Am I Interrupting?

You lay him on his back. He opens his eyes long enough to see Burdock in your place, blocking out the worst of the dying sun. Lenore Dove crouches beside him to help sit Haymitch up. 

Leave me here, he tries to tell them, but the words are acid in his mouth the second Lenore Dove presses her hand to his forehead. She swallows her shuddered breaths. “She’s with the birds now.” 

With the birds, in the maple tree—what does it matter when you’re still dead, and so are Ma and Sid? 

Burdock grabs Haymitch’s left arm and glances at the vomit on the floor. His frown deepens, drawing attention to the dried tears along his jawline. 

“Ruined your pa’s suit,” Haymitch mumbles. 

He hauls him to his feet, shaking his head like that’s the least of his concerns. “It can be washed.” 

Well, Haymitch has ruined a lot of things of theirs. A soiled suit must be a splash in the pond compared to everything else. 

“Let’s get you back to mine, yeah?” Burdock squeezes his shoulder. 

“Don’t,” Haymitch wheezes. The sharp pins from earlier begin to prick his lungs at the thought of seeing your parents, being tended to by them in the walls of your home. Not his. He’ll never have a home again, and he doesn’t belong inside yours. “I don’t want to go there.”

Lenore Dove and Burdock exchange worried glances and coded asks. Haymitch has no use deciphering them, so he stares up above. Which branch were you on? He can’t find it anymore. 

Burdock sighs, having reached a silent verdict with Lenore Dove. “Okay, that’s all right.”

“I’m sure Blair won’t mind having you.” Lenore Dove wraps both arms around one of Haymitch’s, steadying him as his legs begin to wobble. 

Blair wouldn’t mind at all. He’ll let Haymitch take his bed while he sleeps with one of his siblings. His pa will lend Haymitch whatever clothes he needs. His ma will make jam that won’t taste like the kind he had on his birthday, but will be a noble effort all the same. “Don’t wanna be there either.” 

“Where do you want to go?” whispers Lenore Dove, patient yet strained.

“Here.” Where his rotten roots can’t reach anyone. Where he can search for your branch until he’s granted his own wings to fly to it. 

Lenore Dove and Burdock reconvene in another silent meeting. Haymitch is fading again, in and out of consciousness, back and forth from the hellhole of his memories. He’s kept in his equally torturous reality by the clearing of Burdock’s throat. 

“Here’s not an option, Hay.” He takes a step, beginning his and Lenore Dove’s pointless pursuit of finding a new home for Haymitch. “We’re getting you somewhere warm and out of this suit.” 

Haymitch thought the cold was in his head. He forgot that it existed on the outside of his body as much as it does on the inside. That must be what’s keeping him good and numb now that the sleep syrup’s run its course. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Burdock there is no warming him up. There is no substitute for you. 

Nightfall peaks from behind the mountains. From the edge of the meadow, Haymitch sees the Covey house in its current darkness. Not a hint of light slips through the curtain gaps. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber must be at yours. Maybe your parents wouldn’t deny him entry, but Clerk Carmine surely would, in looks more than words. And Haymitch can’t blame him for that. For seeing him as is—a plague brought to infect them all. 

If only the rest of your family had the sense to see Haymitch the same. Either way, he was right to refuse Burdock’s offer. 

Blair joins them halfway through the Seam with a pot of bean and hammock soup. “From Mrs. McCoy.” He trades the pot with Lenore Dove, carrying the weight of Haymitch’s right side. 

They get to where they’re going quicker after that. When they cross the gates into Victor’s Village, Haymitch takes in all its magnificent, lonely, burdensome glory. 

“Guess you get to choose your own,” says Blair, muffled by the imagined cotton balls in Haymitch’s ears. 

In theory, he does get to choose. None of the houses are labeled with his name or any sign that they belong to him. But he certainly belongs to them, and the furthest from the entrance, towering above its identical prisons, makes sure he knows it. 

“That one,” he mutters and points to his new cage. 

Even the artificially chilled air and rose scented walls cannot keep out the coal dust. It trickles in through the front door as they cross into the living room. Plopped on one of the couches, Haymitch lets Blair and Lenore Dove wrap him in blankets. 

Burdock switches on the lights. “I’m going to find Asterid. See about more sleep syrup. Try getting him to eat something.” He glances at Haymitch like he wants to say more to him, not just speak of him. He doesn’t, rushing back through the doorway and down the marble steps. 

“Don’t forget clothes,” calls out Lenore Dove. Haymitch feels her sink onto the couch beside him, and he digs his nails deeper into the velvet as she asks, “Do you want a bath or food first? And don’t say ‘neither’ because you’re getting both eventually.” 

His tongue feels useless in a way his legs somehow don’t. He pushes up, letting the blankets fall, and takes a shaky step forward. Blair catches him before he falls straight through the coffee table. 

“Let’s find the bathroom in this place,” Blair says, dazed with more than grief. 

Haymitch shakes his head. Stop helping, stop caring, stop keeping me alive. His useless tongue forbids him from saying any of it out loud. What was the point in letting him keep it? 

The bathroom gives him time and space to be alone, at least. The bathtub is larger than the one in the apartment, but furnished with a similar shower head. He stays in there, melting under the water with steam curling around him, until a knock on the door says his hand-me-downs have arrived. 

His self-appointed saviors are huddled in the living room when he wanders back into it. The windows pointing out to the front porch reveal nothing but darkness. Blair has his back to him, and Lenore Dove and Burdock are both looking to each other for what to do. Not one of them notices Haymitch in the hall yet. 

“He shouldn’t be alone right now. Or here, in their clutches.” Lenore Dove wipes the tear stains on her cheeks with rough movements. 

“Blair and I are staying.” Burdock crosses his arms, straightens his shoulders, and reminds Haymitch so much of you that he nearly runs the other way. “You’re already on thin ice with C.C. and Tam Amber. You gotta go back.” 

“None of you should stay.” Either they can’t hear Haymitch’s murmuring, or they ignore him. May as well be a ghost. And if he is, then where is yours to lend him guidance? 

Lenore Dove shakes her head. “They aren’t allowed to be mad at me today.” Even through her pain, she holds herself with a boldness that’d cut straight through her uncles’ leashes. The kind that’d make Haymitch laugh and admire her under different circumstances. Right now, it makes his lungs shrivel up. 

Burdock surely feels the same, because he scoffs and grabs her hand. “They’ll be mad at you tomorrow. Lock you up for the rest of your life, and they’d be allowed because of today.” Haymitch hears the way you exist on the edges of their exchange like an anvil over their heads. Burdock and Lenore Dove could go on like this forever—skirting around the nightmare with their roundabout speech, spouting riddles about what they should or should not do in your name. 

Her eyes flare up before ultimately extinguishing themselves with fresh sadness. Quite a scare she gave her uncles, Haymitch imagines, but he sees no regret for whatever she did to wind up in jail, or for however long she kept their hearts stalled. Lenore Dove starts up again, but Haymitch delivers the final blow. “Go home.” 

She turns to him, sharp-eyed, Burdock and Blair following suit. At least they heard him. Haymitch stumbles over his feet and words, slotting into the circle they’ve formed. “You should go home.” 

Whether it’s the expectant anger of her uncles or what her family’s buried today, Lenore Dove drops it. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she promises, hesitating like she means to say more. She opts to pull him into an embrace. 

Haymitch lets himself slip out of her grasp and back onto the couch. Light dangles from the ceiling and glares at him unnaturally. A poor imitation. 

When the old oak of the front door shuts, a slow and heavy creek following more murmurs, Burdock and Blair resume their diligent, hopeless task of helping Haymitch. He meant it for them, too—his wish that they’d go away. He doesn’t repeat himself. Can’t. Seems he used up all his energy to shower and send Lenore Dove back into her uncles’ protective arms. 

After changing the bandages on his knuckles, they ladle him a bowl of bean and ham hock soup, coming to find the kitchen fully stocked as all the other rooms are. Glass plates and silver spoons and crystal cups that even Maysilee would scoff at, despite their finery. She’d recognize it for what it is: another set of Capitol chains. 

Blair brings the bowl, but Burdock is the one who gets Haymitch to eat. He doesn’t need to force the spoon into Haymitch’s hands, or coax him with words, or threaten him in any way. His eyes are plenty disarming, plenty influential. 

Each mouthful strikes a cord in Haymitch’s misshapen guts. He stares off into the room, watches Burdock and Blair watching him in turn, but he isn’t here. He’s in the arena, sharing a pot of soup and mourning Wyatt alongside you and Maysilee. He’s in the apartment with Mags and Wiress and their attempts at comfort. He’s newly five, learning what it is to mourn for the first time. 

Haymitch doesn’t get to finish eating; the sparks of cold find him quick and clog up his airway.

Burdock administers sleep syrup, a lighter dose than what Asterid gave Haymitch yesterday morning, and tells him how much he should take in the coming days. Haymitch files it away with everything else he doesn’t care to hear right now. Blair’s well-meaning assurances of “We’re here for you, Hay.” Lenore Dove’s promise of tomorrow, which sounds closer to a threat. Each word out of Burdock’s mouth, be it instructions or sympathies or under-the-breath comments to Blair. 

His mimicry of your voice is the last Haymitch hears before slipping into a different kind of torture. 

Haymitch can’t see them properly through the wads of smoke. Ma and Sid manage to find him themselves, screaming as they turn to ash. He tries to reach them with desperate screams of their names and panicked shouts at the chains around his wrists and ankles. They bound him to the same desk where he was first turned into a spectacle by Prosperina and Vitus. 

Strange hands, stranger than theirs, touch him now. Running gel through his hair, scrubbing dirt off his back, forcing him in place as his home shreds piece by piece like wood shavings. The more they shape him in their image, the less Haymitch fights back. 

“Haymitch!”

Why isn’t he fighting? Ma and Sid are dying. Why isn’t he fighting?

“Haymitch!” 

Their shadows flicker in the flames. He wants to scream at the faceless hands to stop touching him, to let him save them, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t save anyone. 

“Haymitch, it’s okay!” 

With a yank out of the cuffs—the fingers—around his wrists, Haymitch scrambles back into the headboard of the bed. Fire lashes behind his eyes, even as the pitch black of the room tells him he’s awake. Burdock and Blair loom over him with their arms raised in surrender. 

“You’re okay,” Blair soothes weakly. “It was just a nightmare.”

Burdock steps forward wordlessly, letting the light from the hallway snuff out the darkness. 

Haymitch’s demands of “Go away!” come out ragged and unintelligible. He swings his legs over the bed. Burdock and Blair try to help him stand, but he pulls away from them. Drawing in sharp breaths, he manages to gasp, “Leave.” 

“All right,” sighs Burdock, catching Haymitch when he nearly trips over himself. “Take it easy.” 

Burdock’s dismissal hardens his resolve. “Leave me alone.” He pushes Burdock and Blair towards the door, down the stairs, into the living room. His shoves are halfhearted, but they entertain his efforts. Haymitch can no longer tell if he’s shooing them or if they’re guiding him. “I want you to leave me alone.” 

They don’t ignore him again; he doesn’t let them. Burdock grabs Haymitch’s wrist when he goes to push him again. Despite nearly being sent over the coffee table, Burdock only seems to care about getting Haymitch to calm down and sit. 

Haymitch bites down on his cheek until he tastes iron. Why does Burdock still care about anything, let alone about him? 

“Don’t pretend like you can’t hear me,” Haymitch sneers, sidestepping Burdock and Blair, storming to the front door on steadier footing. 

“We hear you just fine,” says Burdock, dry and tired. 

“Great!” He jerks the door open to the star dappled sky and nearly loses his grip. “Then hear this: You want to do me a favor? Go.” 

Their faces begin to blur, just enough that Haymitch can’t make out their reactions. Better that way.  

Blair begins shakily, “Hay, we aren’t—” 

“Stay away!” 

Even after Haymitch repeats himself, their hesitation stretches onward. The details of Burdock’s face become visible again. He stares at Haymitch with the same open, trusting look that first folded him into his friendship, now remolded into an ache that is all Haymitch’s doing. He doesn’t deserve Burdock’s care anymore; he’s not sure he ever did. 

Finally, Burdock moves and takes Blair with him. He stops on the marbled porch, glancing at Haymitch. “If you need to be alone right now, that’s fine. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother,” Haymitch grumbles. “Just pass the message on to Lenore Dove.” He slams the door in their faces before Burdock’s sullen, curious eyes crack through him. 

The pot of bean and ham hock soup is on the stone counter when Haymitch wanders into the kitchen. Devoid of an appetite, stomach raw and nauseated, he makes a beeline towards the three bottles of sleep syrup on the table, meant to last him…a while, he guesses. One of them’s gone in minutes. 

His eyelids grow heavy, his body weightless, his chest perfectly empty. He floats on a cloud of velvet, waiting for the fall. Suspended between sleep and reality, Haymitch fixates on the dark corner leading to the inner hallway. He expects nothing, but you’ve always exceeded his expectations. 

Haymitch blinks at you from the couch. It isn’t right for you to look so at place in this gilded cage, but you do. He remembers the same being true the night of the interviews. Wearing this exact gown, hair up instead of down, hollow smile hiding your frightened eyes. 

Your nose twitches with disgust. “You really shouldn’t drink that all at once.”

Bile builds in his throat, and he expects to throw up again, or for you to disappear. When neither happens, he sucks in a breath. “What are you doing?” 

“Right now,” you sigh, “I’m watching you lose the fight against moderation.” 

Haymitch follows your gaze down to the empty bottle rolling around the rug. Asterid said two spoonfuls would do the trick from here on out, according to Burdock. But two spoonfuls weren’t enough to patch up his oozing soul. “I thought you’d stay in the woods.”

“Wanted to save you the trip. I’d rather you don’t undo the trouble they went through by getting lost again.” 

No shoes on, you drag your gown as you’d drag your feet. Silk fabric rustles along the floor. It’s the only audible noise in the dead of night, save for the thumping in his chest. For all that he hates how easily you fit in with the Capitol’s ideals of luxury, Haymitch is still just a moth to a flame. 

“Don’t deny it.” You sit on the edge of the coffee table and lean forward. “I can see the gears shifting in your pretty little head.” 

Haymitch rolls onto his back, but he doesn’t tear his focus from you. “They’d find me again anyways.” 

You hum. “Probably.” 

“But I told them to stay away.” 

“Oh, peach.” You smile gently, like you’re breaking difficult news to an ignorant child. “You know better than to think getting them to quit will be that easy. They’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next—”

“Will you?” Haymitch flinches, the selfishness of his question further tainting the space between you. 

Your smile doesn’t fade, instead growing pained with the rest of your expression. “You’d have me stay forever, wouldn’t you?” 

He tries to push up on his elbows and falls back against the cushions. “I’d have you here,” he chokes on the last syllable. “I’d have you—I’d—” 

“Shh, Haymitch.” You put an immediate stop to his spiral. Moving from the coffee table to the ground, you kneel beside the couch. So close he could catch the tears sitting on the cusp of your eyelashes, or press his nose into your hair, or count every one of the crystals on your dress, which look exactly like glass shards. “You know better.”

He should, but even so, he reaches for you. And like a moth to a flame, he burns. 

The second his nose makes contact with the floor—the rug a poor buffer for the tile—Haymitch stops breathing. His nose isn’t broken, but he can’t breathe. Each intake of air pierces his lungs and slips through the resulting gaps. He can’t move either, because he knows when he looks up you won’t be there. 

He might as well let the room’s shadows steal him. Sink into the hole you’ve carved out of this world. 

They’d find him. Haymitch feels them creeping around—the Capitol, the cameras, President Snow. There’s no escaping them; he will never be free. 

By some miracle, Haymitch finds it in himself to crawl to the kitchen. He passes out soon after downing a second bottle, letting you seek him out in his nightmares. Choking, dying, singing your own funeral song. 

Eventually, the third bottle makes its way into his bloodstream. Eventually, Haymitch follows you into the woods before you can save him the trip. Eventually, Asterid stops providing any sleep syrup at all. 

Fine by Haymitch. White liquor’s a hell of a lot stronger than sleep syrup anyway. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

You were right. Getting them to quit was no simple feat, especially when it comes to Burdock and Lenore Dove. Running them off proved difficult when they returned the morning after finding him the second time around. Or was it afternoon? Evening? Who knows? 

Haymitch no longer concerns himself with keeping track. It’s all one cyclical blur. 

Blair was the first to throw in the towel, having endured weeks of Haymitch’s tirades. He nearly made it two months, or three, before he accepted the inevitable and left Haymitch with a tearful hug goodbye. 

Burdock and Asterid clung on hard until that rock split open her pretty merchant face. Hurting his girl, on top of killing his sister, was Burdock’s last straw. The latter should have been enough before Haymitch had been forced to use those rocks. 

Lenore Dove… She sticks like a leech, dropping in as much as she’s able to sneak out, despite his tactics to get her to leave him be, or her uncles’ efforts to protect her from danger. Haymitch can lock the doors and windows all he likes—her voice carries through, asking him to open up, then demanding that he does. When she decides she won’t take a locked door for an answer, she evokes your name. 

It works, much to his shame. And when Haymitch does open that door on those rare blue moons, allowing her to tell him about what you’d want and what needs to be done, he isn’t sure he can use the same cruelty that worked on the others. He isn’t sure. But he does either way. 

Haymitch leaves his flint striker on the porch one morning, finds it in the same spot later that evening after Lenore Dove drops off a basket of something he doesn’t bother bringing inside with the weekly delivery of his winnings. Ignores the throb of his heart and the bite of your chiding when he throws it at her feet through the second story window the next day. Hates himself enough for the both of you at the sight of her hurt. She snaps then, yells about making change with or without him, and he learns to tune her out. 

The emptier the bottle, the less Haymitch feels. So he drowns himself in all Hattie has to sell in order to do what’s really needed of him. 

“Haymitch,” she says as she accepts his coin, which is unusual. Hattie stopped speaking much after his first purchase, when she extended anything she could offer in his time of grief, and he said all he needed were three bottles. Rarely, she offers the occasional update on others’ happenings. 

“Burdock is coming to trade again, but his color’s not back yet.” It’ll return eventually, because his strength supersedes Haymitch’s. But he reckons things will always be a little dull for Burdock, too, with your tether forever severed and no one else to blame but the boy who was meant to be his best friend. 

“Blair’s joining him now too, you know.” How would he? He’s made it his mission not to. Blair has two younger brothers and parents to help feed—go figure Sorrel and Burdock would teach him. They might’ve done the same for Haymitch. 

“Word has it that Covey girl was suspended from school for an outburst in class.” Lenore Dove already told him herself, not divulging or admitting to the accusations, on one of those mornings Haymitch opened his door. Suspension’s a far cry from a fourth arrest, so their teachers must’ve given her a pass on the grounds of grief. 

Hattie told him this sporadic information—about his old friends, about the rumblings in the air—like it would prove necessary when he came out the other end of this rough patch. Except this was his life now. There is no brighter end in sight. “I appreciate the coin, but you oughta learn to ration, boy.” 

His gaze flits up to her worried eyes. The very ones that took him under her wing. What’s it to her when she’s the one sustaining more vices than his? “Stick to the business you’re good for, Hattie.” 

With days’ worth of his anesthetic rattling in a bag, Haymitch drags himself out of the Hob, by some miracle avoiding a run-in with Burdock, and into the nipping breeze of…fall…winter… Who the hell cares? 

Matters even less when Haymitch catches sight of Clerk Carmine as the daylight gives way to the stars. There, on the edge of town, Haymitch doesn’t give him the chance to pretend they aren’t walking the same path. He spits out, “You should pay more attention to your niece.” 

Clerk Carmine whirs around, glowering at him with no lost love. “What was that?” 

“Need me to spell it out?” scoffs Haymitch. Leaves crunch beneath his boots. Maybe it is fall. “Keep Lenore Dove away unless you want her dead, too.” 

And before Clerk Carmine has the chance to curse him for his callousness, for all he’s cost them, Haymitch marches away. A tightened grip on his clinking bag, he doesn’t linger on Clerk Carmine’s drooped face, or his mounting guilt, or the storm he’s probably sent Lenore Dove’s way. It’s safer than the one she’d get caught in if she kept by his side. 

Haymitch drinks all the way back to his gilded cage, ignoring the hardened streets and their humming of insolence and the influx of new, antagonistic Peacekeepers. 

His companions await him. Those he’s killed, those whose spirits he’s dimmed in place of the lives he’s ruined and will only continue to worsen. 

And you. 

Sometimes you are still merciful. You greet Haymitch after hours spent dodging Panache’s sword in a heap of white roses, or running from exploding ladybugs while Maysilee’s scream plays from memory, or sifting through piles of ash and decapitated squirrels to get to Ampert’s bones. On the worst nights, when Sid’s burnt off face is the one under the rumble, you sing but do not appear to him. Different lullabies and ballads from the Covey’s catalogue, many he didn’t think he even remembered. 

Other occasions, which are most, you do well to remind Haymitch of his failures. Your brilliance is sharper than he knew it to be before. Death changes people, and so does betrayal. How Haymitch has hurt your people—once also his—warrants whatever harsh edges you have in store tonight. 

Tell him now: she is standing here at my head;

Not beautiful now, not even kind.

But you are beautiful. Beautiful and unforgiving, like the neglected flowers in his garden. Nearly winter then. 

He may take her now; for she never speaks her mind,

But is ever the one thing silent here.

You aren’t bothered by the chill—do ghosts get cold? Or are they perpetually frozen? You were always warm, a sunbeam gifted from above, but Haymitch wouldn’t be able to tell now. An invisible current keeps him from touching you, so he stays cold too, letting the dirt cushion him as he drops to his knees before you. 

She is not of us, as I divine;

She comes from another stiller world of the dead,

Stiller, not fairer than mine.

There are more lines that follow, he’s certain, but you’ve decided they aren’t worth sharing now. You close your eyes as if mulling over the poem on your own, your fingers curling around the edge of the wooden bench. Starlight bounces off the glass pieces in your hair; the resulting effect is the fading embers of a fire. He deludes himself into believing they’re dandelions or jasmine, the kind you used to weave into your braids on happier days. 

You come to Haymitch in this gown more than you do your arena outfit. It took him a long time to pinpoint why, to remember that night as the first in his string of betrayals. 

Though every nerve in his body aches to hold your hand or lay his head on your lap, Haymitch holds himself still. If he tries to touch you, you’ll disappear, and you already have more than enough reason to tonight. “Which part is that from?” 

You crack open one eye, annoyed by the interruption. Maybe you did have more to recite. That poem you love is endless, like his life. He doesn’t understand how you could be so comfortable with glass in your hair, and his guts begin to flare up, but you steamroll over him with a sigh. Both eyes look across the scene of his backyard. “This could be a nice space if you put some effort into it.” 

Haymitch lets a gulp of liquor scrape the lining of his throat. He waits for it to dull his chest just enough to say, “I don’t care about having a nice space. Which part is that from?” 

“And into yourself.” You drum your fingers against the bench. “I mean, honestly, peach, you couldn’t even make it a year?” 

“You’re dead,” he blurts, and nearly drops his crutch. 

“Duh.” 

“My family’s dead.” Why won’t the earth tear in two and swallow Haymitch whole already? 

“I’m dead, they’re dead,” you say casually, flicking your hair over your shoulder. “So is Maysilee, Wyatt, Wellie, Ampert, I could go on all night. You know who’s not dead? Your friends.” You huff out a bitter laugh. “Though you sure almost changed that for Asterid.” 

You’ll never let that one go, having yelled at him plenty the night it happened, scolding how he’s disparaged Burdock, then mocking how he almost gave you matching concussions. Even though Haymitch expects the same now, he cowers. “I—” I love you. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but take me with you anyway. “I did it to keep them safe.”

“Is that what you told yourself when you left the Newcomers?” You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and cut through his quickening breaths with a vicious whisper, “You just had to play the hero. You had to be a rebel. How’d that work out for you?”

His impending apology dies on his tongue, and his stomach churns with something much harder than guilt. At the sight of your mirrored anger, he clamps down his defense and answers honestly. “Not great.” 

You hum, a satisfied look on your face that quickly sours. “And now you think you have the right to yell at my family? To threaten and hurt them?” 

“I’m trying not to.” And you know that—you have to. There is no more place for love in his life; President Snow has seen to it. But Haymitch is no less culpable. Everything he touches, he destroys. He is sparing them from himself as much as he is protecting them from Snow’s vengeance. 

Your lips are tightly sealed, a refusal to be swayed, so he repeats himself again in a broken slur, “Which part are those lines from?” 

You stare down at him, and he swears he can feel your hand curled around his jaw, forcing him to hold your gaze. “The irony is,” you chime, “you don’t need to try very hard to hurt people, Haymitch. You do enough just by loving them.” 

His eyes burn, and he sees there is no denying the truth. He searches for the will to beg you to see the benefits in letting him die, but as a glass shard falls from your hair, you condemn him with your last words. 

High above, the moon emits a bright yellow like the primroses where Haymitch swears he left you alive. In his sleep, you’re gone upon his arrival. And as he stirs awake in his garden to a pale, apathetic sunrise, his memories begin to tell him the same. 

He stays holed up in the garden until his skin turns blue, and collapses in his living room where the other ghosts of his past return with a vengeance. 

Time continues to slip through his fingers. Silka joins Panache in his efforts to hunt down Haymitch, and the other Careers he killed recommit to their own alliance. He falls into a new cycle of letting them catch him, feeling their nails shred his ribcage, and fending them off with his knife once awake. Haymitch runs himself ragged with attacking the room’s deceptive shadows, succumbing to your latest melody when his mind begins to spin. A song, not a poem, and not belonging to the Covey. 

Down in the Willow garden,

Where me and my love did meet.

As we sat a-courtin,’

My love fell off to sleep.

I had a bottle of Burgundy wine,

My love she did not know,

So I poisoned that dear little girl,

On the banks below. 

Where the song comes from, Haymitch can’t remember. It produces pictures of lakeside lilies and the caress of water at his feet before he’s pulled under the waves of your crystal clear message. On the night you sing it in full for him, he knows it’s time for another restock. 

Effie Trinket doesn’t give him the chance when he comes to hours later. He swipes instinctively, but she’s wrangled his knife out of his grasp, standing above him with pursed lips and a weary disposition. 

“Haymitch, I’m so sorry to hear about your family’s accident.” She sets the blade down on the kitchen counter, too far for him to reach from his place on the ground. “But this simply won’t do. We have a responsibility, and you have a sacrifice to honor.”

Oh, sure, it was a real accident. Tragic, coincidental timing too, coming off of your sacrifice. Effie doesn’t know any better, blind to the horrors of the Capitol and their dear president, but her ignorance isn’t any easier to swallow. 

Haymitch washes up under Effie’s orders, though it takes a while for the rose scented soap to replace the booze and dirt. Prosperina and Vitus declare they can stomach him long enough to ready him, but the roses make him plenty nauseous in turn. 

Plutarch’s camera greets Haymitch as soon as he’s out the door, one step behind the entire way to the train station, where Plutarch informs him of Magno’s demotion and Drusilla’s accident. “Maysilee was right about those boots. I suggested Effie as the natural successor. Given her innovative track record, they went for it.”

“But you’re still stuck slumming it?” Haymitch deadpans, itching to run back to his prison when it hits him you won’t be joining him in this one. Steeled, not gilded. 

“It’s in my contract I continue with Twelve through your first year as a victor. Who knows where I’ll go then,” Plutarch says with an attempt at a friendly smile. What intentions hide beneath it? “You look like you could use a sandwich. Tibby!” 

Facing your kin and living with the ghosts should’ve been enough to prepare Haymitch for the wretchedness of the Victory Tour. District Eleven proves that nothing could’ve prepared him for seeing the families of his fallen allies, echoing meaningless words about their heroism when there is more to be said of them. Little as they really knew each other, Haymitch thinks of all the things he noticed about Hull and Chicory. Even Blossom and Tile. Everything that made them people instead of pawns. 

He sticks to the cards. 

Plutarch takes over Effie’s job of corralling Haymitch when the night’s festivities come to an end. He’s hidden away in a corner with the district’s most recent victor, who has introduced him to the wonderful world of Eleven’s specialty rotgut. 

“He’s all yours,” says Chaff, toasting the air mockingly. 

Instead of dragging him back to the train, Plutarch rushes him up a set of stairs and into an abandoned attic. He yanks the bottle out of Haymitch’s hands when he begins to blow whistles into it. 

“We don’t have long. This is the one place in the Justice Building that isn’t bugged.” Plutarch’s lax posture and narrowed eyes, almost honest in their urgency, convince Haymitch he’s right. 

More than that, they send him down memory lane, straight to that pitcher of hot chocolate. The very one Haymitch found while President Snow withered to death. If only he smashed the pitcher right over his head. Did Plutarch know Snow’s plan when he lent it to him? Was he a willing participant, eager to make one last show out of you?

It doesn’t matter, because the wave is already swelling inside Haymitch. He lunges clumsily, and only has the liquor to blame for how quickly Plutarch dodges him. He’s the killer here, after all. This should be easy for him. 

“Okay—” Plutarch sidesteps another of Haymitch’s lackluster attempts. He grabs his wrists, forcing him to sit on the nearby windowsill. “Hate me all you’d like, but get a hold of yourself for one minute.” 

His words do the opposite of their intended effect, worsening Haymitch’s need to make someone, if not Snow, carry the blame. He sets out to do just that with Plutarch, the one tangible culprit other than himself, and strides forward. Sensing another meager attack, Plutarch pulls something out of his blazer’s inner pocket. 

Haymitch falls back, fists dropping. “Where—Where’d you get that from?”

“The surgeon in charge of victor affairs is a colleague of mine. Normally they toss all extra items on a victor’s person, save for their token, but I promised she’d get this back.” He drops the bluebird into Haymitch’s outstretched hand. 

His muddled head swirls as he cradles the closest thing left of your heart. Plutarch promised who, exactly? The simple answer is you, but when would he have… 

“Now I need you to listen closely. The arena plan may not have produced the results we wanted, but it wasn’t the failure you believed it to be.” 

Haymitch sees you in the reflective light of the bird’s beak, the sunset scarf around your neck and the fading embers in your hair. He sees Plutarch leading you out of the library, hears the unavoidable confession to his involvement in the rebel plan. He swallows down the return of tonight’s main course. “How much did she know?” 

“Not everything. It would’ve been a risk. Besides, she wasn’t needed on the frontlines.” Plutarch smoothes his rumpled blazer. “Symbols are powerful weapons in and of themselves, and every good revolution needs one.” 

“And that symbol was meant to be her?” 

“It could’ve been. Beetee chose you for a reason, too. Admittedly, I was partial to Everdeen, but there have been others before, and there will be more down the line to pick up the torch.” Plutarch lifts a shoulder like he’s only trying to placate the rage emanating from Haymitch, not add to it. “That doesn’t mean we don’t need you.” 

So it’s not enough to reduce you to a blip in his machine of revolution—he expects Haymitch to sign himself away to the cause once more. “You don’t want me. Everybody’s dead because of me. It was a failure, and it’s on me.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short. You shook up the Capitol in more ways than one. Every misstep along the way was outside of your control.”

“Her death wasn’t a misstep,” Haymitch seethes, squeezing the bluebird in his hand, “and she’s not a token you can replace.” 

“No, I suppose not,” he relents. With a quick glance out the window, he straightens himself. “Revolution takes time, Haymitch, and it requires sacrifice to succeed. You can decide whether this one amounts to something or not. But I know she would’ve liked to see a free Panem, and I know you should be a part of making that happen.” 

There’s that word again, the idea that you were a martyr for two opposing ends of a war. Effie said it like she snatched the tagline directly from a Capitol poster. Probably did. Neither she nor Plutarch understand. You were more than a piece in the Capitol’s games, or Plutarch’s. Haymitch has half a mind to tell Plutarch just that and more. He should know you’re already free, and maybe you would’ve liked the same for those in this world, but Haymitch isn’t sure he still does for himself. What good can he do now? What freedom does he deserve? 

