong, give his girl a sense of stability in these uncertain times, make her believe he’s got it all under control to keep her from worrying even more, but deep down his stomach’s roiling. a storm of emotions brewing and he doesn’t know how to stop it. it must be part of her culture, he thinks, this belief in curses and spells and superstition in general, which is one more reason why he wants to be respectful and not say anything harsh or judgmental. “let’s say you’re right about this,” he sighs, abandoning his own narrative to better understand where she’s coming from, “don’t curses have to be cast? like spells? who could ever wish this on you?” is she just meant to die young? is that the curse? a shiver races down his spine, a fresh wave of tears spilling over his cheeks. he doesn’t know how, but he won’t let that happen.
feeling lenore dove’s slender arms coil around his neck, haymitch breathes a sigh of relief and brings her closer, squeezing her smaller body, his hands rubbing her back, smoothing her hair. he melts into her, like wax too near to a flame, body molding so that they fit together like two puzzle pieces. “if you freeze up, i’ll carry you. we’re a team. you’re the love of my life, i’ll take care of you,” he says quietly, as though it was so simple and he could just scoop her up into his arms and bring her to safety. the kiss to his cheekbone sets his skin on fire, his chest tightening even more painfully. hand cradling the back of her head, he returns the sweet act of affection and kisses the shell of her ear. “holdin’ me back? right, ‘cause if it wasn’t for you, i’d be choppin’ off heads left and right, ‘course i would…” he sighs, shaking his head and trying to show her how ridiculous her claim is. frowning as he pulls back, hands framing her face, “why do you say that?” he has his own reasons to believe the games will most likely be rigged, they already have been rigged and that’s why she’s here, but then something else crosses his mind and although it sounds ridiculous, he hears himself asking, “how does he know so much about you?” snow. but he refuses to say the name, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up at the mere recollection of that disgusting, blood-curdling encounter. he’s the president of panem and she’s just a district girl, it sounds ridiculous but bet i know a thing or two about your dove… how? why?