“You don’t know a thing,” he mutters. “None of you do.” 

Haymitch finds his own path to the train. 

Every stop is as bad as Eleven. At least Plutarch leaves Haymitch be, taking to the sidelines to record his triumph across the districts. In Six, he sees Wellie’s head hanging from every corner. Both Five and Four provide ugly reminders that the blood on his hands was literal. By the time they reach Three, Haymitch thinks he’s numbed himself to the point of permanently discarding all emotions. 

Until he sees Beetee on a platform beside his wife, from whom Ampert clearly got his looks. Beetee was nowhere to be found during his crowning ceremony or the two weeks that followed, so Haymitch assumed he killed himself. It’s obvious now why he hasn’t. Beetee holds his wife’s hand while she protects the swell of her stomach with her other. Ready to pop any day. 

Another kid without a brother, and what a great one Ampert would’ve made. Nothing like Haymitch. 

He cries in his room back on the train, for Ampert and Beetee, for you and Burdock. For Sid, the sweet baby who, from the second he was born, looked up to his brother like he could do no wrong. 

Effie tries her best to keep Haymitch sober for One and Two. Shame there are no locks on the bar car. 

The Capitol festivities come and go with their usual fanfare. President Snow looms over them with an air of immunity, and when he finds Haymitch in the crowd during his own speech to his adoring subjects, he stands like the victorious one. 

Back in Twelve, Haymitch is ready to sink back into his pit of solitude. Like his homecoming, there is no grand crowd to welcome him back. There is, however, a similarly unsettling message that awaits him. 

Effie gasps over Haymitch’s shoulder. Plutarch stifles a cross between a laugh and a scoff. He averts his camera, and Haymitch wonders whether he should be thankful this taping isn’t live. A part of him, buried beneath layers of alcohol, would’ve liked more people than his wardens to see the bold orange letters sprayed across the platform. 

THE CAPITOL LIES

As quickly as the satisfaction bubbled inside him, the fear kicks in. Because there’s only one person Haymitch can think of who’d do something like this. And there’s no good moment to think about it with Effie ushering him to keep on schedule, looking to the Peacekeepers who’ve accompanied them for answers. 

She’s appalled the whole way to the Justice Building, ranting about the sheer audacity of some wayward soul to suggest the Capitol was anything but honest and just. If that’s the case, Haymitch seethes internally, then why were forty-eight kids buried this year? 

Mayor Undersee tries to assuage Effie’s worry, promising there is no tolerance for treason but the Peacekeepers’ reported the cameras were too old and froze before a picture could form. He already looks tired in a way Mayor Allister did her last years before retirement. Maybe his son will have to pick up the slack sooner than expected. 

While Haymitch has already had to confront your family, and the Donners, and the Callows, it’s horrible addressing them on those platforms. His speech—Effie’s, technically—is all stammers and slurs. It’ll earn him a scolding from her, maybe another surge of fresh spite from his own district, but he skips over any part that’s a reference to you. 

Afterwards, throughout the lackluster party in the square, Haymitch voluntarily sticks by Plutarch, who’s a fine repellant. No one wants anything to do with Haymitch, and the feeling’s mutual. Except when it comes to Barb Azure. She keeps track of him from a distance, by Sorrel and Burdock, the latter of whom has longer hair than he did last Haymitch saw. Mid-neck, a braid on one side flitting across his nose when he turns to look at Haymitch. 

He avoids Burdock’s eyes, exchanges them for a glimpse of Barb Azure, who elicits the same ache and yet feels safer. Haymitch can tell, by the way her mouth curves into a watchful frown, the only reaction he’s seen of her tonight, he’s caused her worry. More than he’s worth. Her time is better spent hating him, but for whatever reason, it doesn’t seem her spirit will allow it. 

He wonders why, wonders if you’ll visit once the cameras are gone, wonders about Lenore Dove and that welcome banner and if that’s why he didn’t see her and the uncles anywhere in the square. 

Your bluebird weighs heavy on his heart, safe as it is in the pocket of his shirt. Haymitch stands in his front yard, well after the sun has dipped and Plutarch has finished his recorded tour of his new house. 

“You have more power than you believe, Haymitch,” he says in parting. “Don’t quit before you have the chance to use it.” 

Haymitch feels the urge to kill him again. “And how do you use your power, Plutarch? Filming our last days, having tea parties with the president—you’re not fixing a thing. You’re just full of shit.” 

Recognition flashes across his face, and amusement comes fleetingly, though it takes Plutarch a beat to actually answer. “I never claimed my methods were perfect. But at least I’m still in the game. For what it’s worth, your better half wouldn’t disagree.” 

And with that, Haymitch finds himself alone in his much too large, much too quiet, much too golden cage. It’s all the more constricting without any bottles in the house. He stocks up extra, enough that he doesn’t have to leave Victor’s Village until three rounds of his winnings are delivered to his door. 

In those three weeks, your visits are restricted to his dreams, always the same sequence of Maritte’s attack, the shattered pitcher, and then nothing. It replays in his head as he wanders District Twelve, prolonging his trek because he doesn’t want to sleep tonight. He doesn’t want to see if you’ll be waiting for him when he returns. Weeks of silence can only mean a reckoning around the corner. One he’s earned but fears nonetheless. 

Most of the merchants have closed up shop for the day, except for the sweetshop, every one of its lights on despite the yellow moon beating down on Twelve. The crop of golden hair at the counter, turned down to the till, stirs the harmony of ladybugs and fire. When Merrilee glances up, the pink of her dress swallowing her whole, a soft blue finding him through the blurred glass window, Haymitch reminds himself she’s not who he’s missing. 

He traces the twists and turns around Twelve, muttering that schoolyard song, pretending you and Maysilee are the ones singing it together now. A voice replaces both of yours in the dark of an alleyway. Haymitch blinks his eyes open, landing first on the cutting words painted the same shade of orange as those on the train platform. 

NO HANGING TREE

He shuts himself off to the words and the world, trying to scrub them clean in his head. A pair of hands hoists him to his feet, and he doesn’t resist letting them lead him where he asks to go. 

Lenore Dove, expectedly, doesn’t leave after she gets him inside. Haymitch flinches away from her when she tries to settle him on the couch, and she winces in turn, taking a step back and holding herself tensely. She crosses her arms, orange stained nails digging into her sweater. 

“You’ll get arrested for trespassing,” he says, a mimicry of the threats he’d throw at her and Burdock when both of them still came together. “I thought you already were.” 

“Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber have me under house arrest except for school. In part thanks to you.” Lenore Dove was always sweet lilts or emotional edges, never bitter. Not like she sounds now as she credits Haymitch for his role in her newfound restrictions. 

“Great job they’re doing.” 

“They can’t stay awake twenty-four-seven.” She wavers on the defensive for her uncles’ sake, despite her own blatant frustration with the circumstances. “Have you eaten anything real lately?” 

Haymitch senses Lenore Dove scanning the filth of the living room, wrecked beyond repair in just the few months it’s been his. Drink stains on the rug and velvet, trash overflowing, clothes scattered under a layer of dust. To her credit, she does her best not to react, but her face swirls with pity and sorrow. He snorts. “Oh, don’t you worry. I had a nice, hearty meal before we ran into each other.”

He’s never challenged Lenore Dove, never had cause to, even in moments when they didn’t see eye to eye, even when he didn’t understand her riddles. They have never argued, and the closest they’ve come was Lenore Dove demanding he let her in and Haymitch doing the exact opposite. Knowing this, he barrels over the litany of concerns building up on her tongue. “I liked your painting. Could’ve used a softer touch though.” 

Her pity dissolves into confusion over his sudden ease with coded words. But Lenore Dove knows exactly what he’s referencing. “People deserve the truth—” 

“It’s a shame you haven’t shown anyone else,” Haymitch cuts in sharply. Did she know the cameras at the station weren’t anything more than fillers? Would it have made a difference if they were? “But you know what, painting’s not really your style.” 

“I think it suits me fine,” she says without missing a beat. “I think you should give it a try instead of singing and dancing for them.”  

Maysilee’s pinkie is a phantom sensation; yours wraps around his other. Haymitch opens his mouth, but Lenore Dove beats him to it. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Putting up all these walls to keep us out because you think you deserve it.” She’s close, so very close, and yet she couldn’t be more off base. He’s doing this for them, not just to himself. “You aren’t the only one who loved her.” 

“Stop it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna hear this.” 

“Maybe it wasn’t in the same way, but she was my cousin. And Burdock’s sister. And people’s friend.” Lenore Dove sniffles, and unlike before, the thought of you makes Haymitch want to slam the door shut instead of opening it to her. “It was a different love but the same amount. We understand. You aren’t alone in the pain, Haymitch, or the fight.” 

“There is no fight, Lenore Dove. None I want a part of.” He rounds the corner into the main hallway, and she’s on his heel. 

“You don’t believe—” She huffs, working herself into a quick frenzy like when she found out about Maysilee’s canary. You may not be here to add fuel to her fire, but Haymitch sees you’re settled in the forefront of her mind. “You can’t believe it. Not after all the lives taken from us this year. The lives that’ll keep being taken if we do nothing.” 

His jaw ticks, sending a pang to his head. For the first time in all the years Lenore Dove has graced his life, all the years he’s loved her, she causes him true anger. “I did do something, Lenore Dove. I fought, and I lost. You think I don’t know how many people died?” 

“I never said that!”

“I know exactly how many of ’em died—I helped kill them.” Haymitch stifles the rumbling in his chest, stills the twitch of his fingers. “You think you or Burdock or anyone understands, but you don’t. And I don’t have to explain it to you. But you need to quit what you’re doing before you get yourself killed.” 

The overly bright fluorescents catch the defiance in Lenore Dove’s eyes, the disbelief that he could even ask that of her. Haymitch thinks of her coyness surrounding her first two arrests and her ability to skirt around a real confession. She maintains that now, even as she says, “Nobody should have to die for their games. I won’t stop believing in the possibility of the sun rising on a better world.” 

A better world, a free Panem. Plutarch’s pipe dream rings in Haymitch’s head. 

“Good for you.” He curls a fist over the doorhandle, nearly slams the oak into his nose. Everything he has to tell her and apologize for slips through the cracks between them. Any form of begging will fall on deaf ears and lead to her swaying his resolve. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber will get a handle on things. They’ll figure out a way to watch her all hours of the day, to stop her before she’s caught. How else can Haymitch protect her, besides falling into the role he’s written for himself. “Now get out of my house.” 

Lenore Dove doesn’t fold or flinch or even look hurt the way she did over his callous return of the flintstriker, her expression burning. “I know what my cousin would’ve wanted, and it ain’t this.” 

What a shame you aren’t here to tell him yourself. Haymitch says it out loud to her, yells it vindictively, and it’s hours, bottles, later before you prove him wrong. 

“You know she was doing this?” He pushes up from the kitchen table on shaky limbs. 

“Course I did.” You slip off the counter, black uniform nearly blending with the night.  

Resentment is a treacherous thing; without a rhyme or reason Haymitch can name, it tints the way he accuses, “And you never stopped her.” 

“There’s no stopping Lenore Dove. And it’s not like I can now. Or have you forgotten?” 

“I haven’t forgotten,” Haymitch snaps, insides coiling as tight as your gaze. He stops right in front of you, backing you into the counter again. “How can I? You won’t let me. You won’t leave me alone!” 

“I’ll leave if you want.” You grin, tugging at the roots of his heart. “I’ll go away like the others. Push me out that door, force me to leave, tell me you want me to.” The quirk of an eyebrow silently communicates go on then. 

“She’s being reckless,” is what he murmurs instead. Lenore Dove will go on fighting, go on trying to help him, despite being furious with him. It’s in her nature, just as it is in Haymitch’s to have you stay. 

“Take a look in the mirror,” you snipe, leaving only a sliver of space between your faces. The proximity is dizzying, almost as much as the absence of your breath fanning his cheeks. “Lenore Dove is willing to die for her people, instead of expecting it the other way around.” Your nose brushes his, and Haymitch grows cold when he doesn’t feel it, when he remembers the acidity of your poisoned blood. “You think on that.” 

He does, through the turn of a new day, through the days that spill into weeks, through the pathway that leads to the Covey home in the blinding light of day. 

Though he’s long since given up on telling time, Haymitch knows it’s a Monday because the Hob was packed with people yesterday, every one of them casting their judgement on his horrid state of being. Presumably a school day, and if what she said is true, there’s no risk of running into Lenore Dove. 

Haymitch doesn’t consider the likelihood of there being anyone else home. He makes sure your bluebird is balanced on the porch railing and spins around before Tam Amber comes out from his workshop. 

“Too late to run off now, boy.” Tam Amber stops him instantly. He walks around to porch steps, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. “You ain’t subtle.” 

A dozen sharp-tongued quips come to mind, but there’s no use for them. Tam Amber isn’t someone Haymitch needs to swat —he is not a fly on the wall or a gnat fretting over him. He isn’t risking his life by seeking Haymitch out. He is someone you loved. So maybe there is a risk in speaking to him. Haymitch still finds himself saying, “Came to give that back.” 

Tam Amber glances over his shoulder, to where Haymitch points his finger. He isn’t surprised to see the bluebird, his crinkled eyes welling with pain over suspicion. And the lack thereof leads to the horrible, nauseating question of whether they opened your coffin. Whether they saw you—Haymitch staggers over a rock—like that. 

“You don’t give back a gift.” Tam Amber doesn’t move to help, but he holds Haymitch’s gaze until his breathing steadies, eyes flickering down to his wrist. 

Technically, you never gifted the charm to him. You gave it to Plutarch, of that Haymitch is now certain, who passed it on to Beetee and Ampert, who sent it his way. Doesn’t make it a gift just because you let him hold onto it. Fleetingly, he can hear you calling semantics, imagines the smile that’d be playing on your lips, and buries the image under his shame. “It was more of a placeholder than anything.” 

“Lot of care was put into this placeholder.”

“Which is why I’m returning it.” He’d take it to you directly if he knew where you were buried. Whenever he sets out to find you, he’s sent packing by your condemnation not to follow. 

“Son,” Tam Amber starts gently, mournfully, holding out the bluebird in his direction, “if it was entrusted to you, it was a gift.” 

Why couldn’t it have been Clerk Carmine who caught him? He’d have yelled and cursed at Haymitch, not thawed his heart with the reminder of how easily you gave him yours. Tam Amber holds no hate in his eyes as he looks at him, and Haymitch shuffles away, at risk of breaking apart entirely. “You’ll take better care of it than I ever could.” 

The next months are a repetition of those following his homecoming. Effie is unchanged when she wakes Haymitch much like she did on the morning of his Victory Tour. Smiles and encouragement and scoldings against Haymitch for not looking after himself. Would she change her tune if she knew he spent the better part of his nights chasing shadows with a knife? If he confessed to longing for your ghost? If he told her about the bloodied whipping post they cleared out to make room for this big, big, big day? 

It’s hard to hold it against her in earnest when she is his main source of human contact now. And whether he wants it or not, she does watch over him. 

On stage, Haymitch picks out Lenore Dove, furious as he last saw her, one row behind Merrilee and Asterid, and breathes out when none of their names are called. When Burdock and Blair are not either. No, Haymitch is given a different pair of kids he recognizes. Fifteen-year-old Laurel Grover and twelve-year-old Flint Moss, both Seam. 

They look to him, helpless, all the way to the Capitol, where they are given an upgrade in apartments for the year. Laurel is a shy thing, but she’s quick on her feet, tells him so and all he says in return is that she’ll need it. Flint has more confidence than he’d expect for a kid in his circumstances. Talks a mile a minute and asks a dozen questions, but none of them have to do with survival. They are both resigned to their fates, and against his will, it makes Haymitch think of you.  

He bumbles over what to do for them, how to be there, and if there’s even a point in trying. He isn’t given access to the other victors or mentors the entirety of their training period. He’s confined to the Twelfth floor except for occasions where his presence is required. The parade, after parties, the interviews. 

It’s then, in an empty hallway, on the way to the bathroom after outdrinking Chaff, that Haymitch runs into Mags. 

She’s aged five years or so since the night of his ceremony, but she’s mobile and steady in the way she approaches him. 

Haymitch struggles over what to ask first. “Are you— Is Wiress— What happened?” 

Mags squeezes his hands, eyes darting up to a corner behind him. Right. They can’t discuss this here. Maybe not ever. 

“I’m sorry about your family,” she whispers, voice more hoarse than it once was. For what comes next. Mags doesn’t apologize for you, or tell him what he should do in the wake of all this loss. She rests a hand against his cheek and stares at him with sadness. “You did everything you could.”

A hazy confession floats above him. The wish Mags once wanted for herself. The district partner she tried to protect in her Games. Every part of Haymitch screams at him to deny and correct her lie, say she doesn’t understand, but she does. To whatever extent. 

He accepts the lie and falls into her arms.  

How long’s it been since he’s been held like this? Out of kindness and comfort. The touch of Capitol citizens doesn’t count. It comes in passing, with a million strings, and they feel they’ve earned every one. Running a hand up his arm, down his back, across his hair. Like they’re petting a dog, like he’s back in his much more literal cage.  

And like a dog, Haymitch learns to bite. To snarl and resist until they learn to avoid him. To find a new novelty. He may not tear down their posters, but he’s making Maysilee proud in some way, if not you. 

The worst victor in the history of the Games. Shame it makes him the worst mentor, too. 

His boy dies in the bloodbath; his girl makes it to day two, gets taken out by the boy from One. Their coffins rattle the entire way home. 

She has no relation to either of his kids, and yet, the first face Haymitch sees when the train doors open is Cindy. She shuffles on the platform, twisting a ring around her finger, demeanor smoother than he’s ever known her to be. Haymitch only ever frequented her booth at the Hob with you and Burdock. She’s normally the topic of conversation, not a participant. Her role in his life is nonexistent, but she liked you, and much farther down the line, he realizes that’s why she volunteered herself for this. 

“There was a big display, exactly two weeks after the reaping,” she says in a quick, hushed tone once they’ve left the station. They’ve amped up the Peacekeepers there, but they were pretty unmoved when Haymitch stepped off the train and bid them farewell with a mock salute. “There’s been so much loss. We’ve all felt it.” She glances at him pitifully. “I never got to tell you at the funerals—”

“What kind of display?” His patience for sympathies has run out, and he’s not in the mood to postpone getting back to you now. A month of cooing Capitolites and deathbound children and recaps of last year’s “best bits” have stripped him of his ingratitude for you. 

Cindy clears her throat and checks over her shoulder, looping her arm through his. “Burning of flags, a protest against watching the Games, a riot. Peacekeepers traced it back to that Covey girl.”

“Lenore Dove?” Haymitch stops walking, sobering up quicker than he has in months. 

“She incited that riot last year,” Cindy says, cautious. “There was word she sparked one at the school before the tour, and, well, she’s got a history.” 

“Is she on the base now?” Three arrests was pushing it, but four? Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber won’t be able to sweet talk or negotiate or beg her way out of this on their own. “I have to get to her. I gotta—I have to—” Haymitch sputters and pulls away from Cindy, who only tightens her grasp on his arm. “Cindy, I swear—”

“Haymitch,” she sharpens, detaches from emotion, reassuming the no-nonsense woman she’s always been. “It’s too late.” 

Cindy’s wrong. Lenore Dove can’t be—what she’s implying. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber have a close eye on her, and Haymitch has all but broken her heart to keep her safe, and she has an endless fight left in her. Haymitch can fight harder too, against the Capitol like she wants, against her putting herself in danger. Because she’s not gone. Because Haymitch can’t have killed her too. Because you will never, ever free him from this torment. 

A noose twists around his neck and squeezes. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Gone are the hateful shouts that found him the night he hurled rocks at Burdock and tarnished Asterid’s pretty face. Gone are your taunts and insults, a natural byproduct of your grudge. Gone are your tears and gasps and bloodied lips, all pulled from memories which he never before took as merciful. 

They weren’t. Aren’t. But they feel a lot like mercy compared to this. Compared to your husk of a ghost. 

You’re devoid of anything real, angry as you are at him. He’s betrayed you. Again. Is that all he’s good for? You ask him that, completely indifferent. Over and over, until his yes’s turn into one long hyperventilating plea for you to stop. To pry his chest open already and tear his heart out because what use does he have for it? 

None whatsoever. 

And yet, you insist he keeps it. Mangled and shrunken and booze-soaked—it’s not a heart worth carrying around but it’s the one Haymitch has earned himself. Along with his complete isolation from Twelve. 

He gets Bascom Pie to deliver his hooch, leaves the money on the steps for him, and doesn’t go into town as far as he can help it. There are enough ghosts in the confines of his house without seeing the shells of those left behind. His nightmares of Lenore Dove, of Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber’s pain, are entirely up to his imagination, unlike those spun from semblances of the truth.

The woods are his workaround, and Haymitch wanders most nights, looking to get lost, only for you to wind up forcing him back to the fence line. But the longer you deprive him of anything real, the more you shun him with indifference, the less Haymitch listens.  

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Don’t know.” Haymitch shrugs roughly, a splash of his drink landing on the dirt. “Don’t care.” 

You whistle—it’s the most emotion he’s heard from you since the news of Lenore Dove’s execution. “Someone’s in a mood.” 

“And I wonder why.” He strides over a large branch and forces himself not to turn to you. 

“I’m the one who should be upset.” You walk in step with him. “I got glass sticking out of my stomach, a dead cousin, and you to deal with.” 

Night distorts the woods. Trees appear like weapons and hooting owls sound like screams. “You’re not dealing with me. I’m putting up with you.”

“I told you to send me away, Haymitch,” you say calmly, and it’s nearly enough to stop him, “but you haven’t. Why?” 

“I’m telling you now,” he sneers, lingering on the taste of rotgut before continuing, “You don’t belong here.” 

“You know what I think?”

“No, but you’re gonna say it anyway.” 

“It wasn’t enough to kill me.” You sigh in tandem with the rustling wind. “You need to make sure I’m never free too.” 

It hits Haymitch hard and fast and brutal, before he even has the chance to name what it is drilling the last bits of his reluctance to nubs. “I don’t want you to be free?” He digs his heels into the floor. “I’m the one stuck here, living with it!” The lid’s blown off completely, and shoving down all the horrible, hideous feelings is useless. “I tried to make things right. I tried to keep you alive. I would’ve died to do it!”

Clouds obscure the stars above, making everything darker, crueler. Your eyes are plenty dark, more ruthless than indifferent as you say, “Trying doesn’t absolve you of what you did.” You poke and prod at him with your current glare, a different yet equally disarming effect from your tender gaze.  

“You promised we’d be on even ground.” It couldn’t have been that hard to take him with you. 

“And you promised you’d stay with Wellie.” You seem pleased when he flinches. “If you hadn’t broken your promise, I would’ve found my way back to you. Maritte never would’ve had the chance to attack. I wouldn’t have been poisoned.” 

“I didn’t drop you on the glass,” Haymitch spits instantly, even as the words come out with a quiver, because his bones say that it’s true. So do his memories. 

Your mouth curves up and outrage sparks your expression, but it doesn’t cut Haymitch down. For once, he’s not looking to get a reaction out of you. “No, you didn’t. You want a prize?”

“I caught you. I made sure the poison never touched you.” But it did somehow, and now it’s in Haymitch.  “I did everything I could.” 

Your laugh chills his lungs. “Everything for who, exactly? For me? For your ma and Sid? For Lenore Dove? Let’s cover all our bases, because it sure didn’t start with the four of us, and it won’t end with us either.” 

It never will end, because Haymitch will have two new kids to fail every year for the rest of his life. Two kids like Laurel and Flint, hopelessly waiting for him to save them. The stream of loss is vast, and so is his culpability. 

“Why won’t you just stop?!” he chokes out, dropping like the strings attached to his limbs snapped right off. He yanks on his scalp in the hopes it’ll distract from the pain the way the alcohol should’ve. “Just stop!” 

You meet him on the ground, an unavoidable nightmare even after he clamps his eyes shut. “I died for you.” He’s back in the arena, every turn of events stabbing at him as you echo, “Live with it.” 

Curling in on himself, Haymitch stews in his boiling blood. He bites down on his cheek to taste the metal for himself. Spiteful words string together inside him, replacing his demand for you to end your vengeance. A distant hoot gives the final shove he needs to steel himself again. 

“Is that how you remember me?” 

Warmth, not a boil, floods his veins, a jarring contrast from the shocks of ice to his abdomen. His anger is stilted, cut short, which somehow reignites pieces of it. A paradox. The kind you are all too familiar with. 

You don’t try to ease or rile him. You don’t expect him to feel anything more or anything less than what he does now. It’s not the first time he has, not by a longshot, but Haymitch misses you. Your hands rest on your bent knees, fingers flat on the fabric of your purple skirt. Dawn is nowhere near; still, Haymitch sees those rainbow rays of sunlight in you. 

He waits to see if you’ll repeat yourself, but you don’t. Your nose bunches up. 

“Sunshine,” he murmurs, crawling on scarred hands and battered legs. The wracking of his shoulders stops him, suspends him on the floor until he’s forced to realize this is the worst crime he could commit against you. Disparaging who you are. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

You aren’t there to hear it. 

You’ll come back like you always do. Haymitch assures himself with the thought and other delusions long after the sun sets and rises again. He ventures further into the woods, comes up empty, the last of the liquor drained from his system. He waits another day, summons you to him with shouts and bargains and things he knows would ruffle your feathers in different circumstances. But he wasted most of his breath pushing you away. 

Why did he do that? Where was the punishment in being haunted by you? 

Not in the woods, not in his house, not in his dreams when consciousness fades away. You’ve disappeared completely, and no amount of anesthetic can fix that, can bring you back to Haymitch. Doesn’t stop him from drinking into the night, sleeping through the day, wandering every bit of Twelve you’ve touched. Wherever you might be. 

His vision is blurred around the edges, but Haymitch knows the Seam like the back of his hand. The streets are lonely, yet more alive than his stone walls. No noise except for the kind coming out of his mouth, a repetition of your name, over and over, loud enough to raise the whole population of Twelve. Haymitch only seeks to raise his dead. 

His body collapses on wooden steps, and he swallows the last syllable of his scream. 

A door opens, a soft hand presses against his temple, and low whisper commands, “Get him inside.” 

He smells berries and wet earth, and a trace of jasmine when he’s laid down on a mattress. Fingers card through his hair, brushing it back the way Ma used to when he was small and would fall ill. She hushes his whimpers now, and Haymitch hides in the crook of her elbow. “I wanna go home.” 

“Oh, sweet baby,” she says, deeper than he remembers her voice. Closer to Mags, minus the rasp, but she couldn’t possibly be in Twelve. “Burdock, bring the towels!” 

No, no, no. 

“You’re all right, son.” Sorrel settles Haymitch back down when he tries to scramble off the bed, careful. 

Nothing is all right. “It should’ve been me.” His brain flails while his limbs sink into paralysis, subdued by a wet towel on his forehead. “It was supposed to be me.”

Haymitch receives no denial, nor confirmation, in his dreams. Silka and Panache have rounded their allies and saved their torture for a later date. Ampert has a baby brother to watch over tonight; Maysilee, a sister. Ma and Pa have Sid and the twins. 

You’re in the meadow, standing on a rock beneath a willow tree, holding onto your crop of lilies and roses and honeysuckle. Lenore Dove and Burdock sit before you, blind to Haymitch’s presence. A timeless voice fills the air, not belonging to any one of you, and yet, it condemns him with the mockery of your eternal absence. 

O me, why have they not buried me deep enough?

Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?

Maybe still I am but half-dead;

Then I cannot be wholly dumb;

I will cry to the steps above my head.

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come

To bury me, bury me

Deeper, ever so little deeper.

Haymitch jolts, startling the beige monster on his chest. Calla blinks at him languidly. Her whiskers tickle his chin as she searches for a comfortable position again. 

“How are you alive?” 

She acknowledges him with a hiss and a hop off him. She doesn’t go far though, curling into a ball where his feet dangle from the edge of your bed. 

Your bed, your room, your—

Haymitch barfs into the bucket beside the window, no doubt brought in anticipation of this exact moment. He recoils when he touches the floor, the wooden floorboards becoming hot coal. It scorches him through his clothes and licks at his bones. 

The room appears virtually untouched, still lived in, the sale of any one of your things prolonged for as long as possible. Seems cleaner than it should, too. Besides the corner by the door, where a jacket hangs off a chair like it was tossed there just last night—dust concentrates there like an incoming thunderstorm. 

Moving his focus from the limestone on your windowsill, Haymitch hobbles to the corner. 

He understands why the dust has migrated here. This is the only spot where the fire or the cold can’t hurt him. Where the hearth is gentle and kind and unconditional in its love. Haymitch figures it’s what’s kept the jacket warm and soft despite the coarse material and mismatched threads woven through repaired holes. His lungs protest, but he doesn’t care to stop breathing it in, because beneath the flecks irritating his airway, it’s meadowsweet and fresh as rained grass. 

Instinctively, hopelessly, Haymitch turns in search of you. Expects the lilt of your voice to ask if he’s coming along, to boast about climbing that maple tree. 

Footsteps thud over his panicked gasps. “Hay?” 

Haymitch pushes past Burdock, not caring about the dropped jacket, or the clatter it causes. Daylight says it’s mid-noon, but Sorrel’s in the kitchen with Barb Azure, calling after Haymitch when he whirs out the door. His daughter, his suit, his Sunday of rest—is there anything Haymitch won’t ruin for your pa?

Victor’s Village has never been more welcoming. A warped embrace that jabs and cuts at him, but he gladly chooses it over your family’s grace. 

Lucidity is purgatory, and Haymitch is unable to stay in it for long. He doesn’t savor and doesn’t ration a drop. Wrapped up in the task of forgetting and numbing, he misses the first knock. The second and the third are just as quiet. A pin drop in a torrent. The fourth rattles the windows and his nerves, and he has no choice but to confront his agitator. 

Orange splatters the sky, swirling into violet where the moon has already begun to show itself. Burdock stands on the other side of his door, holding what Haymitch recognizes as sleep syrup and a smaller jar of something faintly yellow. 

“Peppermint oil,” Burdock supplies, mouth twisting to the side briefly. His hair isn’t as long as yours was in those last days, and certainly not before the Capitol’s intrusion. But it’ll get there, just past his shoulders now, before the mines demand otherwise. “For the headaches.”

Haymitch turns around. Be it old habits or chipped armor, he doesn’t fight when Burdock slips through the crack in the door. “I don’t get headaches.” 

“You will once we dump out the liquor.”

“Who’s ‘we?’ Last I checked, this is my property, and I can do as I pleased.” Haymitch spins back to him and gestures between them absentmindedly. “And we aren’t friends.” 

“You can’t go on like this,” Burdock reasons, jutting his head at the bottle in Haymitch’s hands, then at the filth loitered around the hallway. He sets down the syrup and oil on a lamp table. “Determined to send yourself into an early grave.” 

“My grave’s a year overdue.” Be a kind soul and bury me deep. “I’m catching up, and you best catch the exit before I send you through it myself.” 

Burdock breathes out. “I’m still not okay with it, what you did to Asterid, but I—” He sounds so unusually lost, it sends a shard through Haymitch’s ribcage. “I didn’t realize how bad it was for you until last night. Lenore Dove told me. I should’ve seen it myself sooner, I just couldn’t.” 

“Shut up, Burdock.” 

“And I couldn’t be around you without talking about it.” His confession hangs overhead, and he takes a step closer. “Or without feeling guilty for wanting her home.” 

You aren’t the only one. “I said shut up.” 

“That made it easier to ignore how you were struggling. I won’t anymore, though.” 

Every dull, dark corner of the room suddenly sharpens, and the wound you’ve left blows right open. “Shut up and get out!” 

Burdock snaps back, running on his own desperation. “I’m not leaving without a good reason.”

“Were the rocks too subtle? Need me to get your twin killed again?” It’s a low, low blow, and it doesn’t work on Burdock anyway. It’d be easier getting a brick wall to listen than making strides with him. 

“Give me the damn bottle and take the syrup, Hay.” 

Haymitch holds it out, lifting an eyebrow with a simple, taunting dare. Take it and watch. 

They’ve wrestled before, playfully in the woods, during recess at school, the final morning Burdock came around sans Asterid, when Haymitch refused to eat. Nothing like this, yanking shirts, jabbing elbows, sloshing liquor. It’s coated all over the floor and each other by the time they wrangle themselves out onto the porch.

Haymitch releases Burdock, shoves him hard enough that he stumbles down a porch step and catches himself with the railing. “Well, it’s all gone now! Happy?” 

“I know you got more,” Burdock says, wiping a wet strand of hair from his eyes. He uses them to pry Haymitch open and find the broken pieces that match his own. 

“How many times I got to tell you?!” Haymitch screams, chest knotting around his heart. “Get out!”

“No!” 

Haymitch slams the bottle into the bannister, unflinching when a piece flies past his neck. It misses. He grips the spout and points the jagged, broken edge at Burdock. “Get the fuck out!” 

“I’m not losing you, too!” Burdock yells, as fearless as the day he walked up to Haymitch and said he’d be his friend. 

Haymitch walks down a step, chest heaving as he forces Burdock backwards until his feet are on the grass. He thinks he could do it. Hurt Burdock like he did all his fellow tributes in the name of self-defense and something less than human. If it meant being left alone, doing right by the person who brought more than one precious thing into his life, Haymitch could do it. “Don’t come back, Burdie.” He lowers the spout. “Neither of us needs to see her when we look at each other.” 

Cool-faced through the wrestling and the threats and the broken bottle, Burdock winces at that. He can cover it up with the pretense of healing, but the gap you’ve left in his life is there and always will be. It fuels the distance between them, stretching it impossibly far. He looks up as if the sky will have answers. Maybe he’s searching for you, too. “Cindy and Hemlock are getting hitched.” 

Haymitch blinks, oddly shocked more by the news than Burdock’s delivery of it. The bomb inside him diffuses briefly as he hears you scoff and sputter into laughter. Vivid enough to believe the sound isn’t in his head. He gives Burdock his back and the response you would’ve. “Finally decided they’re in it for the long haul then.” 

“Guess so.” There’s a lapse in his response. The clink of something placed on the steps precedes Burdock’s heavy breaths. Despite himself, Haymitch looks over his shoulder. His focus falls first to the clump of charms. He feels Burdock’s gaze burrow into him as he murmurs, “I just see you, Haymitch.” 

Cowardice disallows Haymitch from watching Burdock take his friendship with him. Curiosity forces him to pick up his final kindness. 

The bracelet glistens like a kaleidoscope, connecting six varying charms by a perfectly polished gold chain. Wrestling with Burdock shook the fog from his brain. Haymitch pieces the meaning of the first five quicker than he would’ve an hour ago. A shooting star, a pair of red tinted cherries, two identical fawns dangling from the same hoop. From there, he assigns the silver swan to ma and the copper eagle to pa. The sixth gives him trouble. 

In the dark, Haymitch can’t pinpoint the flower or the color of the petals. He pinches the teardrop entrapping them and holds it up to the porch light. They start off purple, a shade closer to indigo, and fan out into a blue as striking as the lake at sunset. 

He’s never seen one like this, never seen an exact copy of the larkspur from your book. The very color he picked as his favorite of all those they came in. The one you called his flower. Haymitch remembers that day in bits, separated from it by years and grief. But there’s no forgetting how his heart raced when he sat under the oak tree with you in the schoolyard. No scowl on your face, no reason to snipe at him, and no need to pester you at all into telling him about Larkspur Everdeen and the day she said yes to your papaw. Her name flower woven into her hair on their wedding day, a symbol of their true love.  

From the inside out, he freezes. His stomach gives out first, detaching from sensation and hunger and even nausea. The paralysis, acutely harsher than the numbness he craves, cuts off his airway. When the function of his arms and legs slams back into him, he uses them to break every part of his cage within view, lashing out in the only way he can. 

A gust blows through the front door; Haymitch doesn’t resist, panting and following its current to the ground. 

He didn’t think he had it in him to feel anything besides the guilt—he hadn’t in these weeks of your vanishing. Didn’t think he could weep like this again after Lenore Dove’s death, but he surprises himself. There are more tears to shed; more to miss. 

Consumed by the loss of your presence, how could Haymitch have known before now to mourn your stolen future? 

Pressing the larkspur to his lips, he murmurs his wants and regrets against your parting gift. Sleep comes for him once the dreams that will never be have streaked his face silver. And come morning, Haymitch reaches for the only future he has left. 

Taglist: @lovemiss-vale @aureolinb @mqrieshrt @bueburgers @dem1dearest @nikki-is-a-nerd @lovelylittlelesbianlore @jjloveshotch @inneedofcaffine @poetsandroses @kindsleybooks @ivyhaec @x-gabrielle-x @ghostlythinggoingaround @happiness2112 @sundawn1990 @starryjeongyeon @kuurbyfun @lenteheure @petrasbones @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465 @rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch @poppysrin @watergirl85 @prettyandromeda @gaz0xx @marsupialnoises @madisonosidam @redshinyshoes @comfortcharacterwrites

A/N: lenore’s death in the raven is a mystery (my covey girls 😔) so that’s the symbolism in her execution happening prior to haymitch’s return. i also found it’d be worse for him to not be there for it. another thing to haunt him for years to come!

They let him keep it for longer. The white coats and gloved hands are there to prod his stitches, pour thick liquids into his mouth, switch out the bags of drugs for new ones. Not to cut out his tongue. 

Haymitch starts to feel then: the bile burning through his throat like hot wax, the churn of his guts, which shouldn’t be there at all. Completely different from his self-inflicted pain the first time he woke, so he convinces himself it was all imagined. None of it was real. He is not real. 

The nightingales return; this time, whole and awaiting their sentencing from the snake in their cage. By the time the last of them is ripped to shreds, feathers floating through the cracks and onto his skin, Haymitch realizes this must be a test. Limbo. If he survives it, if he withstands the cyclical nightmare of the nightingales and all those that follow—the rainbow songbirds, the dove gray bunnies, more mutilated Avoxes—then he will die in peace. Then he will find the heaven he was promised. 

His fantasy shatters when the white walls are traded for burnt orange. No more Avoxes in the corner, no defenseless creatures shrilling in his ears, and no choice but to confront the undeniable truth that you are dead. 

As the haze dissipates, so does the last of the numbness. 

Vaguely, Haymitch makes out Wyatt’s cushion across from him, bereft of sheets. Two makeshift beds lie on the floor, exactly as they were left. The one oddity is the pump in his chest, doling out drugs throughout his body. He smells something sweet as fruit, like the scent that clung to you during your days in the apartment. He turns his face into the pillow, breathes in the leftover sweetness, now as sickening as the arena, and soils it with his tears. 

Oh, sunshine. 

Little things died when his sisters did. Innocence, shades of pink, the comfort of cotton. Pa took a bigger slice, left a harder pill for Haymitch to swallow: no one was ever going to protect him the way he had. No one was ever going to take care of their family the way Haymitch needed to. When it was Mamaw’s turn, all he had left to give was whatever remained of his childhood. Not much. 

Every loss since has chipped away at him one by one. Somehow, Haymitch has remained standing, with fragile pieces of his heart intact. 

You take everything. Everything. Except for Haymitch. 

The crevices of his soul, the light in every room, the colors of the world. All the details that make up life. He didn’t realize how you shielded him from that before: the dullness of things. 

They should’ve let him die—you should let him. 

“Just let me go,” he wheezes, voice crackling with the strain of going unused for so long. “Please.” 

No one answers. You wouldn’t answer him here anyway.  

Acting on autopilot, Haymitch rolls off the bed and lands on his abdomen. He thinks to tear out his stitches but all that’s left of them is an ugly scar. His limbs give out twice as he clothes himself with his old pajamas. Unsteady still as he stumbles out of the room. So quiet, too quiet without Wyatt’s snoring. 

The elevator is the first place his wandering feet take him to. He presses the buttons—up, down, up, down—but there’s no response. Three more tries before he calls it quits and rushes to the windows. Each one is impossible to reach through the steel bars. 

No clocks to track his isolation, no knickknacks along the walls, no knives in the kitchen. Nothing that could be used to scrape away his skin so it matches his hollow insides. 

Only a pitcher of milk and a platter of bread in the fridge. Haymitch consumes both greedily. His hope is fruitless, proved so when the worst that happens is a fainting spell in the living room. 

At the very least, he dreams of you. 

In your meadow, the wildflowers are in full bloom. You sit among them with your back to him. Your hair is the length it was before the Games, blowing all around you in the wind, wild and free. 

Haymitch takes a step forward. “Sunshine!” 

Maybe you don’t hear him, so he calls your name louder. Runs towards you when you still don’t turn. Trips over himself and falls onto a blackened patch of grass. You’re gone when he looks up. In your place, Silka lies thrashing with her ax in her skull 

Forever a coward, he averts his gaze until he’s sure she’s gone. He lifts his head again, and there hangs Wellie’s above him. Haymitch croaks her name, then yours, caught between begging for forgiveness and seeking out your mercy. 

Another voice chimes over the chittering of squirrels, “It won’t be that easy, Itchy.” 

Haymitch scrambles for purchase on the grass, finding only a coarse rug. These are not dreams or nightmares. He is wide awake now, replaying every horrid, excruciating detail. Silka’s gurgles. Wellie’s pleas for him to stay. The blood on your lips. Your empty, dead eyes. 

Empty and dead. Empty and dead and it’s all my fault. 

The memories cycle through like the nightingales and bunnies and Avoxes. For hours? Days? Weeks? He doesn’t care anymore. They leave Haymitch crippled and couch-bound in a room you, Maysilee, and Wyatt once filled. Still alive though. 

He finds the will to move into the bathroom, fill the tub to the brim, and sink right in. The camera on the vanity stares at him now, but he doesn’t bother covering it up with another towel. It wouldn’t do any good. They’re watching, if not from that camera, then from another hidden in the walls. They won’t let him die, not yet. Maybe they have a public execution in mind. One can hope. 

Despite knowing that, Haymitch dips his head under the water and leans into the way it pushes against his lungs. For a second, the pain of suffocation distracts him, feels good even. His head bobbles up for a whiff of air before going back down. He goes on like this, his skin withering like a prune. Better yet when the water goes cold. Each time Haymitch resurfaces, he meets the camera. 

Do they have people on standby to pull him from the brink? Will they try to stop him, send a zap through the pump in his chest, should he not come back up?

If they don’t, you will. You said you wouldn’t force each other to be okay, you said you were on even ground, so why have you forced Haymitch to stay? 

“Why?” he cries, swallowing direct mouthfuls of bath water, tugging at his hair until wet strands break from his scalp. “Why? Why?” 

You answer him one night—he thinks you do—in a song. 

Haymitch doesn’t remember how he went from the bath to the couch again. He doesn’t open his eyes yet to find out, just listens to the melody that can only be credited to you. Except…it’s not your voice. The shape of it is different, though it haunts him awake just the same. 

No working elevator or clocks, but the television is just fine now, flickering right in front of him with an image that shouldn’t feel so familiar. Haymitch has never seen this before in his life. The war-era fashioned audience, the static around Panem’s insignia, the rainbow girl who is to credit for the soulful song. 

It’s sooner than later that I’m six feet under. 

It’s sooner than later that you’ll be alone. 

So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?

For when the bell rings, lover, you’re on your own.

Her voice is not yours, and neither is her face, exactly. But that accent, that guitar, that glint in her eyes…

And I am the one who you let see you weeping. 

I know the soul that you struggle to save. 

Too bad I’m the bet that you lost in the reaping. 

Now what will you do when I go to my grave?

She’s not you, yet the words she sings couldn’t be any more punishing. Haymitch failed you, he killed you, he lost you. There’s nothing to do now that you’re gone besides let you haunt him through this rainbow girl. 

She drags out the last notes. The camera fades into the awestruck crowd, every one of them wiping the corners of their eyes. Among them, someone shouts, “Bravo!” 

By the old-timey clothes and mentions of the reaping and instinct in his bones, Haymitch knows no other role to give her but District Twelve’s first and only victor. And if that’s the case, if this girl really was sent off to the Games and won, where is she now? 

Amid the praise of the crowd, she takes a bow and reaches for a shadow in the corner. Hesitantly, a crown of blonde curls steps out. The television goes dark, and Haymitch is left with his own reflection on the screen. He stares at his sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, replacing the image with that of the girl again. Her cunning tune, her puzzling demeanor, her bright smile as she beckoned the blonde shadow to her side. 

A Covey girl, drenched head to toe to voice in mystery. A songbird, through and through. 

But the shadow at her side remains unknown. A Capitol boy, no doubt, if the flash of his snooty uniform was any indication. One close enough to this Covey girl to learn all about their ways, maybe even love them. Maybe even love her. 

“Do keep a watch on your songbird. They have the tendency to disappear.” 

Who else could it be, if not their good old President Coriolanus Snow? 

Again, Haymitch acts on autopilot. He tears through anything and everything in his line of sight. The couch pillows, the tabletop lamp, the wooden dining chairs, the pitcher of milk on the kitchen island, recently refilled. 

When the glass hits the opposite wall and the milk spills out, the memories return with a vengeance. 

He catches you before you fall. He stops you from hitting the poisoned steam. He sets you down on the primrose under a tree. Not on the glass. He doesn’t let you touch the glass. But it winds up in your skin either way. 

Haymitch doesn’t bother dodging the bullets flying through the window. They aren’t aimed directly at him anyway; whoever’s shooting them seems to know that’s what he’d want. A dart flies into his shoulder, not so different from the one that killed Panache. Maybe this is it. 

Waddling in zigzags until his legs give out, he falls atop the pillow stuffing. Not the glass. As the tape winds back to the Covey girl’s first verse, he finally hears you: 

“Don’t follow.”

Hours, days, weeks later, the ding of the elevators brings a hoard of Peacekeepers and their rifles. Finally, finally, finally. A pair of them haul Haymitch up from the floor and chain his wrists. His feet sting when they make contact with the cool marble, and he realizes they are bloodied. He did stumble over the glass after all. And as expected, you did not grant his wish. 

“Well, who’s ready for a big, big, big day?” Effie Trinket, not missing a beat, comes up behind the Peacekeepers. Her prep team trails feet away, exchanging hesitant glances as they take in the wreckage of the apartment and Haymitch himself. 

Effie’s eyes widen momentarily, scanning the same. She doesn’t comment on it though, which Haymitch is sure takes a lot of effort. When she grabs onto his hands, he forces himself to focus on her. “Haymitch, I am,” she sniffs, “so sorry for your loss. She was a marvel, and I know she’d be so proud of you.” 

You’re far from proud of the mess he’s made of things. But what else can he say to Effie besides, “Thanks.” She’s here to butter him up for the slaughter; for that, he is thankful. 

She squeezes his hands and brushes lint off his shoulders. “Now, we have little time and much to get done before your Victor’s Ceremony, so let’s say we whip you into tip-top shape!” 

Ceremony. Not an execution. 

Effie sends Haymitch to the bathroom. He sits quietly for the prep team to fix him up, more to do with his inability to do much else than any real desire to subdue the Peacekeepers’ guns. They each take on their own tasks: soaping him up, trimming his hair, cutting his nails, bandaging his feet. Turn him from monster to puppet. Is there even a difference? 

After brushing his teeth, Effie plucks around the corners of his eyebrows, Haymitch fixates on the pair of tweezers. Less sharp than a knife, but if he were to really press—

“Suit time,” declares Effie with her best mustered enthusiasm. Nothing rattles her, it seems. 

His movements are mechanical as they dress him in another black ensemble. Also belonging to Great-Uncle Silius. Effie returns his flinkstriker to him, and he briefly wonders if your bluebird was returned to you. 

He doesn’t miss the prep team’s revulsion over his scar, and he can’t blame them. Haymitch is disgusted with who he’s become, too. And honestly, that’s the least of his concerns now, because his eyes are still trained on the tweezers sticking out of Effie’s makeup box. 

How quickly can he reach for them before you stop him? 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Between the two of them, Billy Taupe had the sharper mind for memories. Clerk Carmine credits that to him being older, not wiser. Before the turn their lives took for the worst, before the Covey entered their domino of death, he let his older brother do the remembering for him. 

It became routine—a game even, one they’d play on those winter nights when all of them huddled together for warmth in this very room. A room now much too empty, and much too silent. 

Lucy Gray would kick them off, as she did on stage. She’d tighten the blanket around Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine, then sprawl herself across Billy Taupe’s lap. “Pipe down, and listen to your elders.”

“I don’t see any elders here,” Clerk Carmine would quip through the chatter of his teeth. The old miner who’d taken them in and died some winters prior was their elder. Not any one of them, just a handful of years older than Clerk Carmine. Even Tam Amber, the oldest among them, sitting at nineteen at the time with the quiet disposition of a man twice his age, was still practically a kid. 

But Lucy Gray had a way of getting them to quiet and obey anyway. It helped when Barb Azure, with those patient but stern eyes of hers, would narrow them at the two. So, Clerk Carmine and Maude Ivory listened. It wasn't hard to cling to Billy Taupe’s tales once he got started. They were broader than the stories he’d tell Clerk Carmine when it was just the two of them. Stories about their parents, their mama’s love of honeysuckle, their papa’s knack for the fiddle. 

These ones were all about the Covey’s life on the road. Places they’d been and performed, the freedom of their nomadic culture. More often than not, Maude Ivory would jump to finish his sentences, fill in the gaps she memorized from the very first listen in. Clerk Carmine couldn’t credit that to age, being older than her and all. That was just Maude Ivory. 

Times were good then. Good as can be with their way of life taken from them and the threat of frostbite. Took a long time to get a semblance of that back. But eventually, Clerk Carmine did. With Lenore Dove, Burdock, and you. His three little birds—what was left of the Covey’s future, mimicking their past. 

The irony isn’t lost on him.  

When the three of you were younger, learning to question and stir trouble in your own ways, giving every one of your elders a run for their money, Clerk Carmine didn’t know to be grateful for it. He just knew he couldn’t let history repeat itself as far as he could help it. Hard to do when each of you took up such distinct shapes of their ghosts. 

All three of you, always questioning. And with no more Billy Taupe, no more quick-minded Maude Ivory, Clerk Carmine had to churn out his own strength. 

No one else will remember their dead otherwise.  

He feels Billy Taupe most of all in his Lenore Dove, who carries his accordion and his pipe dreams of a different world. Gentler, softer-hearted than he was. But just as dangerous with her thoughts. 

Burdock, capable of charming anyone with a kind smile and an even kinder view of things, is an amalgamation of them all. And though he takes after Sorrel through and through, when he gets to singing, same as you, it’s straight diamonds. Like the voice that once lulled the mockingjays in their woods. 

And then there’s you…who will never again burst through these doors, free as wind, or breathe color back into their mournful stage. Whose melodies now solely belong to the birds. 

Exactly like before. It’s exactly like before. It’s— 

“C.C.?” Tam Amber crosses the doorway softly. He’s been in his workshop for the better part of the last few evenings. Gravestones don’t take much to make supplies wise. The toll they take on one’s heart is a different matter, and Tam Amber’s made far too many over the years. 

Clerk Carmine lifts his head, stopping his eyes at his hunched shoulders. He’s scared if he looks straight at him, right into his own grief, he’ll never want to leave this couch. And he has to—for his Lenore Dove, for what’s left of his family. “About time?” 

“Just about.” 

Tam Amber slips back out to give Clerk Carmine the moment he needs. 

Taking to the corners makes one observant. It’s how Tam Amber always knows what Clerk Carmine needs. After losing Billy Taupe, he wasn’t sure he’d ever know what it was to have an older brother again. He’d been slow to see the steady presence that had been there his whole life. Been there for his first words, first steps, first betrayal by the very person whose role Tam Amber filled. 

First, but not his last. 

The world has taken so much from Clerk Carmine and his people. But the world is not to blame—Coriolanus Snow is, and all men like him. 

Clerk Carmine will never know what happened to their Lucy Gray. Twelve-years-old, what power did he have to do anything more than run through the woods with Maude Ivory, screaming her name for weeks on end? To take his screaming straight on down to the Peacekeeper base, in search of the only person with a sliver of influence that he knew? To carry back the news that the person who saved their Lucy Gray had packed up the same day she disappeared? 

Maybe she’d been left for dead, maybe she escaped, maybe she found people up north, like Billy Taupe believed there to be. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

Now, at fifty-two, Clerk Carmine is no more powerful, but he does know what’s been done to you. They saw it down at the holding cells.

Somewhere in his bones, he knew the Games were coming to their end. Seven mornings ago, during the recap of the night before, five tributes remained. More or less the typical amount left before the Gamemakers stir the pot for their big finale. Last year’s Games were different, not as much fanfare, just like the tenth Games. The earliest one Clerk Carmine makes sure to remember. 

He and Tam Amber, as became their routine, marched down to the jail with the same set of pleas on Lenore Dove’s behalf. Only one Peacekeeper was there to listen, most of them on duty or off doing heavens know what in the name of the greater good. Clerk Carmine later learned they were gathering the crowd in front of the Justice Building to watch you die. He and Tam Amber would have to make do with the dingy screen hanging in the waiting area. 

It escalated without the Gamemakers’ say-so. One minute you were standing with the Abernathy boy, the next you were lying on the ground with a knife sticking out of you. The sponsor gift that was meant to help you spilled in a threatening pool of steam. 

Haymitch ran off without you. To protect the little one you befriended, supposedly. You begged him to go, but he listened on his own accord. Clerk Carmine still doesn’t know which was worse: listening to your agony as you limped through the woods alone, or the later realization that this would be your death march. 

The Career from One found the little girl before either of you could. Your efforts to save her were mighty; Haymitch’s choice to leave her, and then you, was plain stupid. The little girl used whatever strength she had left to defend herself with that blowgun. She paid the price with her head. Over and over again, the ax came down until it popped right off. By some miracle, Clerk Carmine remained standing through his nausea. 

The Career and Haymitch went at it crazed, with the little girl’s head discarded somewhere behind them. Silka, Wellie. Those were their names. Silka only double-downed in her brutality when you arrived on the scene. Wounded as you were, you didn’t go down without a fight, leading her to that hedge where Haymitch discovered a glitch in the arena’s force field. 

Taken out by her own ax, Silka left the two of you injured to the point of death. Except you fared better than Haymitch. Far better, all things considered. Better enough to sit up on your knees and travel to him. Better than your intestines splattered on the floor. 

So then why were you the one suddenly collapsing, choking on your own blackened blood while the boy begged you not to go? Why are you dead? 

If not for the panic they elicited within him, Clerk Carmine wouldn’t have heard Lenore Dove’s wails from far inside. Unlike the day she was born, when those very cries signified a life her mama no longer had, they did not mend his broken heart. 

He had hoped, naively, that she’d be spared from watching the Games in captivity. But there is no corner on earth, no cell restrictive enough, that could save any person from them. 

The single Peacekeeper withheld Clerk Carmine from getting to her. He must’ve assumed Clerk Carmine intended a jailbreak. All he wanted was to scoop her up in his arms like he did when she was a babe and coo promises to save her from this world. Tam Amber, frozen in time, could not do much else but gasp out your name. 

“We’re here, Lenore Dove!” Clerk Carmine shouted, because that was all the comfort he could give her through the wall of the Peacekeeper and his own tears. “We’re here!” 

The Peacekeeper’s heart thawed enough to let them see and hold her through the bars while she cried out for her dear cousin. Suddenly, Clerk Carmine was twelve and thirty-six and fifty-two all at once, weeping for their lost girls. They were sent off with one comfort: Lenore Dove would be out for the funeral. 

They still don’t know when that is. The bodies have yet to arrive, and there’s no telling when they will. Lucy Gray was back a whole two days after her Games. But then, everything was different. They were surprised this morning with the news of the crowning ceremony. Seems their victor is all patched up to receive his accolades and tell his tale. 

Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber weren’t there for Barb Azure when it happened. She does not hold it against them, though Clerk Carmine does. Still, they have to be there now. He reminds himself of this as he pushes up from the couch.

On the porch, Tam Amber holds out his arm. They walk down the steps together, and Clerk Carmine wonders if the Abernathy kin will be there, too. Willamae, a force of a woman, and Sid, whose sunny smile reminds him so very painfully of Maude Ivory. He wouldn’t put it past Barb Azure to invite them back; he wouldn’t put it past the two of them to extend their own empathy in turn.

Selfishly, Clerk Carmine hopes they turned her down. He doesn’t think he can stand to look at them without keeling over from the guilt of wishing it was you coming home to them. Barb Azure stands it because she’s stronger than him. Tam Amber can too, because he’s incapable of bitterness. And because both of them, now sharing the distinct knowledge of losing a child, could never wish it upon someone else. Three decades now since the smallpox took Tam Amber’s little Henry Russet and his mama. The passage of time will never erase the memory of them dead in his arms.  

Clerk Carmine doesn’t want to wish Haymitch dead. 

He’s always known him and his rebel roots to be trouble, and he’s certainly tried to will him far away from the Covey children. But Lenore Dove isn’t the only one attracted to danger. When Burdock started bringing him around, when Clerk Carmine started noticing the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you, he knew there was no stopping it. As there was no stopping the others. 

Haymitch is just a boy, and deep down, Clerk Carmine knows there’s only so much he can fault him for. One crime he can’t be tried for is disparaging your heart. 

Though Clerk Carmine would’ve rather not seen anything at all, he can be honest in admitting Haymitch’s tenderness towards you. Different from the way Billy Taupe lauded Lucy Gray around like she was a tally to add to his list. From the way Snow looked at her like a prize to be won and claimed. Truer than the love that burned her twice, than that given to Maude Ivory by the unnamed Peacekeeper and that Chance boy. Closer to the affection Sorrel holds for Barb Azure; only, made up of more than their friendship. Something far more fatal, for Sorrel would never let their Barb Azure be anything but safe. 

The boy is not to blame. Even so…

Tam Amber halts, forcing Clerk Carmine to do the same. They’ve only made it two houses over, about a dozen left til they reach Barb Azure. But when a figure fades in with the early specks of night, Clerk Carmine sees why they’ve stopped prematurely. 

Albert is not rash, and perhaps that’s why Clerk Carmine loves him so. He makes Clerk Carmine safe when the way of things says he shouldn’t be. Right now, all he feels as Albert nears is frustration. 

“I’ll meet you at Barb Azure’s,” he says to Tam Amber in a rushed whisper. 

Tam Amber taps his hand and carries on his path. When he crosses Albert, he accepts his condolences with a saddened hum. 

Clerk Carmine doesn’t do the same. “Now ain’t the time, Albie.” 

Albert shakes his head. Is he aware they’re standing in the middle of the road? They’re lucky to be on the far end of the Seam, with no one out on their porch right now. “I should’ve come sooner.” 

“No, you shouldn’t’ve. You shouldn’t be here now.” 

The last they saw of each other was the night Lenore Dove was arrested. They met at their usual spot, where Clerk Carmine confided he wasn’t sure they could meet again in the coming weeks. 

Albert cradled his face, pressed a kiss to his nose the way he always did when he wanted to take his pain. “You got a lot on your plate right now. Don’t you fret over me.” 

“I always do,” Clerk Carmine murmured against his lips. His dearest love, who keeps him warm and whole. How could he not fret over his Albie? 

“I had to see you,” insists Albert. “I had to tell you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” snaps Clerk Carmine, feeling the sting behind his eyes. 

“—I’m sorry.” 

Albert carries on, but Clerk Carmine isn’t here anymore. He’s in the doorway to his room instead, looking down at your sweet face as you weakly attempt to hide the guitar behind you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, scrunching up your nose. 

Clerk Carmine kneels. “Whatever for, little miss?” 

“I shouldn’t touch what isn’t mine.” You cast your eyes to the floor. “They tell us that in school.” 

He peeks past your shoulder to the guitar. It hasn’t felt the touch of music in so very long. Lucy Gray wouldn’t want it that way, holed up in his closet until the day he dies. “It can be yours.” 

You meet his gaze then, your hesitation blooming into something much brighter, like the sunflowers Tam Amber planted in their backyard all those years ago. 

No one is tending to the sunflowers now. No one. And it’s still too light out for Albert to be here, and anyone could see them, and he should be with Barb Azure by now. But Clerk Carmine lets Albert pull him into his arms anyway. 

“I am so sorry, my love,” Albert whispers in his ear, voice cracking in rhythm with his sobs. 

Clerk Carmine does not stay wrapped in his comfort for long, though he desperately wants to. He accepts Albert’s kisses to his nose, the wiping of his tears, and somehow, finds the strength to walk away. 

The interview has already started when he arrives. Willamae and Sid are there, but they keep to the far end of the room. 

Burdock sits between them and Barb Azure, hair unkempt much like Sorrel’s, more ashen than Clerk Carmine remembers him yesterday. Like he’s been ripped in two. Like all that’s left of him is the half that doesn’t work properly. 

My poor little bird, with no reason to sing. 

Barb Azure, to her credit, remains steady as the show goes on. The way she’d get when any one of them was sick and she’d be forced to balance her fear with care. 

They skip over pieces Clerk Carmine swears he saw in real time. Your lullaby on the mountainside and goodbye with the little boy from Three; your fall into the lake during the volcano eruption; the Covey’s funeral song, which you gifted to Maysilee Donner as she left this world. The last one is a particular spite, but there’s little room to ponder it when they near the end. 

Sorrel holds his arms around Barb Azure, the only thing keeping her upright, when they play the recap of your death. Sorrel’s own dam breaks then. So does Burdock’s. He clamps his hands over his mouth and rushes to the nearest basin—the kitchen sink—emptying what Clerk Carmine is sure to be next to nothing in his stomach. 

Tam Amber follows after him, rubs his back, and soothes his gagging best he can. 

In his corner, Sid covers his ears and buries his face into Willamae’s trembling side. Clerk Carmine fights the urge to do the same—to hide like he tried to when Lucy Gray’s name was called all those decades ago—because he has to watch. He has to remember, if no one else can. 

This, however, is not what needs to be remembered. The last moments of the Games, the grand finale, are all wrong. The lead-up is much shorter—the little girl you took under your wing is completely skipped over. How you wind up with that pitcher of hot chocolate is a mystery now, one that doesn’t matter in the heat of the final battle. After you’re stabbed by the District Four girl, like Clerk Carmine saw before, you beg Haymitch to leave you for his own sake. Not Wellie’s. And he listens. 

When the time comes, you are dead before Haymitch reaches you and delivers what is surely meant to be a beautiful goodbye. It’s not. On Caesar Flickerman’s stage, dolled up for the show, the boy looks sick with himself. Good, Clerk Carmine thinks before he can remind himself better. 

They’ve taken your last words, your final chance to hold your head up high, your brave, big heart which no one deserves. Haymitch is framed as the tragic hero, and you, the stepping stone for his victory. 

Clerk Carmine breathes in once. He tries to recall Albert’s arms and kisses, tries to steel himself with the reminder that Lenore Dove is coming home, but his mind is caught in a spiral. There is no stopping this. It’s already started. Exactly like before. 

How many more of their girls will they take? How many more of you will be erased from history? 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Haymitch doesn’t speak, but he thinks they like it best that way. Adds to his image. Grieving lover, brooding rascal, tragic hero. Whatever it is they want him to be tonight. 

Music blasts from the overhead speakers scattered all around the Capitol zoo. Ironic that they don’t cage him this time. Haymitch should be grateful for that. All he really feels is the ache of your absence and the desperation to keep those he can from the repercussions of his actions. 

Seven nights ago, Panem bore witness to the start of his humiliation. Oh, how the Capitol audience ate it up. They were none the wiser to his attempts at rebellion or any one of his posters in the arena. Whoever was responsible for editing the Games saw to that. They didn’t need to change much to display every painfully true way in which Haymitch failed you. 

He closes his eyes and sees all he couldn’t protect you from displayed on Caesar’s stage: the horrors of the bloodbath, the volcano, the jabberjays. He remembers your numbness when he found you, not knowing what to credit it to at the time. Why hadn’t he been there sooner? 

There was a brief moment before the recap started where Haymitch believed he might get to see exactly how it played out. Did he leave you on the glass or the primrose? Did you drink the hot chocolate or not? Deep down, he knows the answer doesn’t matter, so it shouldn’t change much that he didn’t get one. When all is said and done, there’s no one else to blame but himself. 

Everyone back home will. Does. He isn’t certain yet, but he’s got a good inkling on which way it’ll go. Whatever they were shown during the actual Games is a fleeting imagination compared to the reality of their sell-out victor. Twelve doesn’t want him, and especially not now. The only people who might forgive him, who might be willing to see past his mistakes, are Ma and Sid. 

When Haymitch opens his eyes again, he’s back on that stage.

Helpless while he watched President Snow’s descent from a floating platform, and his cruel, mocking smile. “What a well-earned victory, Mr. Abernathy.”

“You would know,” Haymitch said, freshly clipped nails dug into his skin. “I guess snow does land on top.”

Snow only smiled wider, as vicious as he was when he first dangled your life in front of him. “Enjoy your homecoming.” 

Since then, he’s been carted around the Capitol like a prized dog. From parties to fashion shoots to parades in his honor. Haymitch lets it happen, lets them project whatever it is they expect from him. Pa must be rolling in his grave to see his oldest boy playing into their hands. And Maysilee… 

Oh, Maysilee, I have broken my promise to you, too. 

She was right: you were much better suited for the task. You are the one who should be going back home. There’s no shortage of people who care for you, who’d believe in you. These past nights, back in the apartment when he’s relieved from his duties of kissing ass, Haymitch thinks about every one of them. 

Burdock, Lenore Dove, your parents and uncles. People he’s known you to talk to in passing, trade with at the Hob, offer up what you can to them. Even Sid, who, if he’s still alive to feel it, may very well be overjoyed to see his brother again. He loved you, too. 

Initially consumed by his own selfish ache, Haymitch carves out time to remember that he took you from them. As much as he’s lost you himself. 

A pair of teal-haired Capitol folk pass him and point his way. Haymitch is not caged this time; he is chained to a corner by the snake pen. Keeps most passersby from approaching too close. 

He just has to get through this on his best behavior, even if every fiber of his being is telling him otherwise, because there is no world in which Snow will not punish him for his last attempt to light a fire under him. Because life without you, apparently, is not punishment enough. 

It’d be so much easier if you just let Haymitch follow. 

His view of the teal pair is replaced by the lens of a camera. Plutarch gets a nice shot from afar, and when his camera lowers briefly, Haymitch catches his narrowed eyes. Meant to express…pity? Judgement? Both, more likely than not. 

He could stand Effie’s sympathy, but not Plutarch’s, or any of those who have come up to tell him how beautiful the two of you were. 

Though he’s been recording every sordid, humiliating moment of Haymitch’s time in the Capitol, Plutarch has really only tried to speak to him during the crowning after party. He approached his cage, condolences on the tip of his tongue, and before he could speak them aloud, Haymitch crawled over to the cat-eared lady offering him shrimp. 

Now, Plutarch gives him space. Even that is a taunt. 

Haymitch doesn’t want to accept anything from Plutarch. His pity or his well-meaning distance. What he wants is to smash his camera to pieces and every one of the Capitol’s pillars with it. What he wants is to go home to Ma and Sid, crumble into their arms. What he wants is to feel your warmth pressed up against him one last time. 

His throat tightens, and right at the base of it, a lump settles. His bottom lip quivers, which Plutarch must catch on camera. He drops his lens entirely, gives Haymitch a strange look, and walks off the other way. Strange. He wouldn’t have taken Plutarch as capable of expressing any kind of guilt. 

Dawn eventually breaks over the scene, prompting most to head on home. Slumped against the corner in exhaustion, Haymitch hardly reacts when the Peacekeepers lift him by the underarms. For the first time in two weeks, he feels something close to relief when they take him down to the train station instead of the apartment. 

There, a doctor removes the pump in his chest. The teeth detach, leaving oozy indents in his skin and the aftereffects of whatever drugs they’ve been pumping into him. They wear off quickly, and his scar starts to hurt. Made worse by the deprivation of cushy mattresses or the bunk beds from before. 

The Peacekeepers lug Haymitch straight into the room Plutarch once freed him from. Wrapped in Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne bubble jacket, he finds a new corner to wallow in the pain. 

Show’s over now, but the train hasn’t budged. A couple hours pass, and the only movement is the Peacekeeper who brings Haymitch a roll and a carton of milk. Snow’s still managing his diet then. 

“What are we waiting for?” he asks hoarsely. 

“Your friends,” replies the Peacekeeper, with a nod to the window. He goes without expanding. 

A naive part of Haymitch hopes he means Mags and Wiress, that they’re coming to bid him farewell and give him the reunion they were deprived of before his crowning. But Haymitch saw the state they were in at the time. The state he put them in just by being their ward. 

Haymitch peers out the window of his cell. Sure enough, no Mags or Wiress. Three carts are being rolled down the platforms, each carrying a plain wooden box. Coffins. Your families have been waiting weeks for their beloved children, and all this time, his only comforting belief was that the three of you were already resting peacefully in your family plots. But no, the long shots of Twelve are finishing this journey together. 

His body shakes uncontrollably as he imagines the state of the bodies. Violated by blades and birds and poison. Your body—multilated by his own broken promise. There’s no indication to make him believe it, but he’s confident the last one is yours. Empty, dead, and all my fault. 

Muffled thuds and nearby door hinges signify the coffins are being loaded in the next car over. Haymitch jolts, rushing to the wall separating them. “Wait!” 

There’s a murmur on the other side, and he bangs on the wall to get them to shut up and listen. 

“I want to be with her,” he chokes out. “I want to—” 

But this is part of his punishment, to never be with you again. 

“Take me with her!” Haymitch slams his whole body against the wall, hoping to break it down completely. He’s too weak and too hurt to cause any real damage to anything but himself. Doesn’t stop him from trying, or screaming your name, or bringing his knuckles to the steel in an attempt to get to you. Even after the train rolls onward. 

Even after his knuckles split open and blood spools out.

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Calla no longer searches for Burdock in his room. Yours is much dearer to her now. She hasn’t left it in the last two weeks. Not to wander as is her routine. Not when he tries to coax her to come out. She refuses each attempt of his, curls into a ball atop your bed, and licks at her paws lazily. 

He’s fairly certain it’s her way of mourning you. 

Even now, as Burdock sinks onto the floor beside your bed, a pair of scissors in hand, she pretends he isn’t there. Fine by him. Her lack of company is in keeping with what he needs right now. 

Every wall in this house is rotten with grief, except for these four. On that, he and Calla can agree. Mama and Papa, on the other hand, aren’t ready to come in here yet. Burdock can’t fault them. To feel your presence, in the freshness of the loss, is as much an agony as it is a comfort. 

It’s a strange thing, to be born into the world with a piece of your soul waiting for you on the outside.  Stranger still to find a way to function without it. In the weeks you were away but alive, Burdock hadn’t lost the tether that kept you connected. Changed and thinned, but still thrumming with life. 

Things will be different, once you’re back, returned to them and the earth. Burdock will know you’re at peace then, amid the birds in the sky. He and Papa will wash each other’s hair over the sink. They will begin the process of remembering your life instead of simply mourning your death. 

But for now…you are away and dead, and the only place Burdock still feels your tether is this room. 

He grips the dull edges of the scissors, examining the tip of the blade. Papa told him not to rush it. Didn’t need to be rushed, with no set funeral date anyways. But Papa took out his braid, cut his strand at the nape of his neck, that very evening. Funny how Papa could nip his piece of hair so soon but can’t come into your room. Funny how the reverse is true of Burdock. 

There was no need to do this when your grandparents died because there were bodies to bury in the Everdeen plot. His papa explained, soon after his mamaw’s death, how that wasn’t always the case. Many patches of their family’s land were empty, save for what they could give their kin. 

There will be a body to bury with you, technically. But every one of them knows you wouldn’t want to be stuck in one place for eternity. Restless bird that you are. A piece of you will be with the Everdeens; your spirit with the rest of your people, free in the woods. 

Find the willow. Talk to the birds. They have not taken you, my stubborn, bright twin. 

Burdock’s breath comes out in shudders. He tries to stop the worst of it by biting down on his cheek, but the resulting throb in his chest refuses his attempts. A whisker brushes his neck. Seems Calla has finally noticed his presence. Though she’s done it plenty of times to him, he’s sorry for disturbing her. 

“Burdock?” 

He looks over at his mama, at her blurred, sorrowful figure, holds up the scissors, and blubbers, “I’m ready.” 

She doesn’t hesitate to cross the doorway, dropping onto her knees beside Burdock. Mama pulls him close and rubs circles on his back to get him to stop shaking. He focuses on the steadiness and rhythm of her hands, ties them back to the old lullaby she’d sing the two of you to sleep. 

She’s been falling back on it as of the last few days. Hums it under her breath whenever she’s in the kitchen, or waiting on the porch for Papa to arrive from the mines. Burdock waits with her, the way he would when you got it in your head to do the same all those years ago. You were terrified that one day the mines would get him, and nothing could convince you otherwise until you saw him making his way home for yourself. 

Burdock doesn’t think Mama’s scared in the same way. It’s more about reminding all three of them that there are still people in this home. Wasn’t easy coming back to it on the day they watched you…

The Gamemakers must’ve planned for it to be the last day of the Games, because Papa received word he wasn’t to work, and most of the Seam was given the directive to head on to the Justice Building. Peacekeepers rolled down the streets in their tanks after the morning recap, calling through the speakerphones for all available and able-bodied citizens to report. 

They’ve never done that before; usually, they watch the end from wherever they are, and that’s that. But it’s a Quarter Quell, and the Gamemakers are always looking to build on their spectacle, and it’s not like everything else about these Games hasn’t been unusual. It wasn’t until they saw the cameras perched around that Burdock understood why they wanted a reaping-sized audience. 

District Twelve has never had a tribute make it to the last day, let alone two of them. Well…not in the last forty years. Burdock wondered, at the time, what she’d make of the erasure. 

A pair of Peacekeepers identified him, Mama, and Papa as the Everdeen clan. Promptly, they brought them to the front row, right next to Willamae and Sid. Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber were down seeing about Lenore Dove’s release, and good thing. If it weren’t for the cameras, Burdock might’ve found it a comfort to be surrounded by his people. 

There was no comfort in watching you die like that. 

Every gasp and murmured curse in the audience rang in his ears. The don’t leave her’s shouted at Haymitch’s departure from Wellie, the groans rippled in the air after you took Maritte’s knife to the abdomen. Worst of all—more than Willamae’s shriek for Haymitch when the ax sliced him, more than your dying wheezes, more than Haymitch’s scream for you—was Mama’s reaction. 

She was a pillar through all of it, as she’d been at the reaping. Those cameras on the stage were looking for a reaction she, Papa, and Burdock would not give. When it came to pass, when the screens went dark immediately after the victor’s announcement, Burdock almost slipped. He pinched the skin around his nails to keep from throwing up, crying, both.  

Willamae, who kept a sobbing Sid held within her arms, turned to them after the news set. Her tears fell freely, with joy and remorse in equal measure. “Barb Azure, I…”

Mama shushed her, mustered a weary smile, and squeezed the hand not stroking Sid’s hair. “Your boy’s coming home.” 

Once home, Mama’s collapse was immediate. With a thud to the floor, she let out a sharp, agonizing cry, as if she were being swallowed by the earth. Burdock thought it a miracle she held it in for so long. He and Papa followed her down. 

She hasn’t wailed like that since, but she hasn’t hid her sadness either. It seeps through in the way she holds Burdock a little tighter now, cooing gentle assurances. “Let it out, baby.”

The tremors stop long enough for him to draw a full breath. On the next inhale, Mama loosens her grip, and Burdock sections a bit of hair at the nape of his neck. 

“You can grow long hair if you really want to,” you tell him, brows pinched up. 

Burdock points the brush at you. “Mine doesn’t grow as quick as yours.” 

He keeps the strands pinched between his fingers when the scissors cut through. 

“It could.” You shrug. 

“Just turn around, will you?” 

Mama hands him the string he let fall from his lap. He’s not shaking at all as he ties it around the piece of hair.

You roll your eyes and let him get to work. When the braid’s done, you smile at him. “I still think you can.” 

It rests on the floor between them. She wipes his face, waiting until he calms completely to say, “Asterid’s here to see you.” 

“She is?” Burdock’s seen Asterid every day for the last two weeks, but his surprise comes from the hour in which she’s chosen to visit him now. The miners, his papa included, have long since begun their day, but it’s much too dark out for her to be here. 

“I can ask her to come back later.” Mama rubs his shoulder. 

She’s been outside for who knows how long, and Burdock isn’t about to let her go off without whatever it is she came here for. Besides, he needs to see her. He pockets the piece of hair and hands the scissors to his mama. “No, that’s okay. I won’t be long.” 

She nods, watching him stand. When he doesn’t feel her behind him at the doorway, Burdock looks over at her again. She’s turned away now, her head resting on your bed as she reaches a hand towards Calla. Pesky little cat nuzzles into it. 

Burdock breathes out and resumes his trek. 

Really, it’s a good thing Asterid’s here so early. She’ll give him the strength he needs to finally pay a visit to Willamae and Sid. He hasn’t seen them since they watched Haymitch’s crowning together. A whole week now, which, for Burdock, has consisted of taking to the woods, staying in your room, or seeking out Asterid. 

He hasn’t meant to avoid them, just as he’s sure they haven’t meant to do the same. On the night of the crowning ceremony, he overheard Willamae tell his mama she’d be there for them in whatever way she could, as his mama has been there for them. She wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true, but he reckons Willamae believes what they need most right now is the space. 

Sid’s reaction after the ceremony concluded must’ve been what planted that thought. 

Sweet Sid was a wreck when they watched it live in the square. Covering his ears while Silka sliced off Wellie’s head, then his eyes as you took the brunt of her hysteria, turning green when Haymitch’s guts spilled out. Rewatching it—changed and warped as the Capitol made it out to be—wasn’t any better. 

Sid ran out the second the recap ended, and before Willamae could lift off, Burdock did. He was already standing, no longer hurling into the sink. Sid stopped right down the steps, planting his feet into the dirt pathway like that might help keep him steady. Burdock grabbed onto his arms, in case it didn’t. 

“I didn’t want her to die,” Sid blurted and sniffled. “I didn’t. But I—I really want to see Haymitch.”

His confession was laced with a guilt that shouldn’t belong to someone so soft-hearted and young. 

Burdock swallowed down what remained of his nausea and embraced him. “I’m glad he’s coming back,” he whispered into Sid’s hair, meaning each word. He thought for sure neither one of you would survive. Not after the realization of how deep your feelings ran for each other. And especially not after you found little Wellie and all but swore to get her to the end. 

He was relieved one of you made it out. He is. But that relief can’t exist without the voice in his head wishing it were you. Burdock knows if the roles were reversed, he’d feel as guilty as Sid. He already does. 

The porch creeks under his boots. Asterid turns to him, staring into his eyes long enough for him to catch on to her exhaustion. In the sky, specks of stars are gearing up to turn into sunlight soon enough. 

“I’m sorry I made you wait.” 

“I don’t mind waiting.” Asterid holds up a glass jar of what Burdock immediately recognizes as sleep syrup. “I imagine you haven’t been sleeping well.” 

Burdock accepts the jar, motioning for Asterid to sit beside him on the porch steps. “Have you? Been sleeping?” 

She hesitates as she settles down and smooths out the sides of her skirt. “Mr. and Mrs. Donner gave me Maysilee’s canary. She sings quite early in the mornings. Earlier than I need to get up to open the shop.” 

For all their natural animosity, it seems there’s little distinction between cats and canaries when it comes to grief. 

“She probably misses her. Needs time to adjust to her new environment.” Needing to soothe the pain he knows Asterid keeps hidden, wanting to believe time really can bring healing, Burdock adds, “She will eventually.” 

“I thought I might just set her free.” Her chin wobbles. Easy to miss for anyone not paying attention, but Asterid always holds his. “But I figure, if she’s so used to living in a cage, will she even know how to survive outside it?” 

“Birds are stronger than people give ’em credit for.” 

She stews in his words while he stares at the side of her face, taking notice of every detail of her from this angle. Fine as she seems now, Burdock remembers the way she shut down the day Maysilee died. A reaction as volatile as any other. 

Horrific and merciless in nature, Maysilee’s death was no easier to watch than yours. Those birds came out of nowhere, and they only had eyes for Maysilee. You and Haymitch fought them off, but by the time her throat was ripped wide open, the best either of you could do was stay by her side and hold onto her.

Burdock was far from friends with Maysilee, but she mattered in her own right, and she was dear to Asterid. Dear to her own twin, who is no doubt carrying an empty weight similar to the one in Burdock’s chest.

Hearing you sing your people’s funeral song to her, there was no doubt in his mind that Maysilee meant a whole lot to you, too. Haymitch, Maysilee—you sure fooled the lot of them with your declarations of hate. When Burdock thinks back on it now, on every interaction you and Haymitch have ever had, he sees it clearer. The love. Makes it even harder to think of the state Haymitch will return in. Makes his own lungs ache. 

They erased the song you gifted Maysilee during the recap, among other things. Shortened moments, scrapped details, warped happenings. It was almost a completely different Quell than the one they watched live. Shouldn’t be so surprising, given how the reaping turned out. Given that watching it live still left things up to the imagination. Like why your blood was black in the end, if you never touched the arena’s poison. 

Burdock rationalized it with the assumption that Maritte’s knife was dipped in lake water or sap, like Maysilee’s blowdarts. It was bad enough that they changed anything at all during the recap. He didn’t have the mind to unravel their web then. If he really thinks about it now, he’ll drive himself crazy trying to make sense of it all. 

His efforts are better spent making sure you’re remembered for who you are, not how you died. Taking care of those who remind him he is still needed in this world, and life will be good again one day. You’d damn him if he didn’t.

“Asterid?” Burdock scoots over until their shoulders are touching. 

“Yes?” 

He slips his hand into hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as her eyes begin to well. “Thank you for the sleep syrup.” 

She squeezes his hand and exhales slowly. 

He wants to say so much more about how much he misses you, and how her grief isn’t secondary to his, and how he wants them to heal together, in whatever way that might look like. But the ash raining down from the sky, thicker than the kind that normally exists in Twelve, stops him short. 

“Help!”

Burdock shoots up to his feet. Asterid isn’t far behind. 

“Help! Help!”

The voice is coming from at least a half dozen houses over, muffled by the blanket of ash and the sinking realization of what’s happening. 

Burdock turns to Asterid. “Stay here.”

She furrows her brows. “If someone needs help—”

“It’s a fire, Asterid.” He hands her back the jar. “Please stay here until we put it out.” 

Reluctant, she nods once. Burdock takes off. Even if he didn’t recognize the house as the very one he grew up visiting, the shrieks coming from inside confirm it for him. 

Their words are distorted, but Willamae and Sid are not quiet as they burn. 

Fire catches quick around these parts, and so, the house is already engulfed when Burdock catches up to the crowd. Cayson McCoy, who’s to credit for the hollers for help, is wide-eyed and frazzled as he calls out, “Their cistern’s empty. What do we do?”

“Use the pump from the next house over,” demands Burdock, rushing to fill a bucket. Blair runs up behind him and fills his own. Every neighbor in direct proximity rushes to their own houses and begins the labor of putting out the flames. He yells out, “If we can clear out a path, one of us can run inside to get ’em. Now c’mon!” 

They target the window on the side of the house which Burdock knows to be the main bedroom. Without any direct instructions, people fall into distinct roles: a group of them fill the buckets, the fastest runners transport them to Burdock, Blair, and the older neighbors, who fail to make a dent in the fire. 

He can’t tell how long they’re at it, but they don’t give up. Not one of them throws in the towel, even if Willamae and Sid are no longer yelling. 

“Ma!” 

Oh, please, no. Burdock and Blair run towards Haymitch’s voice. They catch him right as he attempts to cross into the fire-drenched doorway. He puts up a fight, but the two of them manage to drag him onto the ground. 

“Let me up! Let me loose, you—”

Burdock pushes him down forcefully, sitting on top of him and clamping a hand over his mouth to get him to listen. He’s vaguely aware of the dried blood on Haymitch’s fists. What were they doing to him? “It’s too late, Haymitch. We tried. It’s too late.”

In response, he sinks his teeth into his palm. With a hiss, Burdock retracts his hand and puts more weight on his chest. Haymitch only wails louder, “Ma! Sid! Maaaaa!” 

Blair tightens his grip on his right arm. Tears streak down his soot-stained face. “We’re so sorry, Haymitch. We tried. You know we did. We just couldn’t save them.”

Haymitch refuses to hear it—or maybe he can’t. Burdock’s ears are still ringing, too. “No! Let me go!” He thrashes under them, screaming and pleading just like he did in that arena for you. Burdock doesn’t let up, though his own body is trembling again. “Let me go with them! Please!” 

The fire is finally dying, a slow and stubborn process. As it dwindles, Burdock knows no one could have survived that. He should’ve come sooner. 

Today’s sunrise is a harrowing one, putting the last fourteen to shame. The ash tinges the yellow of the sky with two more deaths on top of the three they’ve already been mourning. Haymitch refuses to let up, hysterical to the point where there’s a good chance he’ll hurt himself. 

Burdock sees Asterid rushing over, and he forces himself to breathe. “Can you help him?”

She looks between the fire and Haymitch, her face bunched up. Kneeling beside his head, she unscrews the bottle of sleep syrup. “Drink this, Haymitch. Drink until I say when.”

He listens and parts his lips when she brings the bottle to them. She pours the syrup down his throat. “One, two, three, four, five—okay, when.” She pulls back the bottle and caresses his hair. “That’s right. That’s good. Try to rest now.”

Haymitch blinks languidly. “What…?”

“Just some sleep syrup.” 

“Ma… Sid…” His hazy eyes find Burdock again, and he whimpers your name. 

Such a small, pitiful sound, and yet, it breaks Burdock clean in half. He stumbles back. 

Asterid glances at him, pained, then continues to reassure Haymitch. “I know. I know. We’ll do what can be done. You go to sleep now. Sleep.” 

As Haymitch fades into unconsciousness, Burdock fleetingly thinks to take him back to his home. Mama wouldn’t deny him that, and neither would Papa. But Burdock… He has so many questions he wants to ask about things he saw and things he didn’t. Questions about your last moments and why you aren’t here. Questions that are his burden to bear, not Haymitch’s. When he wakes, he’ll have to reckon with what’s happened this morning, and with what happened while he was away. 

In the freshness of his own loss—one they share in different ways—Burdock doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stick to that understanding. He doesn’t know how not to ask. 

So, when Blair poses the problem of where Haymitch should go, he takes him to the McCoy’s. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

The wide eyes that greet him are kinder than any of the creatures who haunted him in the Capitol lab. Much sadder, too. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi, Hay.” Louella brushes a curl out of her face. Past her shoulder, there are three other beds in the room. She moves from the floor to the edge of his mattress. “I’m real sorry about your ma, and Sid, and…” 

His chest only responds with a slight pang. He’s almost entirely numb again, and he guesses the sleep syrup is to thank for that. “Do you know what happened?” To his ma and Sid. Everyone already knows what he did to you. 

“Cayson saw the first kindlings. Shouted us all awake. We all ran to help any way we could. Well, they didn’t let me close enough to do much, but I tried.” She plays with the end of one of her braids. 

“I’m sure you did, sweetheart,” he says with as much sincerity as his heavy heart allows. She did try. More than anything he ever did for them. 

Mrs. McCoy walks in with a steaming mug of tea cupped in both hands. “Good, you’re up.” She shoos Louella off the bed. “Time to get ready, honey. Go put on your dress.” Haymitch accepts the mug, noticing the bandages around his knuckles. She sighs. “Sorrel brought a suit for you to wear. I reckon you want out of that.”

He glances down at Great-Uncle Silius’s champagne jacket. “Why do I need a…” The dread is instant. He thought he slept through the funerals. 

Mrs. McCoy breathes in. “We really did try, Haymitch. But the pump was slow, and your cistern was dry. Nothing else we could do once the house was aflame.” 

“My fault,” he mumbles. He didn’t fill up the cistern, he didn’t listen to Snow, he didn’t save any one of you. 

“You’ll be thinking everything’s your fault for a long while. But that’s gotta wait. We bury them today. You know what your ma would want. You got others who need you today, too.” 

Too numb to do anything else but listen, Haymitch gets out of bed. He dresses in your pa’s loaned suit, a blue as dark as the night sky, not the shade of your bird’s wings. The cuffs are lined with purple detailings. Each piece of cloth is a whip to his back. 

Ima, their eldest daughter, comes in with the champagne ensemble clean and folded. Her eyes are filled with the same sympathy as Louella’s, as Effie’s, as all those back in the Capitol who’d come up to mention you. Punishing in opposite ways. “We’ll leave this here for now.” 

Haymitch gives an absentminded nod. With his own clothes burned to ash, he’ll have to reuse that suit for the coming weeks. He tucks his flintstriker under his shirt. 

Outside, a single pine coffin awaits them. Mr. McCoy clamps a hand over his shoulder. “They had hold of each other. Thought we’d let them stay that way.”

Ma and Sid clinging to each other for eternity. It’s all the comfort he’ll ever get. 

Burdock comes by with your parents. In the light of day, his urgency faded to nothing, Haymitch sees him clearly. His hair looks unwashed, and the bags under his eyes give away the sorrow his stoicism attempts to hide. Your ma and pa share the same weariness. Each of them are dressed in dark colors, but not complete black. 

Sorrel glances over at Haymitch, who immediately ducks his head. Barb Azure gives a gentle call of his name, and he pretends not to hear it. 

He doesn’t deserve to see the faces who gave you yours. 

Burdock and Sorrel help carry the coffin, alongside Blair and Mr. McCoy. Yours must be at the graveyard already. Haymitch’s shame grows tenfold. He took them from you, and still, they are here for him. 

He limps behind them as they proceed. Mourners from every corner of the Seam join them. By the time they reach the graveyard, there are a couple hundred of them waiting. Most, if not all of them, should be at work. They’ll call in sick, come up with some excuse. But they all need to grieve together now. 

Haymitch scans the crowd, avoiding the eyes flickering over to him, which are no doubt casting their judgement for how he did you wrong. He focuses on the four graves already dug, on the other three coffins spread throughout the hill. One for Maysilee, one for Wyatt, one for you. Yours is next to Wyatt, though, which doesn’t make sense. Neither does the fact that Burdock and Barb Azure are still by his side while Sorrel takes a shovel to the Everdeen plot. And why is the rest of your kin missing? They should be here for you now.

As Burdock steps back from Ma and Sid’s shared coffin, Haymitch finally gathers the will to speak to him. “Where’s Lenore Dove?” 

“In jail.” 

Seems he is capable of something other than shame right now: panic. “What?”

Burdock tugs him closer by the elbow and whispers, “She’ll be there for the burial. My uncles are getting her home now.” 

“I don’t—” Haymitch meets his eyes, a different shade than yours, and yet all he’s met with is your reflection. 

He doesn’t explain further. Instead, he points to the pine coffin beside Wyatt’s and asks, “Who’s the other one for?” 

A woman behind them answers, “Jethro Callow. Hung himself yesterday when his boy returned. Couldn’t bear the shame.” 

No money to be made off Wyatt’s death then. Good. 

The mayor arrives to speak over the departed. Haymitch can hardly understand him. He listens to the birdsong instead, searches for your melody among them, tries to stand with dignity as Ma would want. 

For a horrible moment, he sees Maysilee across the graveyard, dressed in her District 12 black, and calls out to her. She bursts into tears and buries her face into a handkerchief. Merrilee. Mr. Donner sobs beside her. 

Haymitch recoils. More eyes fall on him again, taking in their deranged, selfish victor. Blair helps him back into his place. He keeps watch on those around the Donners. The mayor’s son, Asterid, Otho. Oliver Schmidt, downtrodden and crying like the rest of them. 

Would he have let this happen to you? Probably not. Oliver Schmidt, with all his niceties, would’ve given you a better shot at life. 

Coffins are lowered into the ground. Dirt falls atop them with rhythmic thuds. Burdock and Barb Azure join Sorrel by the small hole he dug, kneeling together. Sorrel retrieves something from his pocket that Haymitch can’t make out from here. He lays it into the dirt, and all three of them patch up the hole with their hands. 

A kind soul lays wildflowers on each mound. Sorrel follows with willow tree branches. The sight of them, the wailing, the lingering scent of ash is all so wretched, Haymitch wants to run and hide away. 

But then Burdock begins to sing, and the nearby mockingjays fall silent. What choice does Haymitch have but to do the same? 

He floats through the first verses in that clear, sweet voice of his. Despite the pieces his heart must be in now, he doesn’t waver. He is as steadfast and open as when you sang for Mamaw. For Maysilee. His strength latches onto the mourners, who’ve all quieted by the time he reaches the end. 

When I’m pure like a dove, 

When I’ve learned how to love,

Right here in 

The old therebefore,

When nothing 

Is left anymore.  

Unlike the Covey girl, Burdock’s melody doesn’t haunt Haymitch. As the mockingjays pick up the tune, he only thinks of the hereafter in his song. Your other world, where you’re surely free now. Where Ma and Sid are, too. 

Person after person begins their goodbyes to the dead. Haymitch presses his three middle fingers to his lips and raises his hand high, like everyone else. He glimpses at your family, now enveloped by stray mourners who’ve wandered, not to offer their condolences, but to cherish who you were. 

Once it’s over, his numbness returns. The McCoys usher people back to their place. Blindly, Haymitch starts after them. Burdock stops him, pulls him away from the crowd and towards his parents. It’s unbearable to be near them. He doesn’t want, nor need, the reminder that he has no parents anymore. He doesn’t need to know the pain he’s caused yours in order to feel it. 

He bites down on his tongue when Barb Azure pulls him into an embrace. She smells of blackberries and the dirt where some piece of you was just buried. Haymitch will not, cannot, cry. He has no right to force her into a position of comforting him. 

She pulls back and holds his face in her hands, giving him no choice but to look at her. He sees you in her eyebrows, and nose, and the way she holds herself a little taller as she says, “Come along now.” 

Haymitch can’t deny her, or any of your family, a thing. So, he forces his legs not to crumble as they start the trek out of the graveyard. He expects to see your house on the horizon, but they head the opposite way. Right towards the Covey home. 

His feet stammer, and Sorrel lifts him up before he can trip over a rock. To the side of their garden, right next to the porch, is your coffin. “I-I can’t.” 

“I know, son,” Sorrel says, choked. 

It’s too late to run when Lenore Dove comes out the door in a red dress, much darker than the one she wore to the reaping. She spots him and somehow manages to smile through her tears. Scurrying down the steps, she hugs Burdock, who immediately drops his head onto her shoulder. She doesn’t give Haymitch a chance to refuse as she reaches for his wrist and ropes him in too. 

For what seems like hours, they stand there, wrapped in their love for you. 

Haymitch lifts his gaze and sees your uncles up on the porch. Tam Amber is carrying something wrapped in a blanket. It’s more fascinating to him than Haymitch; he’s careful not to look at him. Clerk Carmine, however, can only seem to stare at the boy he always knew to be trouble. Turns out he was right. 

Burdock peels off first, and Haymitch finds himself face-to-face with your coffin again. Your parents and uncles are whispering beside it. “We’ll meet you by the fence.”

Lenore Dove nods, leading Haymitch through the meadow. The geese are free roaming, but not one of them stops to honk at him. Even they find him unworthy of anything more than indifference. Or maybe they’re too stricken by their own grief. 

Once they reach the fence, he sinks down to the grass. She kneels in front of him. Part of him wants to ask why she was in jail and if she’s okay. But it’s clear she’s not. There’s no turning off the faucet of her sadness. The only thing he can do to help is to tell her what he was too much of a coward to say to Burdock directly. “I couldn’t save her. I tried, and I couldn’t, and I’m—” His voice catches, and Lenore Dove grabs his hands. 

“Oh, Haymitch.” She shakes her head. “I don’t blame you. None of us do, and she’d be furious if you believed otherwise.” 

How does he begin to explain to her that Clerk Carmine does blame him, and so does everyone else in Twelve, and it’s only a matter of time before the odd ones out fall in line? He cannot say anything to hurt her further. So, he only murmurs, “She’s already angry with me.” 

“For what? Pulling her name from that bowl? Creating the Hunger Games to begin with? Because if that’s the case, then we’re all to blame.” She stifles a sob and wipes her face. “You didn’t make things the way they are, Haymitch, but every one of us is responsible for finding a way to change them. Now more than ever, don’t you see that?” 

He does. Of course he does. He fought to make things better. All it got him was a pool of blood on his hands that started with Ampert and ended with his own family. “She’s dead, Lenore Dove. She’s dead, and I can’t change that. I can’t change anything, because it is my fault. Every one of them—I killed them.” 

“No,” is all she says as the others near. She stands, sniffling. “You didn’t.”

Yes. I did. 

Lenore Dove and Barb Azure pry the opening in the fence for them to slip your coffin through. They cling to each other as the others carry it. Haymitch trails behind, as useless as he was earlier with his own ma and Sid. Why is he even here? 

Clerk Carmine doesn’t want him around, that’s always been clear. Tam Amber hasn’t even acknowledged him. Your parents have brought him because they’re good people. Burdock’s allowed it because he’s still committed to the friendship Haymitch broke. Aside from Lenore Dove, the only person who may have genuinely wanted him here is you. But you don’t.  

“Don’t follow.” 

They’re your kin. Haymitch is nothing but the reason you’re dead.  

“Don’t follow.”

He wants to. He wants to be free in your heaven. He wants to be with you and his whole family. He wants to beg your forgiveness, and that of everyone else who’s surely angry with him too. Instead, he’s here. Wading through the woods with those who loved and knew you best. 

“Don’t follow.”

The illicitness creeps up on Haymitch. He’s fourteen and carrying you to them again, listening to the Covey sing, intruding on something he hasn’t earned the right to witness. Up front, the blanket slips off the item in Tam Amber’s right arm, revealing the edges of a gravestone. 

“No,” Haymitch mutters, stumbling. 

Lenore Dove turns around. Everyone stops. “Haymitch, what is it?” 

“I can’t,” he repeats. “I can’t be here. Can’t follow.” 

“You can be here,” she insists, reaching for his hand again. “We want you here.” 

He shakes his head, trying to ward off the chill in his spine. Everything’s already blurred around the edges. “Can’t,” he mumbles one last time. He lets go of Lenore Dove’s hand and makes a break in the opposite direction. 

“Haymitch, wait!” Burdock calls out for him. 

He hears Clerk Carmine chide Lenore Dove as she joins Burdock’s attempts to stop him. Haymitch doesn’t wait to see if they’re running after him, picking up his pace to get far, far away. He doesn’t retrace his steps back to Twelve. He’s better off finding his own hole of earth to crawl into and die. 

The trees fade around him, and his dizziness is as much to blame as the haze of his eyes. Effectively lost, Haymitch crumbles to his knees and gags. Nothing comes out. His stomach contracts, thrumming with a hunger he didn’t think he was capable of anymore. 

He dry heaves once. Then again. And again and again. The sobs are instantaneous. He digs his nails into the dirt and rocks, slamming his head downward. He’ll wither away out here, starve to death, and that’ll be just fine. Maybe a coyote will find him and speed up the process. Or a wolf. Or a snake. There are any number of things that can put him out of his misery. 

I can’t be here.  

“What’s the matter, peach?” 

His head snaps up, searching high and low until he finds the maple tree. Finds you. Perched on a branch, in your colorless arena outfit, hair wild and free in the wind. Glass sticks out of your abdomen. The next sob lodges itself in his throat. 

You tilt your head, pouting. “Thought you wanted to be with me.”

Haymitch keels over and spills out his empty stomach. 

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A/N: and y’all thought we wouldn’t see sunshine again?

You couldn’t have gone far. You were just here. In his arms, breath tickling his neck, heartbeats in sync. Now, his gives an uneven patter. It stalls, then quickens, then stops altogether while he rushes to begin his descent. 

The blanket slips off his body, off the hammock, and lands on its target with a hmph. An exceptionally loud target for a stagnant one. 

“Watch it.”

Haymitch peers down. Past the spindly branches and crops of leaves obscuring you from direct view, your head pops out from the blanket. You stare up at him, your eyes, heavy as they are with grief and exhaustion, rivaling the starlight above. He blows out a puff of air and scampers down the trunk. 

You meet Haymitch where he lands, oddly calm despite nearly sending him to an early grave. Down here, out of the branches and on even footing, Haymitch sees clearly how little hours have passed since you climbed up together. He tightens the blanket around your shoulders when you shiver, and searches for meaning across the slightest spasm of your expression. Your cheeks are silver-streaked and the tip of your nose is pale, but you haven’t been crying again. His own face feels sticky with dried tears. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say before he can ask properly, wringing your fingers so roughly he has to take them within his own to get you to stop. You let him and sigh. “Thought I’d get a head start on finding Wellie.” 

Haymitch frowns. “You were going off without telling me?” 

You knit your brows together, hands freezing up. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

His heart gives a guilty pang. No, you wouldn’t. He would. He runs his hands down your arms in apology. Your goosebumps, as stubborn as the rest of you, don’t yield to his touch. “I know. I shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s okay,” you brush him off, pointing to a patch of dirt by the tree trunk opposite you. “I was making a map.” 

The blanket droops down your shoulders. Haymitch fixes it again. “What for?” 

“To rule out everywhere we’ve been so far.” You squat in front of your sketch. 

He crouches beside you, squinting down at the dirt. “You think the arena’s a diamond?” 

“Just a guess.” You shrug and pick up a stick. “If the north and south come to a point, I figured so would the east and west.” You tap the stick against the tipped edges of the diamond map. “Wellie wouldn’t back herself into a corner. Maysilee was right about that.”  

He doesn’t miss the way your voice catches saying her name. Doesn’t miss the pit in his stomach when he looks over your head and expects Maysilee on the other side. Even more chilling than the gap she’s left is how deeply he misses her. Never before would Haymitch have guessed Maysilee Donner, of all people, to wind up someone he loved this much. 

You sniffle but don’t linger on your sadness. You draw an oval above the sketched treeline, just below a large dot, which he assumes to be the cornucopia. It’s hard to tell with the limited light. “That’s the meadow.” Another oval encompasses the space below the treeline, closer north. “That’s around where we were yesterday. If Wellie made it to the woods before the rain and mudslide, this is where she’d be.” 

“We would’ve found her then if she were there,” Haymitch reasons, shuffling when his thighs start to burn. 

You shake your head. “Not if she kept west or east. We only walked straight down the middle. And she’s just as likely to have found a hiding spot high up as she is to have found one in the meadow.” 

He considers your logic and consults the map one more time. “You really think that’s where she is?” 

“We’ll have to cross it anyway to get to the meadow,” you say, dragging the stick left to right. “Might as well take a look around. Only, I can’t decide if she’d be east or west.” 

“East.” When you look over at him, he expands, “She’d want to head towards the sun.” 

“East it is then.” 

Haymitch stands and, with laced fingers, pulls you up with him. His hands travel back up your arms, all the way to your cheekbones, where he rubs away the tear stains. If the dried drool on his shirt collar is any evidence, you at least slept some. But clearly, you’ve been on edge for longer than you’ve been down here. “You could’ve woken me sooner.” 

“It was only a few minutes,” you say dismissively. “You looked comfortable.” 

He traces your jawline. “Sunshine, that’s ’cause you were there.” 

Your skin finally warms a little. “Besides, you were fast asleep. Chatting up a storm this time.” 

Ah, right. You ungraciously informed him of his murmuring habits back in the apartment. Feels like years ago now. Haymitch is lucky not to be a snorer like Wyatt, but he drew the short end in other ways. “What was I saying?” 

You shrug, biting down on your lip. “I couldn’t make it out.” 

By the way you duck your head, a strange combination of flustered and smug, he doubts that’s true. 

“C’mon.” You step out of his grasp. “We need to get a move on.” 

You’re a quick climber—and one dead set on your current mission—so you reach your end of the hammock before Haymitch slinks up the parallel tree. Once untied, you meet each other back on the ground. You take to folding it, along with the blanket, despite the chill still visibly coursing through your body. He condenses the materials from each pack into one, and rifles through Maysilee’s in search for anything that might prove helpful for the journey. 

A jingle sounds from the bottom of the bag, under a tarp and the now empty bottle of ointment. Haymitch pulls out the potato battery kit. Huh. He figured she already made use of it at some point.  

You, on the other hand, don’t seem surprised to see it. Maysilee must’ve clued you in on her possession of the kit. “Might be good to have some light to guide us.” 

“It might. But it’ll cost a potato,” he says, looking up at you with an arched brow. 

“Well,” you suck your teeth, “I’m willing to pay the price if you are, peach.” 

His lips twitch into a near smile. 

You kneel in front of him, close enough to nearly bump your foreheads together when he reaches for the sliced potato in your hand. He lays out the pieces of the kit on the floor. Copper coins, metal wires, a single lightbulb. He has to squint real hard to get a good look at the inventory. Funny thing, needing light to make it. 

“You remember how to assemble it?” you ask patiently, forming the cuts where Beetee taught you. 

Haymitch nods. “More or less.” 

He hands you the supplies while you work nimbly to forge the battery. When he loses a coin among the dirt and sticks, he supplements it with Maysilee’s copper flower. Just as easy to use your bluebird, but it’s already melded itself into his skin. He’d rather not sully your gift in front of you, either. Even if you’d be willing to sacrifice it, he’s not. And this way, it feels like Maysilee’s still part of the fight. 

Together, you manage to replicate Beetee’s instructions in the darkness. Haymitch attaches the final wire to a tiny lightbulb, and a dim glow flickers across your faces. Hardly anything, but it’s enough to get him to hope. 

You readjust the woven cord, now detached from Maysilee’s medallion, back around his neck. Your hands linger there, and Haymitch uses the proximity and the light to take stock of your well-being. You wince slightly when he cups the back of your head. He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Still hurting?” 

You nod, swallowing down the threat of fresh tears. Your head, your knee, your heart—they’re bruised and battered in more ways than one. You don’t have time to wallow in your grief, to slip through the cracks Maysilee left behind. Not yet. But you allow yourself to lean into Haymitch’s comfort for just a second. Or two. Or three. Definitely more than that. 

Slowly, the pressure pushing against your skull whittles down to a mere throb. You stay put a second longer. One hand travels from the back of his neck to your bluebird, which reflects the faint flicker of the lightbulb. You rub the charm between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the difference in its weight and its eyes. Its time in the arena has taken a toll—you don’t know to credit the change to anything else. 

“Take it back, if you want to,” says Haymitch. 

“I don’t. It suits you.” Plutarch’s request for the charm, Ampert’s reasoning behind passing it along, are long forgotten. You want him to keep it. He could take every last bit of you for all you care. Do whatever he wants, and you wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s already made himself the most precious piece of you. “And I still owe you your birthday present anyway.” 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, leaning back a bit. “I think you’ve given me plenty.” 

You haven’t. No amount of presents, no amount of perfect words sitting right on the tip of your tongue, will ever be enough to express everything he is to you. Or how deeply you wish you were in one of those better worlds with him right now. But you can try. You give the bluebird a light tug, beckoning Haymitch to you. 

A shiver sparks down your spine when your lips collide, but you aren’t very cold anymore. You can’t be, with Haymitch heating you up from the inside out. Your fingers find stability in his hair. Familiar curls tangled between calloused skin. His hands glide up your back, pulling you so close that you’re surprised you haven’t heard the crack of a broken lightbulb yet. You doubt you’d hear it anyway over the thumping of his heartbeat against yours. 

There is no space between you, no room to question, even for a second, what a world without him might feel like. When his tongue swipes your bottom lip, your body tingles from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. All your senses narrow down to this. Haymitch, and his devotion, and everything he elicits from you in turn. Was there ever a time where you felt anything but love for Haymitch Abernathy? You’re hard pressed to remember.  

You part briefly before he chases after you again. Your resulting gasp spurs him on. Haymitch sighs into your mouth; it reverberates inside your chest. He kisses you with the certainty of all you’d give him if he asked, if he didn’t. You kiss him with the intent to ease his desperation, only to make your own worse. In the end, neither of you knows how to let the other go. 

“Haymitch,” you pant against his lips, intertwining your hand with his where it rests against your cheek. When he tries to close the distance, you place the other on his chest. “We don’t have time to waste.”  

He blinks, drawing your attention to those pretty blue-gray eyes of his. In the dark, pupils blown out, his irises lean navy. “Right,” he breathes out. “Wouldn’t call this a complete waste, though.” 

You snort. Unable to resist yourself, you run a finger down the bridge of his nose just to hear his breath hitch again. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” 

Your knee lets out a bitter crackle as you stand. Every inch of you is still buzzing, but the wind creeps back up your skin, snuffing out your need.  

He passes you the light before following you to your feet. “You ever gonna tell me what you got me?” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise.” 

“Supposed to be. But you might as well let me know now.” 

Might as well. There’d be no harm in telling him. No jinxes or spoilers. But… 

If you don’t tell him, then you can pretend there’s still the hope of giving it to him yourself. You can live frozen in time. In the moment before the Games, before the reaping, when everything you loved was within reach. Not back home, or dead, lost to you in either case. 

You sling your bow onto your shoulder, wanting one hand free to hold onto Haymitch in the dark. Because he is within reach. “Maybe once we find Wellie.” 

He leans into your side. “I’ll wait then.” 

It’s tricky retracing your steps in the dead of night. Sid’s stars are helpful as can be at first, until you remind yourself of the fact that they aren’t Sid’s. These aren’t the real thing, no matter how much you want them to be. You’ve long since shed the ability to be lulled by the arena’s faux beauty. Plutarch did say the arena’s sky would be synced with yours, all but swore it. A lot’s changed since then. It’s likely the Gamemakers have switched things up to throw you off course. Rile you up like a caged bird. 

So, you fall back on your papa’s methods and your familiarity with the plants along the walkway. Must be past midnight by the time you reach yesterday’s terrain. You recognize the tiger lilies and alder trees, the latter eliciting the memory of Maysilee’s curiosity. Your eyes begin to sting. You wonder—fleetingly, because there is no time to wallow—how things may have turned out had you become friends sooner, instead of playing enemies. 

Enemy, ally, friend. 

None are the right words to encompass all she meant to you, and continues to mean. Against all odds, Maysilee Donner wove herself into the fabric of your soul. No one can take that from you, or her. Knowing that doesn’t make you miss her any less, but it won’t be long now until you see her. 

Haymitch squeezes your hand, grounding you, like he can sense your mind skirting the edge of a spiral. “Once we pass the bee balm we’ve hit the eastern woods.” 

“Okay.” You let him lead you from that point on. He’s covered most of the woods’ expanse, and you’ve mostly avoided that neck since the jabberjays. You pick up the pace. “Do you think Silka and Maritte made it over the mud by now?” 

“Maybe one of them,” he whispers back. “I doubt they’re allies anymore.” 

Silka did seem upset with Maritte the last you saw of them, which is putting it lightly. There’s been no cannon, meaning they’re both still alive. So, either Maritte escaped Silka’s vengeance, or Silka took it easy on her. Regardless, their alliance isn’t looking too bright. “Probably best that way. For us, and them.” 

“I see how it works in our favor. Not sure how it helps them.” 

You shrug and glance at him. “It wouldn’t be any easier for them to kill their allies. Careers or not.”

Under the dim lighting, you catch the confusion across Haymitch’s expression. “I’m pretty sure they plan for that kind of thing.” 

“Maybe, yeah. I just—” You exhale slowly. “I don’t know. Forget it.” When he opens his mouth to press on the subject, you point ahead. “There’s your bee balm.” 

That gets you both on track to what matters most again. Haymitch stops, tilting his head up towards the sky. “What’s the plan now?”

You chew on the skin of your cheek. If Wellie is high above, as you suspect, then there’s only one way to narrow down which tree to climb. “Wellie!” 

“Shit—”

“Wellie!” you call out louder, Haymitch’s hand clamming in yours. You let go of him and scurry through the trees. “Wellie, where are you?” 

His footsteps aren’t far behind yours, echoing your hollers. “Wellie! It’s Haymitch!” He supplies your name, too. 

“We’re here to help, Wellie!” You take in your surroundings: the speckled stars and jagged oak trees and Haymitch calling for her. No sign of Wellie, though. You can keep traveling east, until you hit the corner she’s unlikely to be in. Or you can pivot to the meadow where, as Maysilee assumed, she probably is. 

Haymitch throws off your mounting concerns. “Did you hear that?” 

You shake your head. One more time, you shout pitifully, “Wellie!” 

“There it is again!” he exclaims, pointing north. “It’s coming from that way.” 

You seal your lips and listen for the sound. Faintly, hardly audible over the whistling wind and rustling branches and miles of distance, you hear it. 

Ring, ring! 

“Is that a…?”

“A bicycle bell.” Haymitch pauses like he’s waiting to see if it was a fluke of the imagination.  

Ring, ring!

That’s a bell, all right. Credited to human hands, not nature. Just like the kind attached to the bicycle you and your group of friends found by the road once in Twelve. Or the matching pink bikes Maysilee and Merrilee rode around the square to show off their wealth. The very kind of bell Wellie brought as her token from home. 

You yank Haymitch in the direction of the bell. The ringing leads you back through where you came, forces you to retrace your steps north. Nearly all the way to where Maysilee died.  

The two of you reach a simultaneous halt beneath a large sweetgum tree. What appears to be a sweetgum tree, at least. From the red veins along the trunk, you figure it’s another Capitol concoction. The bell rings louder. Even with the lightbulb catching shadows of the branches above, Wellie is too high up to make out.  

“It’s okay, Wellie,” promises Haymitch, voice lowered back to a whisper. “We’re right here. You can come down.” 

You wait until the lack of response kickstarts the alarms in your head. All of ten seconds. You pass the light Haymitch’s way and begin the climb. 

The height of the tree is of little concern to you—you’ve scaled taller back home, ones as spindly and sinewy as this one. But between the distance from the ground, much larger than where you slept in the hammock earlier, and the delicacy of the branches, it seems an impossible feat for someone as small and frail as Wellie. 

Even smaller and paler than you remember her to be by the time you reach her hiding spot. 

“Hi, little bird.”

She squeaks out a breath. You don’t feel any relief seeing her now, just the guilt of not finding her sooner. Wellie’s cheeks are hollow and gaunt, her entire body shivering like the last leaf on a twig. You try to steady yourself on her branch and immediately retract when it creaks like it’s about to snap. Across from you, the lightbulb pops up. Haymitch’s head follows. 

Wellie fixates on the light. A hint of life flashes across her face, which is next to nothing in her state. Haymitch sets the light in front of her. She chases it with her eyes like a cat would a ball of string. You liked playing those kinds of games with Calla. Sometimes you’d use yarn, others you’d tie a tiny bell that jingled, not rang, to a twig. Sid liked to play with her, too, while Haymitch watched from your kitchen table on the days they were invited over. 

He remembers the first time he ever met Calla, within a week of you finding her. Haggard little thing wouldn’t stop hissing at him, even in her good-as-dead condition. Not so different from Wellie’s appearance. Belly down, crack-lipped, and glassy-eyed, her bell tucked under her chin and a child-sized knife clutched in one hand. If she was scrawny before, she’s practically skeletal now. Too fragile to be moved, too scared to do much else but stare at the bulb. 

Haymitch wedges himself between a branch and the trunk. You’ve found purchase on a sturdier spot. As he searches for the remaining water jug in his pack, he can feel your worry sticking to him. Reaching over Wellie’s branch, you lend a hand when he tries to unscrew the jug with only one of his. He pours some water into the cap.  

“Try to drink a little, Wellie,” you whisper gently as you bring the cap to her lips. “Just a little.” 

Over the next few minutes, Haymitch pours, you coax, and Wellie swallows no more than a handful of droplets. Most of the water spills out the side of her mouth and down her chin. There’s no chance of getting some potato in her right now. 

She manages one mouthful of water, then two. Haymitch brushes her hair back while you get her to drink some more. “There you go, Wellie.” 

She drifts off, but sleep doesn’t erase the fear etched all over her. Haymitch sticks the water jug back into his pack and hugs the trunk when he feels the branch beneath him tremble. You shoot him a wary look. 

Clouds move in across the sky, hiding the moon from view. The air grows heavy, and it smells like the early tell of rain. 

“We can’t let her sleep up here like this,” you murmur. “We should at least set up the hammock.”

“The branches on this thing aren’t steady enough,” says Haymitch, planting his boots firmer against the bark to make his point. The thought of a rainstorm making things slippery doesn’t help. 

You motion to the tree opposite your left. “I can get to that side and tie one end to the trunk.” 

You could, theoretically. If the branches from either tree formed a nice, ideal bridge. If they weren’t one wrong move away from snapping off entirely. If the likelihood of you falling and hurting more than just your ankle weren’t very, very high. 

Haymitch doesn’t like your plan. He doesn’t like it one bit. 

But, to absolutely no one’s surprise and least of all his, you’re off before he can stop you. Crawling on your hands and knees without a care of slipping off. Haymitch doesn’t relax until you make it across and settle on a thicker branch, near parallel to his own spot. Even then, he isn’t in a relaxing mood. 

There’s about six feet, give or take, between the trunks. It takes three tries of tossing before you catch one of the hammock strings. Haymitch copies your movements, tying his own end around the tree. The first raindrops begin to patter on the leaves by the time you finish adjusting the hammock. “Pass one of the tarps.”

Carefully, Haymitch does as you command. This time, you catch the corner on the first try. 

The rain does little to slow you as you slink another two feet up the tree. Haymitch watches with bated breath. Your hair grows damp, and some pieces stick to your neck and bare arms. His own curls feel flat and weighted against his head, the tips poking at his eyes. He doesn’t think to wipe them back, too focused on your movements—on your swollen lips, a mirror to his own—to be bothered by anything. Too consumed by the intensity of your earlier kiss, by the older memory of you bathed in sunlight, the brightest thing he’s ever seen—

“Peach.” 

Not the time. “Right, sorry,” he mutters, and climbs up to fasten the other edge of the tarp. 

The two of you make something of a roof to ward off the rain. A few drops still manage to sneak into your shelter, courtesy of the wind, but it’s as good a cover as you’re going to get. 

Haymitch perches back on his branch, a smidge below Wellie’s. You crawl across the hammock this time, and he pretends his heart isn’t two seconds from giving out when it wobbles like it intends to throw you over. 

You stop right next to Wellie, propping up on your knees. “Okay, little bird,” you whisper, rubbing her shoulder. Her eyes blink open, once again drawn to the light. “We’re gonna move you somewhere more comfortable now.” 

As cautiously as the lack of space and the threat of falling to your deaths will allow, you pry Wellie off the branch. Haymitch holds up the potato light while you guide her onto the hammock. He has to bite down on his tongue to keep from flinching when she lies on her back and reveals her ribs protruding through the dove gray uniform. From the sunken look on your face, he can tell you’re feeling no less nauseated with guilt. 

You wring the knife out of her grip and trade it with Haymitch for the light. Wellie, weak as she is, manages to hold it in one hand, and latches onto you with the other. When the hammock wobbles again from the movement of her squirming into your arms, you lie back too, effectively stilling her. 

You look over at Haymitch and motion to the pack. “The second hammock—” 

“It’s okay,” he says over the uptick in rainfall, which grows so heavy he worries the tarp will collapse in on itself. And the three of you. “I’m fine right here.” 

When your lips press into a thin, unconvinced line, he makes a show of cutting up pieces of tarp and tying himself to the branch. He’s screwed if it breaks off the tree, but at least he won’t have to worry about rolling over. While he’s at it, he hands you the blanket, which you immediately try to pass back to him. 

“For Wellie,” Haymitch urges, knowing that’s the best way to get you to do anything that might benefit yourself too. 

Without further argument, you accept the blanket and drape it over the both of you. Wellie’s eyes begin to flutter shut again. Her head comes right up to your chin, and Haymitch lingers on the sight of you resting a cheek against her. 

You glance his way, the tears on the cusp of your lashes passing on a clear message: keep Wellie alive, that’s the plan now. The only one that matters, that’s anywhere near attainable. Her condition poses a difficulty, but the task of saving her isn’t as much of a longshot as Haymitch’s hopes of bringing down the Capitol. 

Twice now, he’s failed. The second time wasn’t as catastrophic as the first, but it led to a loss all the same. Maybe if Haymitch had been less fixated on the hedge, less taken by his hopeless intent to end the Games, Maysilee would be here. Or maybe not. Those birds were a pointed attack, one the Gamemakers probably had in their arsenal for days beforehand. 

Still…Haymitch has wasted so much time playing rebel with no real success. 

He fiddles with the bluebird, moistened by the rain, and drags it across the cord with a rhythm that soothes his thoughts. You’re already fading into sleep alongside Wellie. A familiar chime reels him back before he can fully succumb himself. 

The rain has shifted into a light mist. Haymitch reaches for the parachute and pulls out its contents. A cup of warm vanilla pudding and a packet of chocolate balls wrapped in crinkly festive paper. 

Someone in the Capitol has a heart, after all. 

Haymitch takes up the effort of feeding Wellie. You sit her up in your arms, keeping the blanket secure on her. With patience, he coaxes bits of pudding into Wellie. She’s able to take more pudding than she did the water. A lot of it still falls down her chin. He catches what he can with the spoon and scoops it back into her mouth. 

Save for the after effects of the rain and Wellie’s wheezing, it’s mostly quiet. Haymitch shifts slightly on the branch when he feels himself going sore from the position. Getting another bit of pudding into Wellie, he takes notice of the leaves dangling behind you. Same as the ones on his branch, of course, except they’re a darker shade of green. Not maple leaves, but close in size and shape. More star-like, though. He tugs at a vague memory of you gifting Sid a leaf like these once. He kept it on the windowsill of their kitchen even after it shriveled into a brown clump. 

“Remind me, sunshine,” he whispers as he points to the leaves, “what kinda trees are these again?” 

“Sweetgum. They seem different though,” you say, brows knitted as you stroke Wellie’s hair. 

“Hm. No surprise there.” He scrapes the last of the pudding around the cup rim. Wellie parts her lips. “Sid, my brother,” he tells her, “would like ’em. He loves anything remotely related to the stars.” 

She swallows the entire spoonful this time. You clean the dribble that sticks to the corner of her mouth. Haymitch breaks a chocolate ball in two with his teeth. 

Suddenly, in a broken croak that reminds him of a frog, Wellie mutters, “I like the stars.” 

Haymitch smiles slowly, sliding a chocolate piece into her mouth. “You’d get along with Sid then.” 

He doesn’t miss the way your lips curve upwards, too. To his relief, you don’t deny yourself the chocolate when he slips two pieces your way. 

Wellie smacks her lips lightly after he feeds her another bit of chocolate. You unwrap your pieces and savor them. It isn’t much longer before the two of you are fast asleep. Haymitch stays awake a few more minutes, chewing on his own ball of chocolate. Usually reserved for birthdays or special occasions, it’s rare to splurge on it in the Seam. And this stuff’s top-of-the-line, melting in his mouth and warming his empty stomach with its sweetness. 

He leans back against the bark and reaches for the second tarp. Repurposed as a blanket, it saves him from the worst of the cold. He’s halfway to mind-numbing sleep when another interruption snaps his head up. A sob this time. Sounds nothing like yours, and you and Wellie are still lost to the conscious world. Besides, the cry is coming from below. 

Glancing down, Haymitch notices what he assumes to be a tuft of yellow hair. Silka? He’s too blurry-eyed to fully tell. She’s not attempting to scale the tree or attack, despite the fact that she more than likely knows the three of you are up here. You may be far up, but if he can hear her, she can most certainly hear you.

And yet, she’s just there. Sobbing and shaking all over. Haymitch never took her as a crier. Then again, what does she have to be happy about? He thinks back to your comments on Silka’s alliance with Maritte. There’s no deep-sea uniform anywhere near now, so he was right about them splitting up. As Silka’s sobs rack up, your own point dawns on him. 

Silka is entirely alone, and for all her bite, she’s probably scared, too. Alone, scared, grieving whatever losses she’s had in here. Because Haymitch doesn’t have a monopoly on that, does he? Every one of you, Career or not, have lost enough allies, friends, kids, to last a lifetime. 

Silka isn’t his ally, but she isn’t his enemy right now either. 

Haymitch digs into his pocket. He rolls the chocolate ball in his hand before he drops it Silka’s way. Her sobs putter into confused hiccups. Briefly, he worries that he dropped it in the wrong direction, but then he hears the crinkle of the wrapper. The hiccups turn to sniffles until they’re nothing at all. 

The Capitol would have every last person in the districts believe otherwise, but for what’s left of the night, you’re united in your struggle. Haymitch closes his eyes and finally falls asleep with a strange sense of pride. 

Not a bad poster at all. 

His next comes unexpectedly, at the turn of sunrise when the morning light momentarily blinds him. Once Haymitch gathers his bearings, he checks on you and Wellie. She’s curled into your side, and you—you look strangely peaceful. The most you’ve been in the last weeks, since long before the reaping. No need to wake either of you yet.

Silka’s gone, which isn’t shocking. Her vulnerability was a one-off—Haymitch guesses District One frowns upon their Careers exhibiting any trace of humanity. She might’ve gone to the Cornucopia for supplies or set off to hunt Maritte. But she’ll be back to kill you soon enough. 

He steals another glance at you. Still cold to the touch when he reaches over to brush your hair back. Haymitch tucks the blanket firmer around you and Wellie. One of your arms is wrapped around her; the other tucked beneath your chin, which is smudged with black ink instead of drool. 

Huh. 

Haymitch touches your wrist, tries to unfurl your arm to find the trail of ink, and is instantly thrown off track when he notices the smudges on his fingers. They didn’t really register in the dark, and they can’t be credited to the tree bark. Or the tarp. What else did you both work with last night? The potato battery, sure. Maybe that’s it, but…

Absentmindedly, Haymitch holds the bluebird between his fingers. Its beak indents the skin of his thumb, reminding him of how you held it, held him. The way you pulled him in for that kiss. That brain-fogging, breathtaking, one-of-a-kind kiss. The bluebird’s dry now, but the cord still feels slippery from the rain. 

A whole bunch of light bulbs flicker inside his head. Ampert’s possession of the bird to begin with, the residue on his hands after he rigged the fuse at the tank, and Beetee’s final advice at the buffet—

“In the event a backup is needed, or if Ampert fails to show at all, we’ve planned for two failsafes—” 

Peeling his hand back, he pretends to fiddle with the water jug lid. Sure enough, his index finger and thumb are both covered in black residue. Did you know their intent with your charm? You must’ve, and that’s why you gave it away. The timing of when is still an issue, but that’s the least of his concerns now. Haymitch wonders what other pieces of the plan you know that he doesn’t. He figures he’s privy to some that you aren’t. 

Maybe the two of you can fill in each other’s blanks. Maybe you can make something of this parting gift. One last chance to blow the Capitol sky high. There’s one sunflower left, after all. 

He can’t be one hundred percent sure until he can unwind the cord and check for the blasting cap. Until he ensures you are on the same page. Until he figures a way to keep Wellie from the fallback, because there is no longer a world in which you and Haymitch aren’t doing this together. 

He unravels the charm out of the cord, then himself from the branch. Quietly, so as to not wake Wellie, he murmurs your name. 

Your eyes adjust to Haymitch before they do to the sun. He’s got a tight grip on the trunk, boots dug into the bark. 

You frown, too hazy from sleep to fully register much else but the sight of him readying to leave. “Where’re you going?” 

“To get firewood,” he answers softly. “The only way we’re getting some potato into Wellie is if we boil it. Couldn’t hurt to warm her up, too. And you.” 

As if responding to his words, goosebumps prick the skin of your neck. Not like they ever left anyway. You’ve been freezing all night. “Yeah, okay. Don’t go too far.” 

Haymitch nods and slides something into your free hand. “I need you to hold onto it again for me.”

“And why’s that?” 

He taps his collarbone, where all his cords rest. Except the one previously attached to the bluebird. “They’re starting to tangle together. Don’t know how Miss Donner managed hers, but the cord fell when I was trying to detangle it.” 

That’s about the lamest excuse he could give. You tighten your hold on your bluebird anyway, a little more awake now. “All right.” 

“I’ll be real quick.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple and scales down the tree. 

You try your hardest not to spiral when he disappears from view. Especially when Wellie wakes minutes later and asks, “Did Haymitch leave us again?” 

“He went to get firewood,” you tell her quietly. “He’ll be right back.” 

Panic flashes in her eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“Positive,” you promise, rubbing her arms to generate more heat on her skin. 

She doesn’t seem very convinced, but she leans closer to you without another anxious word. Her joints poke your abdomen, and it takes even more effort to not recoil from the shame of ever letting her get this bad. 

You pinch the bluebird between your fingers and listen to the sound of Wellie’s halfhearted breaths. No way did Haymitch lose that cord. You look around for something long enough to be used as a substitute. A vine, ideally. You wind up picking three leaves from a branch within arm’s reach, and scrape them until all that’s left is the stem. It’s no different from making wildflower crowns, the very kind you’d weave with Lenore Dove and Burdock on the days it was just the three of you cousins in your meadow. Perfect days, you used to call them. 

Once they’re tied together to form a makeshift necklace, you loop them through the ring atop your bluebird’s head. Momentarily, you’re thrown off by the black smudges on your fingers. You look closer, seeing that they’re splotched around the copper. It’s not dirt. This is thicker, more fluid, like mud but not exactly. Nothing close to the dried splotches from yesterday’s mud bath. Closer to pen ink, or oil. But even then…neither is quite the right texture. 

You’ve dirtied your hands plenty. In the woods, in class. Digging roots from the ground, or drawing with charcoal, or breathing in the soot that covers just about everything in Twelve.

You remember when you were little, after the mine explosion that took Haymitch’s papa and others with him, how much you hated watching your own go out that door. You’d wait on the porch all evening for his return, only moving when prompted by your mama to eat or bathe. If it got real late, the promise of her lullaby was all that’d get you to bed. Burdock would wait with you, both because he shared your concern and because he never really left you alone in those days. Except when it was time for his own bath. Sometimes, Lenore Dove would wander over, and she’d soothe your nerves with an exchange of poems. 

Whenever you spotted your papa heading down the walkway to your home, tall and mighty, it was like catching the first rays of light after a storm. He’d laugh as you threw yourself into his arms. “I’m getting coal dust all over you, maple leaf.” 

“I don’t care,” you always said in return. As if you weren’t already perpetually covered in dust by living in the Seam. You were just happy to have him home. To be lucky enough to still have your papa. 

Your heart gives a heavy pang, weighed less so by the familiar longing for your family and more by the grief you realize they’re in for. They’ll carry on without you, keep you with them in whatever ways they can, you’re certain of it. You just…don’t want to be a smudge on their lives. 

“That’s pretty,” mutters Wellie, a weak finger lifting to point at the bird. 

“My uncle made it,” you tell her. “Where’d you get your bell from?” 

“My mom,” she whispers sadly. “It was a defect from the factory, so they didn’t want it. But I like it.” 

“I like it, too.” You get the feeling it’d bring her more discomfort to talk about it, so you don’t pry about her family or District Six. 

You run your thumb over the bluebird’s face, attempting to clean the mysterious residue. It only winds up smeared across the wings. As stubborn as soot, sullying Tam Amber’s craftsmanship. You’ll need water to wash it off. How’d Haymitch manage this anyway? There hasn’t been another volcano or cloud of ash. Not a person or inch of land would’ve been spared if it there were. Instead, the residue is isolated to the bluebird and your fingers. 

The bluebird and your fingers. 

You jolt upwards, rumbling the hammock and Wellie, who lets out an eek.

“Sorry,” you say immediately. “Sorry.” But your mind is moving too fast to catch up with whatever comes out of your mouth. 

Your thoughts come in flashes, in images and memories: the coal dust on your papa’s face, those field trips to the mines, your teacher’s brief lessons on explosives. Above all, Plutarch dangling a free world like a ripe carrot right in front of you. 

You’ve been north, you’ve cut through the hedge in search of some missing piece to some secretive rebel plan, and you’ve come up empty. Until now. 

So, this is how you blow up the arena. This is how you end the Games. With your bluebird, which doesn’t look anything like an explosive. There would’ve been no time to rig it into one in a single night, either. Then again, you don’t have Beetee’s mind for tinkering. But you highly doubt that’s the case. So then what’s—

The cord! It has to be. How, you have no idea. You only know Haymitch made a show of “losing” it for a reason. 

You chew on your bottom lip. Haymitch hasn’t gone off to complete this task—through whatever means, you still aren’t completely sure—on his own. Not this time. You made a deal, one you trust him not to back out of. And he wouldn’t have clued you in like this if he didn’t intend to see the plan through together. 

Yet…the longer he takes, the worse your head hurts. And the louder Wellie’s stomach growls. Your own isn’t exactly quiet. It grumbles and collapses into itself with an ache so familiar you have to shut your eyes to wish it away. 

“Anyone in the mood for a baked potato?” 

You look over at Haymitch, grateful to whatever angel has answered at least one of your wishes. “If that’s the best you’ve got.” 

He grins. Slowly, he hoists Wellie off the hammock with your help. She stares at him wordlessly, like she’s surprised he came back at all. He gives her a reassuring pat on the head before maneuvering her over his shoulder. It’s not the most ideal carrying position, but it’s the only way you’re getting her down the tree. 

You stretch your limbs as soon as you’re back on solid ground, shaking away the stiffness in your bones. 

Haymitch sets Wellie down against the trunk and gets to work on the fire. You take a seat beside her, lifting the blanket over her each time it slides off her shoulders. 

The potato is nice and baked within minutes, soft enough that it melts with ease when Haymitch uses a fork to mash it into easier pieces for Wellie. To your relief, she’s responsive to every bite. And though she requires a break halfway through eating, what she’s managed to keep down does her wonders. 

You watch Haymitch nurse the fire as you chew on the chocolate ball he forced into your hand. It’s all you’re willing to take. Wellie needs the fuel more than you do. He pokes at the fire with a twig and bounces back when a spark flies near his feet. You stifle a snicker. 

“Breakfast and a show,” you muse, leaning over to Wellie. “Aren’t we spoiled?”

“Very,” deadpans Haymitch, dropping the twig into the flames. 

Wellie, whose color is slowly returning to her, giggles. The sound lightens both of your shoulders. Taking a deep breath, you reach into your right pocket. Now’s as good a time as any to broach the subject. 

You tilt your head, staring straight at Haymitch. “You got dirt all over the bird, you know.”

All he does for a second is blink your way, caught between the relief that you’ve picked up on what he has, and the dread of realizing there really is no way to keep you out of this. “I’ll take better care of it from here on out.” 

“You better.” 

“I found the cord though.” 

“Did you?” You hold out a necklace made of stems and your bluebird. “I already made you a new one.” 

“I like it.” He takes it from you and loops it over his head. 

You shrug. “No point letting the other one go to waste.” 

Agreed. He pats his pocket where the unfurled cord and blasting cap rest. “Got it right here.”

You nod and turn back to Wellie, who's been eyeing you both curiously. “Ready to try some more?” 

She sniffles. “Aren’t you guys hungry?” 

“Oh,” you pretend to grimace, “I’m stuffed from all that chocolate.” 

“Me too,” Haymitch groans, throwing his head back. He mashes more bits of potato. “It’s all yours, sweetgum.” 

Wellie wrinkles her nose, unconvinced, but doesn’t argue against the next bite of food. She’s much more agreeable than you are, that’s for sure. As she swallows down the potato, Haymitch thinks of how to best steer the conversation. It only took close to a decade, but he’s finally got a hang of your riddled manner of talking.  

“Silka was skulking around here last night,” he says nonchalantly. 

Wellie tenses up. You soothe her by running your fingers through her hair. “She was?”

“Skulking’s not the right word.” Sobbing in a fit of anguish is a more accurate description. “But yeah, she was here.” 

“We should move then,” you sigh out. 

“And head where?” 

“Where do you think?” 

“I’m between the meadow and the hedge. What’s left of it anyway. I never did get to show you my trick with the force field.” At the reminder of why that is, at the memory of Maysilee’s bloodied body, his fingers clench. Clearing his throat, he continues, “But if we head to the meadow, we can scour the cornucopia for food.” 

You hum pensively, toying with your pearl charm. “Well, the cornucopia should have something left. We could at least get a show, if not more breakfast.” 

“That was my thought, too.” The horn of plenty for some, a symbol of despair for all. How glorious it’ll be to set it aflame. 

You boop Wellie’s nose. “What do you say, little bird? You up for the trip?” 

She squirms, and though Haymitch isn’t fond of seeing her so nervous, he’s grateful she’s gaining some movement back. “We’re staying together, right?” 

He locks eyes with you, and he’s brought back to your shared helplessness last night. Protecting Wellie is still the priority. 

“For as long as possible,” you say. It’s all you can guarantee. Even without an underlying rebellion, you and Haymitch would have to leave her to take up the victor mantle on her own. 

Wellie gives a nod, loosening up slightly. 

“The cornucopia it is,” declares Haymitch, clasping his hands together. “I’ll start packing.” Not that there’s much to pack. Just the hammocks and tarps. Maybe he should leave the fire going, create a diversion for Silka while you find somewhere to hide Wellie. 

“Okay. I want to check the snares around here before we head south. Maybe try to find game, too.” If you’re to leave Wellie while you carry out the plan, you need to make sure she has some sustenance. Really, you and Haymitch need to eat, too. 

“Why?” he blurts out, unable to conceal the wrinkles between his brows. 

“I assume we won’t be coming back north, and it’d be nice to take protein for the road,” you say casually, trying to alleviate the anxiety on his face. 

“You think we caught something?” he asks, eyes flickering to Wellie as she takes the last bite of potato. She might be able to handle something heavier once the potato’s settled as much as it can in her stomach. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to find some meat for her sake. But—

“Worth checking.” You clean the fork and hand it over to Haymitch. 

When you move to stand, Wellie grabs onto your wrist. “You can’t go,” she whispers.  

Haymitch stretches a hand out in her direction as if to say, Thank you, Wellie!

“We don’t know if there’ll be any food at the cornucopia,” you tell her gently, easing her into releasing her hold on you. “I need to at least try to find us some now.” 

“Then take us with you,” she says, frowning. 

“I’ll be quicker on my own.” 

Yeah, okay, that’s true. Haymitch is well aware that Wellie still has a ways to go before she’s even halfway recovered from her emaciation. She can’t go with the two of you, and she’s not going to get any better without more food. Or at least something to hold her over until the Games end and there’s no other choice but to declare her the victor. 

You tighten the blanket around Wellie, tying two corners together to keep it properly secured. Your efforts do little to reassure her—you can tell by the way her shoulders refuse to drop—but you try to leave her with the promise of a speedy return regardless. 

Haymitch pushes up on his feet when you stand with your bow. “Are you sure—” 

“You got the firewood,” you say, pointing between the two of you, “I’ve got the snares.” 

“Checking the snares will take longer. ’Specially if you plan on hunting, too,” he counters. 

“It won’t be as long as you think.” 

“Well you shouldn’t go off alone.” 

“Hi, Pot, have you met Kettle yet?” Your own hypocrisy isn’t lost on you, but you care more about getting Haymitch to let you go right now. 

“You’re hilarious,” he snipes. 

Tugging him by the elbow, you pull him a foot away from the fire and lower your voice. “Wellie will only slow me down, and someone needs to stay with her.” He opens his mouth, and you bulldoze over his next argument, “And I’m the better shot.” 

Haymitch clamps down a scoff, because for all that you’re right—you are a better shot, you will be quicker without extra bodies to carry, you can hold your own—he only cares about all the things that might go wrong without you by his side. 

You rub the crease between his brows. It’s a tall order to ask him not to worry. Your thumb stops short of the bridge of his nose before pulling back entirely. “I’m not going back on our deal. I’m asking you not to follow me this once. Please.” 

He bites his tongue, runs the tip of his teeth along the buds. “Okay,” he relents in a grumble. 

You extend your pinkie. At his hesitation, you take a step closer into his space. It’s a second longer before he loops his own around yours. With a sigh of relief, you peer past Haymitch to shoot Wellie a soft smile. “Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?” 

She tries to return your smile. 

Haymitch is staring at you with wounded, pleading eyes when you focus on him again. Lighter in color this morning—no longer navy, but a muted wild blue reminiscent of a gnatcatcher—they pull you back to his warmth. All-encompassing and dizzying. He reads your thoughts, follows them all the way down to your lips. You allow yourself the indulgence. For both your sakes. 

Full of an entirely different need from last night—one built on promises both spoken and unsaid, on hopes tender and steadfast—the kiss seals your resolve. 

You pull back right as Haymitch lowers his arm to cradle your waist. Suddenly, the urge to give him more, the instinct to stow him inside your heart next to all those little things you cannot yet say, overcomes you. Swallowing down the instinct in exchange for a more necessary directive, you brush your forehead against his. “Look after her. I’ll be back before you can miss me real bad.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of your nose. 

It takes all you have to suppress the shudder creeping down your back. Even more to walk away. 

Haymitch doesn’t move an inch. You leave him with another quick smile over your shoulder, then you disappear entirely. Deadweight on legs, he takes your place on the ground next to Wellie. She doesn’t need his wayward worry infecting her, so he tries to sound confident as he says, “Think we can hold the fort down?” 

Wellie nods, not torn up as he expected. Instead, she comes off incredibly amused for someone still one strong wind gust away from blowing off. 

“What?” 

“I thought you weren’t together,” she says, her mouth twitching. 

Haymitch clicks his tongue. “We weren’t.” 

“But you are now.” 

“Sure we are.” How else does he explain to her that it’s complicated, and you haven’t really defined things past kissing, and under different circumstances he’d ask you properly to be his? It’s true enough to just say yes. You’ve been entwined by your roots for longer than either of you have cared to admit. 

Wellie regards him suspiciously. “Relationships are weird.” 

He snorts and throws another dry branch onto the fire. “Tell me about it, kid.” 

Seconds trickle into minutes. It was much easier not to jump to the worst conclusions when Maysilee was here. In between distracting Wellie and fueling the fire, Haymitch keeps his attention on the gaps between the trees, willing you to return. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

The sun beats down on your face mockingly, as if reminding you of those counting on you to come back to them soon. Time racks up to longer than you anticipated. Longer than you promised you’d be. 

You shouldn’t be surprised when there is nothing in most of the snares you set, but you are disappointed. No game of any kind in sight, no trails to track down. You know it’s a message from the Gamemakers: they’re growing restless and bored. 

They’ve drawn things out long enough. In their minds, that is. It’s only been a week, and Games past have lasted longer with fewer tributes. Forty-eight children, and forty-three dead in seven days. How could they possibly be bored? 

You retrace your footsteps to the very last snare, not too far from where you’ve left Haymitch and Wellie. A halfway point between them and the scene of Maysilee’s death. You call it quits when you come up empty again. 

If you were back home, or if it was just a couple days earlier, you’d spend more time venturing the terrain. Patience is a virtue for most, and a necessity for hunting. Your papa always made sure to remind you of the fact when you’d groan about Burdock’s prodigal talent. So did Clerk Carmine when he first passed on your guitar. Lucky thing you picked up on that much quicker. 

Impatient as quicksand, Haymitch is surely expecting you back by now. You’ll have to settle for the hope of another sponsor gift. This time, you wouldn’t be too upset with a feast. 

You keep your bow clutched in one hand, crossing another over to rub away your goosebumps. They fade to nothing, but your bones stay frosted over. Today’s sun is only for show, it seems. 

Mags and Wiress must have a way of reading your mind, you decide, when a parachute floats down from above. Instead of a feast, nestled in a snowy linear napkin, you find a pitcher. A brilliant white china, resting within a spiral staircase. An eagle sits atop the lid. You press the eagle’s tail, and the lid pops open. Hot chocolate steam curls up your nose. 

You fall back on the familiar pattern of those first days on the mountainside, on the inclination to riddle-solve, and make quick work of connecting the dots. Plutarch’s final message couldn’t be any clearer: you’re right where you need to be, finally doing something of substance, making an actual rebel of yourself. His past instructions were a stepping stone for what’s to come. What you now know to be the real plan. 

Holding the pitcher in the nook of your elbow, you quicken the pace back to Haymitch and Wellie. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Haymitch grows restless by the fourth story he tells Wellie. He’s already detailed everything there is to Twelve that makes it worthwhile. It was a short run-down. Every time he asks her questions about Six, or anything she’s fond of, she supplies him with minimal details and the request for him to keep talking. You’d be much better suited to fulfill her wants.  

But you’re not here. The fire’s fickled down to pure billowing smoke now. And still, you aren’t back. 

He distracts them both with another memory, recounting the day Sid was born, the happiest baby to ever grace the Seam. Born on the sunny side, Mamaw used to claim. 

“Your pa was the same when he was little,” she once told Haymitch while putting him to bed. “All smiles and optimism and mischief. You got that last part from him.” 

Haymitch believed her. Hard not to. His pa was a fortress of a person, steady and strong and constant. He was soft in all the ways that mattered, too. For all that the world whittled down on him, it never could harden his heart. It never could change who he was and what he believed. 

He feels certain that you would’ve gotten along. You would’ve understood each other to that extent, at least. 

Pa only met you once before he died. Haymitch was more likely to pay your household a visit than Burdock was to play at his in the early years of their friendship. And when he did trickle on over, it’s not like you’d ever want to. Even though you and Burdock had yet to outgrow the need to go wherever the other went, Haymitch’s house was the one place you’d never willingly travel to. On account, of course, of Haymitch being there. You made that plenty clear. 

One evening, when Barb Azure was teaching Burdock and Haymitch to play a game of cards, you spent most of it on your porch steps. That was your routine whenever he was present: you’d find somewhere else to be. Halfway through the game, with Haymitch in the lead, Sorrel breezed through the kitchen with a tiredness in his posture. Exhausted as he was, he rallied to greet them with a smile. 

He kissed Burdock’s head, then Barb Azure’s cheek, and patted Haymitch on the back. “Your pa’s here, son.” 

They finished the game within minutes. If his pa was in a rush, he would’ve called out for him. Haymitch won, leaving with spoken thanks and goodbyes and the anticipation of telling his pa all about his victory. 

He never got to, his plans interrupted by a strange, melodic sound that grew louder as he walked outside: your laughter. 

Out on the porch, his pa was kneeled on a step below yours, staying eye level with you. Upon seeing Haymitch, he smiled widely, and you dropped yours completely. Jaw dropped, Haymitch could only peel his eyes away from you once prompted by his pa saying, “There you are. Let’s head on home.” 

He had to manually remind his feet how to work. They remembered pretty quickly once you glared daggers at him for blocking the doorway. You walked back inside, bidding his pa farewell with a lighthearted wave and Haymitch with a sour, “Night.”

On the path to their house, Haymitch worked up the guts to voice his curiosity. “How’d you get her to laugh?” 

His pa gave him a peculiar smile. “I told her about my day.” 

“What was so funny about your day?” asked Haymitch, scratching his nose. 

“Nothing,” he said, “but then she told me about her day. And you. Had a lot to say about you, that one.” 

“Me?” Oh, he could only imagine all the insults you spewed about him. It was plenty fine when you directed them straight at him—he took them in stride, in gratitude when coming from you—but he didn’t want his pa converted to your side. “What’d she say?” 

“Not a thing I don’t already know.” 

Haymitch blanched. How could he say that? “Pa, she hates me.”

Pa laughed, a hearty, joyful melody much like yours. “Oh, my boy. You’d be surprised.” 

His laugh sounds different now in Haymitch’s head. Faint, muted by too many years gone by without hearing it. He wonders if that’s what’ll become of him in Sid’s memories, and Ma’s. A distant illusion. 

The thought cracks his chest wide open. He wants so badly to be home with them right now. Home with you, too. 

“She’s been gone a while,” murmurs Wellie drearily, following his line of sight. “You don’t think…” 

“We would’ve heard a cannon,” he reminds her, and himself. 

A haze falls over her eyes. “Atread was dying a long time before his cannon went off.” 

Wonderful point. What a vivid image it produces. He clamps his eyes shut, and when he pictures Atread, another of his soft-spoken doves, you pop up too. Writhing in pain, dying alone. “I’m gonna go get her,” he blurts. 

“Okay,” she agrees and wiggles out of the blanket to stand, only to immediately buckle down. 

He catches her instantly. “No, Wellie, you have to stay.” 

She wheezes, panicked, “Don’t leave me.” 

Haymitch squeezes her shoulders lightly to calm her. “It’ll just be to bring her back. I’ll make sure you’re good and hidden.” 

“Don’t. I can’t be alone again. I’ll go with you.” Her bottom lip wobbles. 

“It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Look what I’ve got for you.” Haymitch hangs Maysilee’s blowgun around her neck. “This was Maysilee’s. It’s all loaded. All you do is take a deep breath, blow real hard in this end, and a poisonous dart comes flying out. She killed Panache with this. Saved our lives.” 

“Maysilee’s dead now, too.” Wellie hugs her knees. 

His throat tightens. “Yeah, she is. But she’d want you to have this. She thought you’d make a good victor.” 

“She did?” Her eyes widen. “What did she mean? A good victor?” 

A great question, an even harder one to actually answer. “It means that you’re good to your core. You never stop being a Newcomer.” 

Wellie tears up, ultimately settling into her determination. “I can do that. For the others. For her.” She whispers your name. “Hide me.” She holds out her arms for Haymitch to carry her. 

Nearby, he pinpoints a tree almost hidden by wild grapevines. Tucking Wellie behind them, he arranges the cascading vines into a curtain that’ll conceal her. 

“Remember,” he tells her. “You’ve only got one dart, so make it count.” 

She lifts the blowgun to show him she understands how to use it. 

He taps her chin with the knuckle of his index finger. “Atta girl. Now, sit tight and I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.” 

He intends to make good on his parting assurance. And when he spots you after covering a half-mile of woods, he’s relieved to know he will. 

You’re not carrying any game, but you aren’t empty-handed. Haymitch can’t quite tell what it is you’re holding from afar—he knows to credit it to a sponsor gift. You are also evidently, expectedly seething when you notice him. 

“Why are you here?” you demand, not bothering to keep your voice quiet. 

“I got worried,” Haymitch answers candidly as he approaches you. 

Of course he did. That’s expected, understandable even. The absence of your ally, however, is not. “And Wellie?” 

“She was worried, too.” His eyes hone in on the pitcher, and he goes completely still. 

“Was she?” you snap dryly. “If you’d waited a few more minutes, she wouldn’t be, because she’d have both of us there.” 

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at you, more taken with what you have in your arms. 

You stomp your foot, childish and petty and completely warranted in the heat of your frustration. “Honestly, Haymitch, is it gonna take a real blood oath to get you to listen to me?” 

He snatches the pitcher from you suddenly. “You didn’t drink any, did you?” 

Are you kidding me? “No,” you scoff. “Obviously not. I was bringing it to—”

Your huff comes out muffled against his chest. Haymitch holds you close, tight enough to stop the breath in your lungs. “What the hell?” 

His lips brush the shell of your ear, and the shudder that passes through you, too involuntarily to contain this time, almost quells your anger. Almost. What really does it are the words he whispers: “It’s not from who you think.” 

Pulling back, you search for answers in his expression. He gives you the one you need, the one you already assume deep down, with a quiver of his chin and a furrow of his brows. 

You take a deep breath and plaster on a scowl. “I don’t think you should get any hot chocolate.” 

He blinks, then pouts. “Oh, come on now.” 

“You don’t deserve it,” you say sharply. “I mean, you accuse me of hogging it.” 

“I only asked if you tasted it without us. That’s a fair question.” 

“And you left Wellie after you agreed not to.” 

Haymitch tucks your hair back. “I missed you too much, darling.” 

A cover or not, your stomach bubbles. “And you’re just plain annoying me right now, peach.” 

He laughs, tugging you to him when you take another step away. “Forgive me.” 

You narrow your eyes, a smile playing on your lips. “I—”

It all happens so fast from there. Too fast for Haymitch to pick up on the details. He only hears the way you cut yourself off. Only notices when you whir around, notching an arrow on your bow and lodging it into Maritte’s collarbone. Only sees when her knife flies into your lower abdomen at the same time. Only feels the drop of the pitcher, the fear clawing at his ribcage, the weight of his dagger before it finds the space of her neck, finishing her off.

Haymitch catches you before you hit the floor, before you land on the pile of broken glass and spilled hot chocolate. He props you against a berm of primrose. Blood spools around the dagger like the tendrils of a poppy. The black of your uniform can’t hide the shape, or the texture of the crimson. Thick as strawberry juice. 

“What do I do?” He all but spits out. “What do I—”

“Get Wellie,” you gasp, feeling nothing but the urgency to get Haymitch back on track. 

“Do I pull the knife out?”

“Get Wellie,” you repeat through gritted teeth.  

“No, you’ll bleed to death.” His voice cracks on the last syllable. “How do I stop the bleeding?”

“Haymitch.” You dig your nails into your palms to keep from wincing. “If it hit anything important, I wouldn’t be speaking right now. Go get Wellie.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Silka’s around here somewhere.” 

“Exactly why I can’t leave you!” he exclaims, exasperated and scared and on the verge of something far more painful than tears. “I can’t.”

“Haymitch, you promised!” you choke out through the lump in your throat. 

The threat of your scrunched nose, the evocation of his promise—that absolute, binding pinkie promise—cuts through him. 

“Please,” you croak, finding solace in the dirt beneath you, scraping the underside of your nail bed with rocks and twigs. “Go.” 

Your face begins to blur, and Haymitch realizes he’s in danger of breaking out into those horrible, wretched sobs that only overcome him when someone’s died. And he can’t let that happen right now because you need him. Wellie needs you both. “I’m getting her and coming right back, you hear me?”

You nod. “Go.” 

He cradles your face and presses a long kiss to the crown of your head as if that’ll bring his wishes into existence. Your hands clutch him, pushing him away. You shove your own dagger into his grip. It’s only after Haymitch backs off, running with all his might through the trees, that you allow yourself to cry. 

Every breath you take inflames the bursts of ice shooting up your side. You can feel the blade brushing against your insides, forcing you to confront just how much pain you’re in. 

It sits right above your hip, perfectly content where it is. You’re no Asterid, this is not a deceptive laceration, and it hurts a hell of a lot worse than a sprained ankle. But you can’t pull it out. Haymitch wasn’t wrong—you’ll bleed out, send yourself to an earlier grave than the one you’re already in, if you do. 

You try to slide up the trunk, push yourself to your feet, but your limbs protest angrily. They resort to going numb, a roundabout paralysis where you still feel every single sting.   

Shedding the numbness, your mind detaches from your body entirely, guided first and foremost by the boom of a cannon. 

Hissing, you push forward and hold out your hands before you can collapse face-down. 

“Ah!” You lift a hand back, burned by the hot chocolate, no less steaming than how you received it. You wipe yourself on your pant leg and assess the spillage, laid out in a stream of glass in front of you. You’re quickly reminded of the river at the base of the mountain, of the snake swallowed by its own foamy blood, of the frail man perched on a frail throne. 

“It’s not from who you think.” 

And if you were wrong about that, if it’s from who Haymitch would have you believe… 

What’s the point in dwelling, in waiting, in trying to redecipher some grand rebel plan that isn’t going to save you now? Silka is alive, and so is Haymitch. It’s a feeling as true and palpable as the stinging. 

You pocket a piece of hot chocolate soaked glass and lift yourself off the ground. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

That cannon wasn’t for you. He just left you, breathing and alive. Injured but alive. You’re right—you wouldn’t be talking if the dagger was lodged anywhere truly fatal. You’d be gone by now, and you aren’t. 

You’re not dead, you’re not dead, you’re not dead. 

But Wellie is when he reaches her. A dead, headless baby dove. Another casualty of a broken promise. Another image he’ll never be able to scrub clean in his memories. 

“What did you do?” he hisses. 

Silka holds up Wellie’s head defensively, drawing attention to the blood spatters on her snot-green uniform. “She attacked me.” 

Haymitch notices the poison dart hanging from her blousy sleeve. Wellie tried to protect herself, tried to stay strong, tried to uphold the Newcomer honor. And as she feared he would, Haymitch abandoned her. Oh, Wellie, what have I done to you? 

“She had to go. You have to go,” Silka continues robotically. “It’s the only way I get back to my people.” 

“We all have people. You think yours will ever be able to forget this? I know mine won’t.” He hopes Sid disowns him, curses his weakness, spits whenever he hears his pathetic brother’s name. 

“I’ll tell it how it was, when I get home,” she says. 

“Oh, you’re not going home, Silka.” He pulls the ax from his belt. You should hate Haymitch all over again—you will. You’ll hate him when you return home for letting this happen, for leaving Wellie behind in the first place, for forcing you to fulfill Maysilee’s deathbed demand on your own without so much as a goodbye. And he’s at peace with that. It’s what he deserves. 

Silka tosses Wellie’s head aside, no regard or compassion for her even in death. Her callousness does wonders for Haymitch’s resolve. Even more so when she spews, “Where’s your ally?” 

“I’d worry more about yours,” he seethes. His ax feels right at home in his hands. “Who do you think that first cannon was for?” 

Nostrils flaring, eyes welling, Silka’s first stroke comes straight down at his head.

The clash of metal echoes across the woods. You follow the sound with an agonizing hobble. The clangs and grunts lead you back to your campsite, ravaged in the wake of a hateful battle. Beyond Silka’s attempt to dislodge her ax from a tree, and Haymitch’s quick swipe at her thigh, and her retaliation, Wellie’s head lies detached from her body. 

Your feet stammer, and a low hanging branch provides stability. Nothing in your stomach but a knife, you force yourself not to keel over. 

Later. There will be time to feel it, to hate yourself, later. 

“Hey, snot-face!” you call out, raising your bow. Your papa would chide you for startling your prey, but you want her looking at you when you land the arrow. 

Silka shrieks when it strikes through her shoulder, immobilizing her left arm. You grab another arrow, but she runs your way, rams your body to the ground, and sends the arrow aimlessly through the wind. Your bow slips from your grasp. 

At the impact, the tip of the blade digs deeper. Your yelp is cut short by Silka’s forearm pressing down on your throat. You claw at her face, taking chunks of skin and blood, but the only thing that gets her to let up is a dagger to her eye. Her howl comes with a blind swipe behind her back, in the direction of the culprit. 

Haymitch, consumed by his rage for Silka and distracted by his one-track-mind for you, fails to jump back. He pays the price with a giant gash across his lower abdomen. His grip loosens on his ax as he scrambles to keep his guts from spilling onto the floor. 

You elbow Silka in the nose and make a dash for Haymitch. “Nice eye!” you shout over your shoulder as you yank him away. 

Wounded and weaponless, his intestines twisting in his fingers and your abdomen burning with each step, your sprint sputters into a staggered zigzag. You come to a stop where the alder trees make way for the burnt hedge. 

Haymitch leans back against one of them, his legs shaking like they’re about to give out. You hold him up, keeping your attention on his eyes, his nose, his lips. Anywhere but the very fatal injury. 

“What’s the plan?” he strains to say. 

Your chest heaves. “Force her to split her attention.” 

He can’t fathom leaving you again for more than a second, doesn’t want to, but there’s no good alternative. You’re running on fumes and borrowed time. Haymitch knows that as well as you do. Why couldn’t you just stay put? 

Why couldn’t he?

He gives a curt nod and dashes towards the cliffside, both hands cupping his wound now. You find cover among the trees, where he hopes you’ll be safest. 

Back pressed against the jagged bark, pinecones dropping overhead, you look down at the only weapon you have access to. You wrap your trembling fingers around the handle of the blade. Like ripping off a bandaid. You don’t stifle your cry; you need Silka to find you. 

And she does, with a fist to the face, paying you back for bloodying her nose. One eyed and all, Silka is a master at regaining the upper hand. You swipe the knife at her throat; she strikes your wrist and knocks it out of your grip. Knuckles will have to do then. You lift them and swing, spent as you are, because you’ll drag her down with you by any means before she ever gets the chance to reach Haymitch. 

Silka doesn’t bother with her ax. She punches you instead, square in the jaw. You go down, but not without punting her in the shin. Dodging your next attempt, she grabs a fistful of your hair. You shriek with indignation as much as with pain. 

Dragged like a rag-doll by the roots, you go kicking and screaming the entire way through the hedge’s boundary. Up until you’re both feet away from Haymitch. 

“Let her go,” he coughs out. “Let go!” 

With a curse of her name, a shout of yours, Haymitch tries to run your way, only for his knees to buckle entirely. He resorts to throwing whatever rocks in his vicinity at her. Does she plan to make him watch? Is she so sick in the head, so poisoned by the Capitol’s need for spectacle, that she needs to draw it out for them, even now? 

Silka throws you down, unphased by the stone that hits her in the chest. Weakly, you lift your head, hold it up high, and spit out a curdle of blood. Right at her feet. She’ll have to look you in the eye and live with whatever shame she’s capable of. Same as the very people who’ve turned each of you into pawns. 

But she doesn’t care about you right now. No, not at all. Silka has another target in mind. A different, equally vindictive parting act. 

She wants you to see Haymitch die first. 

“Kill me,” you croak, rolling onto your stomach, pushing up on your forearms. Kill me, kill me, kill me. Not him. You make a play for her ankle, and Silka steps on your fingers, cracking them in half. 

Your scream doesn’t stop her ax as it flies through the air. It never reaches its target, though. Haymitch falls forward on his face before it can, narrowly dodging the impact. You breathe out, relieved. What a pity she’ll have to settle for you. 

Silka stands over you, her hand against her eye socket, seemingly contemplating how you should go. Her momentary setback hasn’t derailed her confidence. She has time, the upper hand, and—

The ax lodges in her head with a sickening squelch. 

She writhes on the ground across from you. Your head snaps Haymitch’s way, in the direction of the glistening illusion of a force field behind him. Some trick. 

You scramble onto your knees to get to him. You fall back down when Silka stops gurgling, the cannon sounds, and it sinks in that the worst of your fears has come to pass.

Haymitch is alive…but so are you.

Your fingers are surely broken, and you’re set to bleed to death any second now, but you’re a lot better off than Haymitch. Still face-down feet away, his guts splattering out of his body, good as dead. 

He’s as good as dead. 

So you don’t think about home, or about notions of revolution, or about Wellie’s decapitated body, or about the millions of things you have yet to feel and do. 

You just reach for your failsafe. 

Haymitch is slipping, literally. In-and-out of consciousness, intestines coiling around his palms like a snake. You should be by his side right now, yelling at him, scolding his audacity, kissing him goodbye. You wouldn’t deny him a deathbed wish. And yet, you’re nowhere near. 

He raises his head, feeling the weight of a dozen dumbbells threatening to push him back down. He finds Silka’s dead body, the reflective ax sticking out of her head. And you. Slightly closer, curled on the ground, frozen completely. 

Why aren’t you moving? 

His incoming death means nothing now. Haymitch comes to his senses, alert and desperate as he drags himself across the dirt with one hand. 

Your tears, trickling out the corners of your eyes, are all Haymitch sees after you roll onto your back and he props up on an elbow. He’s slow, too slow—he shouldn’t be this slow—to notice the change in your blood. From crimson to pitch black, same as the veins running in spirals across your abdomen when he lifts your shirt. An abnormality credited to foul play. To poison. 

No. No, no, no, you said you didn’t drink the hot chocolate. You didn’t have any. You didn’t—you would’ve already been dead. And you weren’t. You aren’t. 

Sunlight glistens off a piece of glass stuck to the edge of your wound. How did— 

Haymitch was careful setting you down, wasn’t he? He’d been panicked and frantic, but he was careful. 

You rasp, “H-Haymitch, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, sunshine,” he croaks. “You aren’t—” You aren’t dying. You can’t be dying. You can’t—he can’t—how can he stop this? He needs to stop this, needs to save you, needs to—

Your fingers twitch like you’re attempting to grab him. Attempting to wipe away those telltale wrinkles. “Should’ve…said it sooner.” 

He shakes his head. “Just—just wait.” 

“Should’ve shown it,” you breathe, a ragged whistle of a note.

“You did. You do,” he says hopelessly, truthfully, piecing the fractures of your puzzle. “B-but you gotta hold on. You have to stay with me.” 

You try to tell him that you won’t be apart, not really. You’ll be with him forever. But the promise comes out in a strangled sputter, which he leans in to will away. Your bluebird brushes your shoulder, reminding you there was never a chance of escaping this. Not from the second Haymitch was damned to your side. There is peace in accepting your fate. There is freedom in the world that comes next, where every last one of your people awaits. Where the ones around your neck will find you someday. 

My sweet family, my formidable kin, know I fought like all-fire. Know we’ll meet in the meadow. 

You can’t make out his pleas anymore, just his horrid, haunting gasps of air. It’s all that hurts you now. Whatever strength you have left is used for one last attempt to tell Haymitch all he means and all you want for him in lieu of a life together. “Don’t follow.” 

The sun fades around the corners of your vision, leaving you with only Haymitch. I love you forever, in every world, and then some. 

Haymitch presses his lips to yours, trying to breathe into you, attempting to give you what’s left of his life because it’s yours anyway. He’s yours. Everything he is, everything he feels, belongs to you. “I love you.” He tastes salt mixed with metal. “Please don’t leave me,” he pleads against your frozen skin. “I love you, I love you.” 

He opens his eyes to the empty look in yours. Once brilliant, now lost to him forever. The agony builds and builds until it scratches his throat raw with an unending scream. But it’s not enough to numb the rest of him. He sobs, closes your eyes with shaky fingers, buries his face into your hair. “I’m sorry.” 

And it’s in the despair of the words that Haymitch realizes it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. This hole in his heart, this anguish in his body, is temporary. Because he has a much more fatal, much more literal gap dragging him down beside you. Even ground, right? 

The hovercraft fades in from afar, no announcement of the victor as far as Haymitch is aware. But it’s coming. They’ll drag him out of here, resuscitate him from the brink, stop him from following you. Just like you want. 

He acts on pure instinct when he digs for the makings of the bomb. The sunflower, the blasting cap, the quartz, his flintstriker. Thank you, Ampert, Wyatt, Maysilee, Lenore Dove, for laying the groundwork. The Gamemakers’ warnings fall on deaf ears and a grief-stricken heart. Keep your head up, Sid. Don’t fret for me now, Ma. I won’t fail again, Burdie.

Haymitch manages with one hand and his set of teeth. He rolls onto his back, tears the blasting cap, shoves it into the sunflower, dodges the stray bullets from above. Driven by a sole purpose, and the bonus of another. 

Forgive me, sunshine, for I cannot live without you. 

He’ll tell you himself when he meets you again. He’ll take your anger in stride, as he always has, because he knows where it comes from. And it won’t matter so long as he has you. You and everyone else who’s found their way to your heaven. Losses of old and those yet to pass. Pa, Mamaw, his unnamed sisters. Haymitch believes it, he feels them all waiting. Any second now. 

When he launches the sunflower into the canyon, it’s for every loose cannon, every person back in Twelve, every life the Capitol has tried to twist into nothing. It’s for you. 

Black specks dot his eyes, blocking out the arena’s artificial light, and so, he finds you. The last thing he ever wants to see in this world, the first he’ll wake to in the next.  

His brilliant, dazzling sun, keeping him warm, singing him home, as the earth crumbles beneath him. 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Haymitch wakes later, not to the lull of your voice or the greetings of his lost loves, but to stark white walls and gloved hands on bare skin and half-eaten nightingales filling the absence of your warmth. The sorrow he sought to ward off, the loss he fought with all his strength to avoid, crashes into him at once. Permanent, wretched, vengeful. Inevitable. And he knows you have not forgiven him. 

You never will.

Taglist: @lovemiss-vale @aureolinb @mqrieshrt @bueburgers @dem1dearest @nikki-is-a-nerd @lovelylittlelesbianlore @jjloveshotch @inneedofcaffine @poetsandroses @kindsleybooks @ivyhaec @x-gabrielle-x @ghostlythinggoingaround @happiness2112 @sundawn1990 @starryjeongyeon @kuurbyfun @lenteheure @petrasbones @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465 @rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch @poppysrin @watergirl85 @prettyandromeda @gaz0xx @marsupialnoises @madisonosidam @redshinyshoes @comfortcharacterwrites

A/N: so how y’all feeling?

Now, as she trails a foot behind, watching you and Haymitch brush fingers and clonk arms together in some secretive, moralistic language, it is not fine. Not at all. 

It’s only been a mile, maybe close to two, and neither of you have said a word out loud. Neither of you have bothered to give Maysilee any reasonable explanation as to why you want to test your luck with the hedge again. For all that you’re pretending not to notice, Maysilee recognizes the path you’re taking. The Gamemakers’ message couldn’t have been any clearer: stay out. 

And yet, out of complete carelessness or absolute arrogance, you’ve chosen to ignore that message. Despite claiming otherwise after the colossal failure that was your first attempt. And despite the fact that five more Newcomers are dead. Only one remains outside the three of you. Maybe the odds swing in your favor, numbers wise. Maysilee has a feeling that even so, it’ll be a close fight against snot-faced Silka and fish-breath Maritte. If they find Wellie first…she has no chance. 

As skewed as your priorities are, you aren’t careless or arrogant, and neither is Haymitch. Your nature is to care, to do good by people, most often at your own expense. It’s as concerning a quality as it is annoying. It’s also how she knows you want to find Wellie, and you have a reason for putting it off. Maysilee figures you do, the same way she knew you didn’t let Ampert leave without compromising the core of who you are. 

Yet. 

Up ahead, four feet away instead of one now, Haymitch turns his head sideways to steal what he probably thinks is a subtle glimpse of you. Maysilee sees it, but you feel it. You glance up at him, reflecting the same nauseating devotion in his eyes. Not mirror images, but a package deal all the same. 

Maysilee bites back a scoff. She’s once again the stale marshmallow they jack up for promotional value. If she stopped following, it’d probably take you another mile to notice. 

“I’m changing my vote.” 

Like puppets on the same tangled string, you both come to an exact halt. You turn your full body, so of course, Haymitch does the same. You have the decency not to subject her to further disgust and put some distance away from him. 

“What?” he asks, either playing deaf or dense. 

“You heard me,” says Maysilee, crossing her arms. “Wellie isn’t up here.” 

You mimic her stance. “We don’t know that yet.” 

“The arena narrows to a point up north, right? Like it did in the south?” 

“Not right away.” 

“But it does.” Maysilee props a hand on her hip. Wouldn’t Wellie just feel trapped?” 

“Or safe,” you counter, pointing a finger absentmindedly. “No one would be able to sneak up on her.” 

“But she wouldn’t be able to escape, either,” she says. 

“The Careers wouldn’t think to look around here,” cuts in Haymitch. “It’s like you said, it’d be too narrow a space for ’em.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You’re wrong. Wellie would stand a much better chance in the meadow than she would up here. Little thing like her, she could disappear into that grass. It goes on for miles. Lay low and look for food at the Cornucopia. They’d never find her. Even if she did come to the woods, she’s too smart to risk getting herself penned in like that.” She takes a pointed step in your direction. “And you know that.” 

You press your lips into a line, regarding her blankly. You aim for neutral, but it’s always clear when she’s struck a chord with you. Your eyes get twitchy and your fingers spasm like you’re itching to throw something at her. It’s your tell. And the feeling’s mutual. “I think it’s best we rule out the north first.” 

“Why?” she demands, clamping down her scoff when you look at Haymitch. 

Another not-so-covert meeting of eyes occurs between you. Haymitch receives your illicit message with care before he answers on your behalf. “The hedge. It’s worth another look.”

Bingo. “Ugh.” Maysilee shudders. “Even if I had a quart of blood to spare, why on earth would we do that?” 

“Because the arena has to end somewhere, right? It can’t go on forever.” 

“What do you expect to find? Because it sure won’t be Wellie.” 

You twist one of the charms around your neck. The wooden butterfly, Maysilee’s favorite. She wonders if you remember her saying so. You probably do. “Maybe, maybe not. We can still find a way to use the maze to our benefit.” 

“How?” she questions. 

“Make it into a trap for the Careers,” suggests Haymitch. “Lure them in, drop a tarp of ladybugs on them, get them lost in there. If we play our cards right, it could help us.”

He lifts his brows, like he’s trying to urge her to heed your request. You don’t bother making an attempt to clue her in through a gesture. Maysilee shakes her head. “That’s not good enough. So unless you can give me one real reason why I should agree, I’m not convinced.”

She waits, gives you the space and time to say anything of real substance. Because this pursuit of yours has to be credited to something important, on the same level or greater than Lenore Dove’s paint jobs. Maybe she wouldn’t believe it, maybe you wouldn’t, but Maysilee would never rat her out. She knows what would happen to Lenore Dove if she did. Plus, she likes having the ability to make her squirm. As much as Lenore Dove hates her, as much as she can’t stand her in turn, they’re equal in that way. 

Maysilee doesn’t want to hold anything over your head now; she only wants to matter in equal measure. 

She watches the two of you closely, rolls her eyes at the way you drift together like magnets, again, and a thought clicks into place. Haymitch broke his alliance with the Newcomers for safety reasons, so he claimed. True that may be, but so is the fact that his score hasn’t changed, and neither has his lack of popularity with the Gamemakers. Presumably, he’s still a threat—still a mutt-magnet, as he put it—but here he is. 

If he were really concerned about the danger of his proximity, he’d tear out the limb that prevented him from leaving you, all in the name of keeping you safe. Instead, he’s by your side, and you’re by his, and Maysilee is on the very outs you cursed Haymitch for pushing you to. 

She huffs, glaring daggers at you in the hopes of drawing out your own. “You’re such a hypocrite.” 

You keep steady and unflinching. Not for the first time, nor the last, Maysilee longs for the days before the arena. When Wyatt was here to keep her balanced, when the four of you were a real team, when it was easy to get a reaction out of you. To get you to care. “Maysilee—” 

“I’m changing my vote,” she repeats, louder. She shifts her feet. The only thing that keeps her from walking off is your voice. 

“Then we’re at a standstill,” you say, motioning to Haymitch. “We haven’t voted yes to heading into the meadow.”

Maysilee glowers at you. “Maybe it’s best we break off now then. There’s only six of us left anyway.” 

“Oh, come on, Maysilee,” Haymitch scoffs out. She doesn’t acknowledge him—this isn’t between them right now. 

You stare at her with what you intend to be an unreadable expression, but hidden as the meaning may be, she sees what you feel. You take a breath. “We’re not splitting up. We’ll try the meadow.” 

“But going north is—” Haymitch’s breath sputters when you glance his way, without demands or coded pleas. Just the way you always look at him, like you want to fold him into your heart. Ew. “—not the plan now.” 

So much for no coercion. Then again, since when do you have to try very hard to get people—most of all, Haymitch—to do your bidding. A one-note whistle, and there go the dogs to your feet. Maysilee lifts a shoulder. “Okay then.” 

You acknowledge her with a bored blink of your eyes. 

Haymitch gestures for her to go on. “Lead the way, ladybug.” 

She shoots you one more glare before turning on her heels. You and Haymitch are the ones falling behind in steps now, murmuring to each other under your breaths before going completely silent. 

When your giggle cuts through the few minutes of peace and quiet, Maysilee feels her jaw wind up like the handle of her grandmother’s old music box. She looks over her shoulder. “Keep up, will you?” 

You pretend to salute her. Haymitch gives a curt nod. “Yes ma’am.” 

Maysilee takes a deep breath, crunching a pile of twigs and dried leaves beneath her feet. Her skin absorbs the sun’s heat, arms turning red and glistening with sweat. Whatever marks remain from the ladybugs’ attack begin to sting in response. It’s much hotter today, air turned up to a degree above sweltering, or maybe Maysilee’s stamina is simply beginning to wane. 

The hike into the woods didn’t seem this long when she was searching for you in the aftereffects of the volcano. She’d been running on fumes, same as now, but things were different three days ago. Her morale was different; shot but still there, still confident that she had people counting on her. She can search high and low for it all she wants—she’s not getting that back. 

Following nearly the same path she used then, Maysilee recognizes the shaded trees dangling pinecones above your heads. You’re a few miles from the tree line, but once there, it’s a one step walk into the meadow. 

Her stomach begins to vibrate, soft and low, before crescendoing into a louder roar. She clutches it, hoping to soothe the grumbling. 

You chime directly behind her, “Lunch time?” 

Maysilee has half a mind to give you a taste of your own hard-headed medicine and refuse the offer. But then her stomach clenches painfully, as if trying to consume itself in order to placate the hunger. How have you and Haymitch and anyone dealt with this? It didn’t seem possible.

Sure, back home, she’s noticed the bodies made up of all bones and no meat. She’s seen the faces of despair that linger longer than the soot trails they leave behind. She’s picked up on the way the smallest ones like Wellie can barely hold their own heads up. She isn’t blind, nor numb, to the stirring that goes on in her chest when she really considers it. But before now, she had other things to be angry about. Her old concerns are all so trivial by comparison. 

Maysilee stops when you reach a small clearing. “This is as good a place as any for lunch. What do we have?” 

You and Haymitch settle down on the floor with her. One by one, you lay out what’s left of your food supply. 

She reaches for three of the bread rolls and slices them in half. The fourth she knows to save for Wellie before you even say so. There’s just enough nut butter to spread on both sides of each roll, cushioning some slices of banana between them. Wrapping them in individual handkerchiefs, she hands one to each of you. 

Haymitch takes a bite and his eyes go wide. “This is prime.”

“Mhm,” you agree through your mouthful. 

She shrugs. “Well, I am responsible for the more innovative flavor combinations at our shop. Did you ever try our hot pepper cherry taffy?”

“I did!” Haymitch livens, nudging your elbow with his. You beam his way in response. “That was Mamaw’s favorite!”

Maysilee retrieves her knife and fork to cut off a piece of her roll. “That was mine. Also, the cream cheese cinnamon balls and the lavender suckers. The mayor was partial to those.” 

You nod. “He keeps an entire bowl of ’em in each hallway.” 

Does he? She’s only been inside the mayor’s house a handful of times, and there are much nicer things there to take note of than bowls of candy. The longest visit being on his most recent birthday. Her family received an invitation to the celebration on account of her father’s budding relations with him. It was a night when you joined the rest of the Covey, the only three who did perform live. With Lenore Dove on the corner piano, Tam Amber with his mandolin on one side, Clerk Carmine polishing his fiddle on the other, you and your guitar took center stage. 

You performed most of the songs instrumental, save for the birthday song. The crowd, made up of no more than a couple dozen people, some of whom had even been dancing to your tunes, took up the task of filling in the lines. Afterwards, when the cake and piles of dessert were brought out, you seemed about done. 

Lenore Dove stayed seated on the piano bench, frozen like if she concentrated real hard she might magically poof off stage. Funny how someone capable of such daring protests could succumb to such stage fright. Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine seemed more equipped for the act of performing, be it due to years of practice or natural comfortability. Even so, there was something that stopped them from enjoying themselves. 

Nothing stopped you—you were having fun. The stage lit you up as much as you did it. All the Covey were born with music in their blood. That’s Maysilee’s guess, anyway. But you took to the performance like it was a sixth sense. Why didn’t you do it more often? 

The answer didn’t matter much to Maysilee then. She only noticed because she was watching you the whole night, and she’d only been watching because there was nothing better to do. She and Merrilee were given direct orders not to do anything. Sit there and look pretty, their mother all but said aloud. They wanted to make sure they were invited back next year. The mayor had a son around their age, after all. 

Before any one of you could walk off, the mayor’s wife scurried to the foot of the stage, beckoning for you to crouch down. When you stood back up, you mouthed something to Clerk Carmine, who passed the message along to Lenore Dove while you asked a silent request of Tam Amber. 

The opening notes of your guitar started soft, accompanied by the harmony of a hum. A slow song for a slow dance. Her mother was so happy when Merrilee was asked to dance by the mayor’s son that she agreed to sully her new shoes on the tile floorboards with her father. The two pairs were joined by others in a matter of seconds. 

Maysilee sunk back into her seat, uncaring of her posture without her mother around to remind her. She just wanted to get the night over with. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of your instruments, expecting no more than them. Then you opened your mouth, and the words glided right out. 

You come home late, 

Fall on your cot, 

You smell like something that money bought. 

Maysilee’s eyes snapped open, zeroing-in on you and the song you were playing. She carried on unmoving while bodies swayed around her table through two more verses. Your eyes fluttered shut, grounding yourself in the song, not lost in it like she was. 

The moon don’t wane and wax for you,

You think so, but you’re wrong,

You cause me pain, you make me blue,

I’ll sell you for a song. 

You drew out the notes, rounding and smoothing them out, vocalizing when there were no actual words left to sing. More haunting than the message of the song itself. 

Before then, before that last night on the mountainside, she only heard you sing in full—not in snippets or muffled filters—once. At her grandmother’s funeral. With a melody most could only conceive in dreams, you and Burdock filled the gaping absence her grandmother left behind. No doubt, you both could do a load of damage with your talent if you chose to. Maysilee was surprised her mother, a stickler for by-the-book thinking, always preoccupied with how things appeared than with how they were, allowed it without complaint. She must’ve been truly overcome with grief. Or maybe she knew not to overlook the rarity of your gift. 

“I liked the cinnamon balls,” you continue, perking up, drawing Maysilee back to the present. “They’re my favorite after—”

“The maple creams,” she and Haymitch finish at the same time. Maysilee purses her lips; Haymitch narrows his eyes. They’ve been spending way too much time around each other. 

You snicker a little. “Yup.” 

Haymitch clears his throat and addresses Maysilee. “Sounds like the job wasn’t all bad.”  

He has no idea of her mother’s expectations, grueling in spite of their shallow nature, poorly masked by her sweetness. No idea of the walls that close in on her, or the way her pulse pushes against her skin and stretches the tissue taut whenever they do. No idea how lucky the two of you are to be as free as you can in this world. Free enough to feel like yourselves. 

She sighs. “Ironic is what it was. I don’t even care much for candy. So many more interesting things to make. When you’re not stuck behind a counter, that is.” 

She focuses on the roll before her. The real irony is that in trading one cell for another, Maysilee has found something akin to freedom. She wondered sometimes, when you and Burdock would come into the shop to trade or sell something, what it was like out in the woods. Out there, would she have found a life of no expectations, no confines, no hiding behind a half-baked identity? She’ll have to be satisfied with only a taste. 

You hum thoughtfully. Maysilee glances up at you in time to catch the curious way you tilt your head, like you see straight down to her soul. She hates that ability of yours. Hates even more that, despite her efforts, she is not invulnerable to the exposure. You tear off a piece of your sandwich and say, “A cage is no place for a bird.” 

Maysilee frowns, accustomed to the snides you and Lenore Dove have made in passing about her canary. If that’s the hill you want to die on now, your priorities are more than just skewered, they’re pathetic. “I’ll have you know Lou Lou is very well loved.” 

You grin. “I wasn’t talking about the canary. Though now that you mention it…” You pop the torn piece into your mouth. 

Her throat tightens, the vulnerability curdling inside her, which she tries to ease by cutting another bit of the roll and shoving it into her mouth. Less gracefully than she otherwise would’ve liked. One thing she and her mother can agree on: appearances can make a world of difference. 

You and Haymitch have wolfed down your sandwiches in just over a minute. He helps you pack the remaining food. Not that there’s a whole lot to haul off. 

“Looks like we’re having sardines and potatoes for dinner,” he comments.  

Maysilee regards you casually, though her words escape with grit as she says, “You two could always make out again. Maybe get us another sponsor gift.” 

Haymitch frowns, but he isn’t off-put by her quip. The real kick-to-the-gut is your reaction. Scrunched nose and wary eyes, like she’s just spat on an exposed nerve, and she doesn’t understand why you’re looking at her like that when this isn’t the first comment she’s made along the same lines. And it isn’t the first time the Games have featured something like this anyway. 

A few years back, there was a boy from Four and a girl from Eight who flirted shamelessly the entirety of their alliance. The boy, Kai, ditched the Careers and went rogue with her. They broke it off when it got down to seven, and in a cruel twist of fate, they wound up being the last two left. All affections were gone; in their place was a desperation to go home. Maysilee can still picture that final shot of them on their knees, both bloodied and wounded and too exhausted to charge at each other further. With a foot of space between them, the girl leaned forward and kissed him. Even distracted, Kai beat her to the final stab. 

The Capitol had a field day with the replay footage; Maysilee’s mother had a field day acting appalled. Most everyone in town was completely scandalized by their lack of decorum. Horrified by a kiss, not the circumstances that led a boy to kill a girl he liked. Penny was her name. Maysilee remembers it now.

What must they be saying about you and Haymitch? The Capitol must be foaming at the mouth, and her side of Twelve must be beside themselves with the scandal. Maysilee can applaud your impact at least—you’re sure to have caused a stir. But you can’t possibly be upset about being judged by those back home. People’s opinions are of little consequence to you. What you really care about is how you’re perceived. There’s a difference, and Maysilee knows it well. They can think all they want of you, so long as they see you. So long as their perceptions don’t muddle who you really are and what you really feel. 

Oh. 

She waits for you to snap at her, expects it, wants it. Instead, you break your stare. Turning to Haymitch, you muse, “It couldn’t hurt. What do you think, peach? Wanna give it a go now?”

Haymitch shrugs, grinning. “If you think it’d help, sunshine.”

“I was kidding,” Maysilee says in offering to you, half-disgusted and half-apologetic. She sticks her fork through the remaining bread. 

You give her a pointed look as she chews on her last piece. “Hm.”

Haymitch ducks his head close to your ear. Your hair hides half of his face, but not the lilt in his voice as he murmurs, “I wasn’t.” 

She nearly gags on her bite. You laugh, and Haymitch breaks off into his own alongside you. Rolling her eyes, she cleans her utensils with a handkerchief. “Oh, I get the point.” 

Maysilee leads again after lunch; this time, the three of you walk in sync through a crop of tiger lily bushes. By her estimate, it’s past noon, and there’s still a good distance of woods to cover. But it only takes another half-mile before she sees the tree line fading into view far ahead. 

It’s relieving enough to know there will still be plenty of daylight to find Wellie. So relieving, in fact, that Maysilee doesn’t so much as flinch when you reach a thick stream of mud where a clearing once stood. It stretches out from east to west, endless as far as the eye can see, having toppled a number of trees in its path. 

“There must’ve been a mudslide,” you observe. “Between the volcano and the rain, we’re just lucky to have missed it.” 

Maysilee lifts a brow. “Lucky thing dealing with those ladybugs instead, huh?” 

You click your teeth. “Very.” 

Haymitch touches the muddy shoreline with the tip of his boot. “No way around it. Unless we head back north?”

“Nice try,” she huffs out and points to the fallen trees forming a zigzag across the mud. “We’ll get across faster on those.” 

The closest trunk is about five feet away—an impossible jump with an easy solution. Haymitch cuts down a nearby branch, a narrow thing, but it trims the amount you’d have to jump to a mere hop. 

Maysilee is surprised you’re still allowing her to take charge. She walks across the trunk with the same practiced delicacy she would use clicking in heels back home. Filed into a single line, you and Haymitch follow behind. She traces the ragged lines of the trees, some of them distinct in pattern and texture, but she has no way of telling the difference in their type. 

You’re halfway through the clearing, balancing on one of the shorter trunks when you ask, “Did y’all feel that?” 

Maysilee drags a foot across a branch to her right. The mysterious sensation doesn’t come for her. “Not a thing.” 

“Me neither,” says Haymitch. “What was it?” 

“Felt like an earthquake coming,” you say, and Maysilee can hear the frown, can sense the memory of the volcano sneaking up her own spine like the threat of paralysis. 

The trunk shakes beneath her feet, a soft rumble that feels attributable to the wind. Or to her mind playing tricks on her. Maysilee stops abruptly. “I felt it now.” 

She looks at you, finds you stiff and tight-fisted around your bow, and waits for another tremble. 

“I hear something.” Haymitch shifts his body in the direction of the noise. “It sounds like—” His left foot slips, and he tumbles off the trunk. 

Haymitch falling into a vat of mud would be typical under different circumstances. Comical, even. If he weren’t slipping right through the surface like he was being dragged under by an invisible pressure. 

“Haymitch!” you cry out, catching his wrist before it sinks down with the rest of him. Maysilee rushes to grab onto your waist and nearly skids over the trunk herself when you fall onto your stomach, dangling above the mud. But you don’t loosen your grip on Haymitch for a second, so she doesn’t let go of you either. The pressure anchors him below the mud, threatening to tug you into the abyss with him even as you pull with all the strength you have. 

No cannon signifies that Haymitch has succumbed to suffocation. That doesn’t stop your panicked, watery hiccups, spurring on Maysilee’s anxious tremor. She wraps her arms around you and pulls harder. 

When his head bobs back up, you sputter out a breath of relief. He coughs up spittles of mud and saliva and probably stray twigs too. The lower half of his body is still stuck, but he reaches for the trunk with his free hand, taking some of the weight from you and Maysilee. Between your combined efforts, he manages to lift one leg out of the mud. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the runts.” 

Maysilee’s grip on you falters for a second. She seethes in the direction of Silka and Maritte, on the opposite end of the clearing. Little Miss Snot Face hauls herself onto the trunk closest to her end. Silka swings her axe with a determined vengeance. Maritte’s trident twinkles under the sunlight beside her. 

“Maysilee, go,” you choke out through the exertion of maintaining Haymitch above the surface. She only tightens her arms around your waist. “Go.” 

Through his mud-stained eyes, throat still clogged, Haymitch urges her similarly. To run, to take you with her kicking and screaming if she has to. Which she would, to ever get you to leave him. 

Maysilee lets you go with a scoff and whips out a dart from her pack. Graceless as ever, Silka and Maritte stumble over the trunks, slowing what they probably hoped to be a quick kill. Loading up her blowgun, she pouts at their pitiful efforts. “Is that really the best you can do, Silka?” 

Silka sneers, an ugly sight to behold, and kicks off into a sprint across the trunk. She slips into the mud when the rumbling from before returns with greater fervor. Coming from the east, a large lump of mass slinks through the mud with a single destination in mind. Quick and determined, leaving no time for Maysilee to steady herself for the impact. Between one of the gaps in the fallen trees, a head pokes out, pink and clammy and eyeless, upturning the world beneath her, too. 

She lands on a solid patch, not a splotch of hidden quickmud. Her fingers twitch as she pushes upward, whipping around in the direction of your yelp. You’ve landed on the opposite end of the trunk, a distance away from Haymitch, who’s only barely managed to hold onto a branch. She tries to run towards you, thrown off course when the worm slithers directly under her and catapults her into the air. 

Maysilee takes the blunt of the impact to her nose. Bark digs into her stomach and scratches up her forearms. 

“Maritte!” Silka calls out from somewhere to the left of Maysilee. She lifts her head and pinpoints Silka’s voice, strangled as she sprints with ragged effort. Following behind her like a chemtrail, the worm weaves in and out of the mud. 

Huh. Maysilee coughs up a laugh. Only a slimeball could attract another slimeball. 

Silka shouts for Maritte again. About two stumps away, on safe, steady ground, Maritte lifts herself up. The trident is back in her grip within the blink of an eye, brilliant and deadly and aimed directly at Maysilee. Sea green eyes flickering from her enemy to her ally, Maritte can’t seem to decide which is more worth her time. 

“What are you waiting for?” Silka cries. “Kill her!” 

Maritte hesitates, Maysilee reaches for her blowgun, but the only target either of them hits is the worm making a beeline towards Silka. Maritte’s golden trident sticks out of its skull, visible for all of a second before it dips below the mud.

Silka trips over herself, and to Maysilee’s disappointment, doesn’t fall into a sinkhole. “No! Why would you do that? Don’t you want to go home?” 

“Still chasing that sad little dream, Silka?” Maysilee sits up on her knees. “I almost feel sorry to kill you now, Maritte. Maybe you should’ve thought twice before hooking up with a Capitol toady.” 

Maysilee raises her blowgun anew, and Maritte pulls her knife before spinning around and disappearing into the trees. Silka screams ragefully and runs off for Maritte. To scold her or kill her, who knows? Who cares? She’s distracted, and right in front of Maysilee, and an easy target for a moving one. A shot just about anywhere will do. 

Something yanks Maysilee by the arm before she can go in for the kill. 

“What the hell?”

Haymitch drags her in the direction of the northern woods. He staggers over the trees, ignores Maysilee’s protests, forces her to keep up even when he almost causes her to trip over a branch. 

Slouched on the floor, covered head-to-toe in mud, you force yourself to stand when they land back on your side of the clearing. What the hell? Haymitch reaches for your hand and doesn’t let go of either of you. Running for his life and yours when Maysilee was so close to ending Silka’s. 

Around her, pastel berms blur together like tufts of cotton candy. Her lungs burn from anger, exhaustion, both. But Haymitch doesn’t stop, doesn’t release you and Maysilee, until you’ve reached the campsite from last night. She props herself against a tree, digging for her handkerchief. Your feet stutter like you’re about to pass out. 

Haymitch wipes the mud from his nose. He steadies you with a hand on your back as you fold over and hack up whatever’s lodged itself in your throat. “What was that about being worse off with the ladybugs?” 

Maysilee’s jaw ticks. She swishes the mud in her mouth and spits it out. “At least we didn’t lose a quart of blood this time.” 

“No, we were only almost eaten by a giant worm. Much better. Thanks for that, Maysilee.” 

“Right.” She kicks a rock from her path. “Because I wanted that to happen.” 

He shakes his head, flinging mud across the ground. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry” 

“Didn’t you?” She scoffs. “And what was that? We could’ve taken Silka. I could’ve taken her.”

“I was more concerned with getting out of there before another mutt popped up,” defends Haymitch. 

“Can we not—” 

Maysilee bulldozes over you. “Oh, sure. You know, maybe you should be the victor, Haymitch. It’d give you time to grow a proper backbone.” 

“Watch it,” you snipe, standing upright. There’s no doubt you two are equally, nauseatingly protective over each other, but you are so very vicious about it. More than Haymitch is, that’s for sure. 

“Now you have something to say?” Maysilee coos. “Is that all you’re good for? Defending your boy?” 

Your fingers inch towards your dagger. “You wanna see what else I’m good for, Maysilee? Say the word.” 

There you are. Why didn’t she try this method sooner? She grins coolly and fiddles with her blowgun. “You’re all bark. The only thing more pathetic than your threats is the dimwit behind you.” 

You seethe, muffling Haymitch’s scoff. “You sure it’s not the one standing in front of me?” 

“I’m not the one who’s nearly gotten us killed. Twice.” 

“What do you call what just happened?” You throw your hands up in the air. “You walked us into that death trap.”

“I was looking for Wellie.” Maysilee spits out another mixture of saliva and mud. “You know, our ally? Or do you not care about her anymore?” 

“We care about finding Wellie,” you say, voice trembling and dropping in pitch. 

“You two can’t even come up for air long enough to think about anyone but yourselves.” Her fury is bubbling to the surface now, red and hot and tearing through her veins with a deeper sting than the chemical burns. “I thought we were a team!” 

You reel back, eyes still creased around the edges, hand still dangerously close to the handle of your dagger. You drop it at your side. 

“No!” Maysilee screeches. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you haven’t been casting me aside again. Don’t take back what you did!” 

Haymitch places a hand on your shoulder to pull you back. He mutters your name, but you only shrug him off and take a step closer, steeling yourself again. “I’m not taking back a thing.”

“Good,” she hisses. 

“Great.” 

“I’m taking all the sardines!” 

“Fine by me!” You throw the food bag in front of her feet and stomp off. You only make it two steps before Haymitch stops you. 

“Where’re you going?” he asks, concerned. 

“I’m checking the snares,” you answer, less sharp than you were a second ago. Your knuckles are paled from how tightly you’re gripping your bow. 

Maysilee squats down to rifle through the bag, her movements harsh and uncaring. She doesn’t glance your way as you speak, but she can tell Haymitch is fidgeting nervously by the way you rush to get out, “I’ll be fine on my own. Just stay here. Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Then who’ll stop you from being stupid?”

“Bite me, Maysilee!” 

Whatever you whisper to keep Haymitch from following after you, it works against all odds. He sits down a respectable distance away, quiet and huddled in on himself, which only makes her all the more annoyed. 

“I don’t need a babysitter, Haymitch,” she lashes out, “so if you want to go with her, by all means, go.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Got it.” 

Maysilee tears open the can of sardines and slurps one into her mouth. It tastes of olive oil, and a little of mud from her fingers, utensils long forgotten in the heat of betrayal. She chews on the second, trying to stifle Haymitch’s noises. His stomach is racking up a storm, made worse by his incessant foot-tapping. 

It’s only been a few minutes. There hasn’t been any screaming or cannons. Maritte and Silka ran off in the opposite direction. So unless the Gamemakers have released more mutts, you should be fine. You should be. 

Staring down at the four sardines, Maysilee rolls her shoulders until they relax. She peers at Haymitch, whose head is turned downward in a poor attempt to hide his worry, and slides over the can. 

He traces the movements and reaches out instinctively, then stops himself. “You don’t have to.” 

“I don’t want to.” She leans back on her hands. “I’d rather make good on my promise.” 

His eyes drop down to her pack of darts. “You couldn’t.”

Maysilee stares at him as he takes the can and eats his share. She brings her knees to her chest. “Thanks for that.” 

Haymitch covers the remaining sardines, folding the edges of the lid with delicate precision. “She knows you couldn’t, too.” 

“Yeah. I know.” His reassurance soothes the burn in her chest. She couldn’t care less about your opinion, but she does care about you. And, dreadfully, about Haymitch. Somehow, someway, you’ve become more than begrudging allies. Much, much more. “It wasn’t right of me to say all that. And I’m sorry for calling you a dimwit. You aren’t.” 

“I knew you were just trying to get a rise out of her with that one. Nice going, by the way,” he compliments, hollow and sardonic. Maysilee shrugs. He continues, “You were right about the backbone part, though.” 

“No,” she shakes her head, “I wasn’t. You’ve done your part. More than most.” 

“I left the Newcomers,” he reminds her. 

“For good reason.” She takes a breath. “One I suspect has to do with why you’re being so cagey now.”

And with whatever it was that caused the malfunction back on the mountain. It was him, wasn’t it? Maysilee can’t fathom how he managed that, and sure, she could just as easily credit the Gamemakers’ incompetence. But she doubts, for once, that their idiocy and cowardice is to blame. You’ve both been stirring pots since the reaping, showing up the Capitol with posters of your own making. That hasn’t changed since entering the arena. 

Haymitch’s abandonment, Ampert’s departure, the malfunction, your mask of indifference—it’s all connected somehow.

“It is for a poster, isn’t it?” Maysilee shuffles closer. “The hedge?” 

Haymitch draws a spiral into the dirt. “Yeah, it is.” 

She copies the image, adding lines around it to resemble sunbeams. You aren’t back, but it’s only been a few minutes. No screams, no cannons, no need to worry. 

“I meant what I said yesterday,” Maysilee murmurs. The trees rustle with the mid-afternoon breeze. They sway from side-to-side, shaking themselves free of the dead leaves on their branches. “It needs to be one of us. I know where I’m casting my hopes, and I’m betting they’re the same as yours.” 

Maysilee doesn’t want to die, but what happens if it’s only the three of you left? Neither you nor Haymitch could finish the job any more than she could. She doesn’t doubt that. Even on the outskirts, she never did. Maybe Haymitch is right about the Gamemakers releasing more mutts. Maybe she really should take off. Or maybe she and Haymitch should come to an agreement now. 

He squiggles lines around his own spiral. “How ’bout we stick to all of us staying alive for now?” 

Maysilee hugs her knees. “Deal.” 

You return empty-handed but with lighter footsteps than you used to leave. “Nothing,” you breathe out, plopping down to the floor. Your eyes land on the sardine can placed in front of you by Haymitch. You don’t pick it up, instead folding your legs into a criss-cross. “I’m sorry.” 

Maysilee chews on the inside of her bottom lip. “So am I.” 

“We are a team,” you say softly. “It wasn’t fair of us to act otherwise.” 

She scrapes the mud under her nails. “Look… If the hedge is really that important to you both, that’s all I need to know for now. You’ll fill me in on the rest later.”

You crack open the lid again, bridging the distance between you in the process. “Okay.” 

Five more minutes of recovery, and you declare yourself ready to trudge up to the hedge. You clean yourselves best you can, the mud dried to dirt, before heading off. Like yesterday, the beauty of the hedge’s tranquility is deceptive. Be that as it may, Maysilee finds herself lured closer by a spiderweb on a bush. “Look at the craftsmanship. Best weavers on the planet.” 

“No doubt,” you agree. 

Haymitch snorts. “Surprised to see you touching that.”  

“Oh, I love anything silk.” She rubs the threads between her fingers, reveling in the cooling sensation. “Soft as silk, like my grandmother’s skin.” She finds the locket at her neck and pops it open for you to see the photo. “Here she is, just a year before she died. Isn’t she beautiful?” 

“She is,” says Haymitch, and you hum in agreement. “She was a kind lady. Used to sneak me candies. 

Maysilee laughs. “She did that with everyone. Even after she got chewed out for it.” She cups the locket, cradles it with the same care her grandmother would use to kiss her temple at night. “No one ever loved me more. I always hoped I’d look like her one day. Never going to see myself grow old, I guess.” 

“Maybe.”

“No. Not now.” She runs a finger along her grandmother’s mischievous smile. Strange to look down on it instead of up. “She used to say, if I was afraid, ‘It’s okay, Maysilee, nothing they can take from you was ever worth keeping.’” 

Haymitch leans into your side. You bite down on your lip. 

Maysilee furrows her brows. “What?” 

“That’s from a song,” you answer, wrapping your arms around your torso. 

“Is it really?” She smiles, thinking of that voice of yours, how much her grandmother loved her music box, what a treasure she would’ve thought it if she ever got to hear you for herself. “Hm.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Maysilee snaps the locket shut. “Let’s visit your hedge, shall we?” 

You drop your arms. “We shall, Miss Donner.” 

Haymitch tears off two large branches and lights them aflame for each of you. With the blowtorch from Hull’s pack, he kicks off the bonfire. You and Maysilee aren’t far behind, torches in hand, scorching the ladybugs in your path until the ash of fried insects wafts up your noses. Like a real team, singing that old schoolyard rhyme, the three of you make quick work of burning down the hedge. 

A ray of light peaks through the tunnel you’ve carved by the time all threats are extinguished. Maysilee beats out the sparks on her shirt. You run up to join Haymitch on the cliffside. 

Maysilee calls out, “So, did we reach the end?” 

“Yeah,” says Haymitch, inching closer towards the edge. “This is the end of the road.”

She stops on your other side. At the bottom of a near hundred feet drop, there’s nothing but jagged rocks and a gigantic, purring machine. “That’s all there is to the arena.” Maysilee slinks away from the edge. “Let’s go back.” 

You and Haymitch stare at each other, conveying some kind of request, and to her surprise, she isn’t bothered by it this time. 

“Not yet,” he says, finally. 

The silence stretches longer than the drop. “All right,” Maysilee decides softly. “May as well say goodbye now anyway.”

You swerve around with a scoff. “Goodbye? What was all that earlier then?” 

“I don’t want it to come down to us,” she admits, reaching behind her neck to soothe a dried ladybug welt. 

You’re unfazed. “Oh, bullshit. We're a team, aren’t we?” 

Maysilee should've known that would come back to bite her in the ass. She and Haymitch lock eyes. With your own searing holes into each of them, they give a short nod. 

“That settles it then.” 

Sure it does. For now. 

Haymitch turns back to the horizon. He asks you,  “Do you still have that jade?” 

You dig into your left pocket and hand over a stone. 

Maysilee draws a steady breath. “I’m going to get the potatoes.” 

“I’ll go with you,” you offer, and even more surprising than her lack of annoyance with the two of you is Haymitch’s lack of resistance. He only reaches out to run a hand down your arm, and you give him what’s likely meant to be a reassuring squeeze of his hand. 

You and Maysilee match each other’s footsteps as you walk back through the hedge. Another set of pinecone trees litter the pathway. 

“Do you know what those ones are?” asks Maysilee. 

“Alder trees.” You wrinkle your nose. “Weird. They normally grow by streams, but they’re all over here.” 

“No weirder than everything else in here.” 

“You’re not wrong.” 

Maysilee steals a glance at you. “Are there any in Twelve?” In the woods? 

“There’re a few down by a spot I know.” You sigh wistfully, like you’re picturing yourself back home right now. “You’d like it there.” 

Maysilee imagines what it’d be like to visit that spot of yours, filling in the vagueness of your description with her own desires, and she feels certain you’re right. She scratches the back of her neck, irritated by the growing heat of her skin. It blooms up to her cheekbones, splattering her face with blotches of red, no doubt.

You take notice of her insistent itching. “Do you have any more ointment?” 

She shakes her head. The welts on your collarbone are still healing like hers, but they don’t show up as noticeably on you. They don’t seem half as infected either. “Just whatever’s left at the bottom of the barrel.” 

“Might be worth scraping up if they’re bothering you that much,” you suggest. 

Maysilee shrugs off her pack and hands it over. You motion for her to turn around, which she does with pursed lips. Brushing her hair to the side, you rub what little ointment is left with a gentle glide of your fingers. She holds her breath until you’re done. 

“Thanks.” Maysilee spins back around.  

You lift a shoulder, close enough to brush hers in the process. “Any time, ladybug.” 

She searches your face for any sign of resignation, any indication you’re willing to leave her be and go back to Haymitch without her. She only finds you staring back with the same intensity. Her eyes drop to your collarbone, to the indiscernible ladybug welts, to the butterfly charm and the missing one beside it, now possessed by Haymitch. The bluebird’s been gone since your first days on the mountain, so when on earth did you hand it over? And why? Another blank for you to fill in later. 

“My papa made it out of the bark of a maple tree,” you say, picking up on her curiosity and sidestepping it with the offer of another precious detail. What a change from your sealed lips back in the apartment. “Burdock has one, too.” 

“Your papa did good,” she compliments earnestly. 

“Tam Amber showed him how to carve the details.” 

There’s no malice or bite in your tone, no self-righteous offense that normally comes with the mention of Tam Amber. She focuses on the indents in the wings, forming a symmetrical pattern, and reaches out to touch them. She won’t be able to give that mockingjay pin another chance, but maybe someone will put it to good use for her. “He really does have a gift.” 

“So do you, Maysilee,” you say offhandedly, and some dark knot inside her chest unfurls. “We should head back. Get Haymitch, then cook up the potatoes for dinner.” 

“He isn’t leaving that cliff.”

“Oh, he will,” you say, certain of your influence, and begin to walk off. “We’ll just come again tomorrow. Maybe something will’ve changed by then.” 

Maysilee snorts. “The only thing that will have changed between now and then is that Silka’s grooming habits will have worsened.” 

You laugh, shoulders shaking with genuine amusement. Maysilee smiles and takes a step towards you. For a moment, there’s only the contentment of your laughter, your care, your friendship and then some. 

As content as one can be in this hellhole, she doesn’t even see the flock of bubblegum pink feathers descending upon her. 

The first beak swipes across her lower back, and the scream tears through her before she can stop it. 

“No!” you cry out and send an arrow through one of the birds biting off a chunk of her arm. “Get away from her!” 

Maysilee pulls out her dagger and fights off those in her periphery, trying to protect you as you are her. But you aren’t their target. The pretty pink birds only have eyes for Maysilee. This is her end, and hers only. Amid the pain, she feels a pang of gratitude. It won’t be the three of you in the end, after all.  

Another lash to the abdomen. One more to her shoulder. She goes down when one carves out the skin of her ankle, but she doesn’t scream again. She will not give them that satisfaction. She will not let them see her as less than who she is. Appearances are everything, her mother would say. 

Don’t worry, Mama. I’m making you proud. 

Haymitch slashes through a pair of birds in one go. When did he get here? You resort to your own dagger, fending off those pecking at her face. 

Let me go, Papa. I’ll be okay. 

You shout for her, desperate and crackling around the vowels of her name. Somehow, that hurts worse than the lashes. Worse than the tear of her throat. 

From cradle to grave, Merrilee. Beyond then. 

You and Haymitch fall to either side of Maysilee. She sees the anguish on your faces, the tears in your eyes, the totality of her loved ones’ grief. 

Be happy, sweet Asterid. 

The sun warms her skin instead of burning it. The flickering light blinds her, weakens her, but she rallies one last time. Maysilee finds your pinkie, then Haymitch’s. 

Tear down their posters. Set fire to them all. 

You interlock your fingers, giving her what is, in fact, a reassuring squeeze. From deep in her imagination, your voice floats into reality. 

I'll catch you up,

When I've emptied my cup.

Maysilee sees her grandmother’s smile tucking her into bed. 

When I've worn out my friends,

When I've burned out both ends.

Sees Wyatt laughing so hard it catches him off guard. 

When I've cried all my tears,

When I've conquered my fears. 

Sees Ampert looking to her as a sister; the fallen Newcomers looking to her as a friend. You and Haymitch looking after her until the very end. 

Right here, in the old therebefore,

When nothing is left anymore. 

Maysilee closes her eyes. As content as one can be. 

The cannon ripples through the air; the hovercraft arrives. Be it paralysis or fear, you can’t move. Neither can Haymitch. When he does, it’s to remove the blowgun and a copper flower from her neck. He doesn’t clean her. Neither do you. You won’t take her final poster from her. 

Overheard, the hovercraft whirs with a warning sound. 

“We have to leave,” he croaks, and you nod. You think you nod. You can’t really tell, having lost all feeling in your body except for your right hand, where Maysilee’s is still interlaced. She’s warm. Too warm for a dead person. 

“Sunshine, we need to leave.” 

You think you nod again, but you’ve accepted you’re no longer in control of your movements. Maysilee’s warm, dead fingers are limp. Warm, dead, limp. Even so, she lies with her head held high. Just like she wanted. Her consolation prize for never getting to grow old. 

The next warning is louder, a honk like that of the birds who took Maysilee. A taunt like that of the jabberjays who haunt you, especially now.

You’re brought back to sensation by a steady pulse in your left hand. Warmer, real, alive. In a voice so gentle and mournful it cuts straight through your bones, Haymitch murmurs against your temple, “I’m sorry, darling.” You try to tell him it’s okay, but it’s not. So you simply let him lift you to your feet by the elbows. 

Haymitch holds you upright about ten feet away. He’s scared to let go, knowing that if he does, there’s a real possibility you’ll try to join Maysilee on that hovercraft. There is a very real possibility he will, too. 

The guilt is as palpable as the fear. His deathbed promise to Maysilee, one you share as you do all others, is binding. More than any blood oath. Still, the temptation to wither up and die calls to him like the lilt of your song. He’s selfish enough to want you with him if that happens. Selfish enough to ask you to stay while he goes. 

He doesn’t. He won’t. You wouldn’t listen anyway, and he can’t leave you now. Once you find Wellie, he’ll have to. So will you. There’s no doubt about that. The hedge was a bust, and so was his hope of tearing up the generator. No more tricks up his sleeves, no more grand plans, no more certainties. All Haymitch really knows is that he cannot survive the loss of you again. 

So when you find Wellie, and you will, you’ll have to come to some sort of agreement. Like Maysilee wanted to. She and Haymitch already shared an awareness that a goodness like yours deserved to make it out over them. The same rings true of Wellie. She's plenty smart, too. Smart enough to find her footing as a victor of the people.

Maybe you and Haymitch can go at the same time, staying on even ground like you swore. Maybe you’ll give Haymitch the gift of allowing him to die first. 

In the distance, the hovercraft flies off into the setting sun. It’s then you finally speak. “We should save the potatoes for Wellie.” 

He nods, having no more appetite than you do. You move out of his arms but don’t try to leave. You only sink down to the floor, and he goes with you. Fiddling with the copper medallion, he holds it out in your direction. 

“No,” you murmur, touching the cord around your neck, “you keep it. You’ve got a collection going.” 

Haymitch swallows down a lump of tears and wipes the flower clean of Maysilee’s blood. You’re right—the copper flower joins District Nine’s sunflower, Wyatt’s scrip coin, Lenore Dove’s songbird and snake, and your bluebird. Why, he’s almost as decorated as Miss Donner herself. 

Her blowgun is loaded with a single dart. Haymitch will have to make do. He attaches it to his belt with a bit of vine and eyes you cautiously, painfully aware of the way you’re curled in on yourself. Your song lingers in the back of his mind. Haymitch slips into the comfort of your voice, the promise of reunion, wanting so badly to believe it possible. 

“You think it’s real?” he asks, numb yet hoarse. “A world where they’re all waiting for us.” 

“Well,” you say absently, like a piece of you really was taken away on that hovercraft, “this can’t be all there is.”

“It might just be.” His heart clenches painfully, because a piece of him is gone, too. 

You tug your knees closer. “I think it’d be real sad if there wasn’t at least one world out there where we end up better than here.” You know it in your bones to be true. What happens after death, where you’ll go, doesn’t frighten you. There’s only one thing that does. “It can’t come down to the two of us, Haymitch.”

He reaches out to interlace your hands. You look at him, and he presses his forehead to yours. “It won’t.” 

You want to believe him, you need to, and so you do. You can’t spare any more grief; you can’t lose Haymitch. And you’re certain you won’t. You know what you’ve done, the alarms you’ve signaled, singing that song to Maysilee. 

Once upon a time, there was a lost Covey girl with rainbows in her eyes and melodies for smiles. She was torn apart by greed and envy, and pieced back together by a man who concealed he was made up of the same. She came back changed but not misshapen, with the man on her arm and the weight of a thousand on her heart. All was well, for a time. Until the lost Covey girl was led astray once more. Torn apart by the man, as much a mystery as her fate, who packed up by sunrise. 

Lost but not forgotten, the Covey girl left behind her rainbow eyes and melodies for all the little birds to pick up in secret. Careful, so very careful, to never let them fall into the clutches of another greedy man. 

You’ve surely disappointed her now. And soon enough, you’ll have to face her. 

Haymitch will follow you, though you do not want him to. But if you find Wellie, if you manage to keep her alive, you accept that’s what has to happen. You accept you’ll have to let him. Just as he’ll have to let you go first. Because you’re selfish and scared—too selfish and too scared to survive even a second without his steady pulse in your hand. You only hope he’ll forgive you for that. 

Your promise to Maysilee won’t go unfulfilled, though. If, when, you find Wellie, she’ll take up the task of a longshot, problem victor just fine. You’re sure of it. 

You need to believe that. So you do.  

A parachute floats down, and you hope it’s not another feast. Hungry as you are, you won’t be able to keep anything down right now. Haymitch opens the attached basket, revealing two containers. A basin of strawberry ice cream and a lidded mug of black coffee. He lets you have the first sip, and you take it with a murmured thanks. Bitter and bold, the coffee singes your tongue. You force it down, not taking Mags’s comfort, or the delicacy of coffee, for granted. Maysilee would have a fit if you did. 

Before you can help yourself, a sob wracks your shoulders, and a splash of coffee spills onto your thigh. The burn is insignificant compared to the fracture of your heart, to the outpouring of love with no more place to go. In an instant, Haymitch takes the mug from your trembling fingers and pulls you into his arms. He holds you as you do him, fingers digging into his arms while his own tears soak through your hair. 

Once the coffee and ice cream are gone, so are the tears. You’ve shed them all, gluttonous with your mourning. Haymitch cleans the spoons, wipes your face with his thumbs, and fetches a hammock. 

Tonight’s memorial shows Maysilee, brilliant and defiant and golden in the sky. Wordlessly, you and Haymitch agree to sleep in the trees. Both too exhausted to keep watch; both in need of each other’s warmth. A reminder that you’re still alive. For the time being, the both of you are still alive. 

You cling to each other with no intent of letting go—your nose in the crook of his neck, his hand resting on the small of your back, holding each other closer and closer until you’re in alignment. Because there is no grief between either of you left to spare. 

Taglist: @lovemiss-vale @aureolinb @mqrieshrt @bueburgers @dem1dearest @nikki-is-a-nerd @lovelylittlelesbianlore @jjloveshotch @inneedofcaffine @poetsandroses @kindsleybooks @ivyhaec @x-gabrielle-x @ghostlythinggoingaround @happiness2112 @sundawn1990 @starryjeongyeon @kuurbyfun @lenteheure @cursedskins @wertyuizxcvbnm @shiftingf1 @sarcasm-n-insomnia @defnotbrooklyn @harrypedro465@rinatzsstuff @whimsybeth @youraggedybitch

A/N: one more maysilee pov for the road… goodbye maysilee donner, whom i always loved. definitely don’t listen to “breathe me” by sia after reading and think about this chapter

You take a deep breath. Haymitch is stretched out in the opposite direction, his nose leveled with yours. His lips are parted as he murmurs incoherently. You’re drawn to the movement. To the warmth of his mouth, which is now permanently imprinted on yours. Of all the stupid, impulsive indulgences you’ve allowed yourself in the last two weeks, letting Haymitch kiss you, kissing him back and then some, is among the worst. 

Giddiness rises inside your chest and spreads throughout your body. You trace every detail of his face, perfectly visible even from your upturned angle. The slackness of his jaw to the curl of his eyelashes. 

An involuntary smile breaks free. The worst indeed. 

“Don’t you look cozy.” 

Your smile drops. You push up on your numb arm, sending sparks across the limb. You give it a shake to jumpstart the feeling in it again. Nothing is easy or comfortable or giddy anymore. You’re still in the Games, still as good as dead, still sharing a campsite with Maysilee Donner. 

Maysilee stares at you with judgmental eyes and an overly smug grin. “Sleep well?” 

“Slept fine,” you grumble, gathering your wits to combat whatever retort she has brewing up her sleeve. Your wits fail you, as does the entirety of your brain, when you catch a whiff of something maple-scented and honeyed. More prominent than Wiress’s custard cakes. 

You look past Maysilee’s judgement and onto the picnic she’s laid out on her tarp. A stack of flapjacks, fresh strawberries, a tray of bacon, even a new gallon of water. More than enough for all three of you. It’s a full, real breakfast. 

You scramble over, ignoring the throb of your knee and head. They seem to be working in tandem to disable your body. “When did this get here?” 

“Not so long ago,” answers Maysilee. “I’m surprised the noise didn’t wake you, but I figured you should sleep while I fixed it up for us.” 

“How considerate,” you say, teasing but earnest. Your stomach gives an impatient growl. As comforting as a bowl of bean and hammock soup is, it’s not filling for very long. Less so when split between three people. 

“Yeah, well, the two of you stood guard for most of the night.” She tilts her head towards the picnic, and you pretend not to notice the steel behind her curious gaze. “Seems like the sponsors have taken a quick liking to us again. I wonder why.” 

You reach for the corner of the tarp, smoothing it out. The steam of the flapjacks wafts up your nose. A gift of this caliber wouldn’t be rare under different circumstances. If it weren’t so soon after the pot of soup you received last night. If it weren’t this far into the Games. If the only other gift you’ve received with no riddle and a hearty meal weren’t timed off your reunion with Haymitch. 

You know what the sponsors have taken a liking to, and you’d rather not name it out loud. You shrug. “Me too.” 

“Uh-huh,” chimes Maysilee suspiciously. She motions to Haymitch over the dead hearth. “You think he’ll sleep much longer? I need to eat.” 

“I think he needs food more than sleep right now, too.” You shuffle around the burnt firewood. Haymitch is still resting on his right side, one hand twitching near the space you left behind. You run a hand down his arm. “Haymitch, wake up.” 

His eyes blink open, squinting before they land on you. He stares at you for a beat. His lips curve upward slowly. “Morning.”

Your heart rate picks up. Calm down. You point to the picnic. “We got a delivery.” 

Haymitch sits up and follows the movement of your finger. He whistles. “No kidding.” His hunger is etched all over his face, secondary only to his concern when he turns to you again. “How’s your head?” 

“Fine,” you dismiss, only caving when he frowns, unconvinced. “Sore, but not too bad. Honest.” 

“And your knee?”

“Still bruised.” 

“I have more ointment if you need it,” offers Maysilee, reaching for the bottle in her pack. She tosses it to Haymitch while you pull your pants leg up above your knee. The bruising shows up in patches now. Purple and black in some spots, faded to umber in others. Barely noticeable to anyone not looking closely. Unfortunately for you, Haymitch is. 

He applies the ointment delicately. You don’t bother insisting that you can do it yourself. You motion for him to hand it over and grab his injured arm. Maysilee’s stitchwork is, unsurprisingly, perfect. You reapply the ointment onto the wounds with similar precision. 

“Thanks,” he says, leaning forward a little. 

“Any time.” You have me, I have you. 

Maysilee groans, gesturing to the piles of food. “It’s great you two kissed and made up, but can we eat now?” 

Your shoulders roll back at the same time as Haymitch’s. Shades of red dust his skin, reflecting the warmth on your own face in a much more obvious manner. You exchange amused looks, failing miserably to suppress the secrecy between you. 

“Oh, you didn’t actually—” Her eyes dart between the two of you, realization sinking in. She shudders. “Eugh! Seriously? I was sleeping right here. You were supposed to be keeping watch!” 

“We were keeping watch.”

“Exactly why we didn’t think you’d mind.” 

You nudge Haymitch with your elbow. 

Maysilee rolls her eyes at your simultaneous answers, face contorted with disgust. “You’re lucky you got us breakfast and not killed.” 

“Since when do you eat breakfast anyway?” questions Haymitch. 

“Since now. I’m a real breakfast-lunch-and-dinner gal.” Maysilee presses a hand to her stomach, derailed from her annoyance. “Never knew what it was like to be this hungry before. It hurts. And it scares me.” 

Something neither you nor Haymitch are strangers to. With a sigh, you nod. “Let’s dig in then.” 

And you do, in the most refined manner possible for three people starved of consistent meals. After all, you’re not animals. 

You come to a consensus that the strawberries are the best part. Following Maysilee’s lead, you rip off the stems and top your syrup-infused flapjacks with them. You collect the leaves into a pile—they’ll come in handy in case you run into any poison-induced digestive problems. Sweet and tart, the strawberries cool your tongue with each bite you take. 

By the time the three of you have declared yourselves shockingly, actually full, there are still enough strawberries leftover for later. You take in—really take in—the quantity of the meal, just as spectacular as the quality. Leftovers. What a marvel. And a joke. All this for a stupid kiss. Two stupid kisses. Fine. Three stupidly good kisses. 

Maybe you’re reading too much into the timing, but you doubt it. If the audience was in an uproar to see you during the interviews, they’re likely to be in an even bigger tizzy over your actions last night. Except one was a performance, and the other… Well, it’s all a matter of spectacle to them anyway, isn’t it? But there’s a stark difference between a blown kiss and a real one. 

Horrified, your thoughts wander to those back home. Your elders, Burdock, Lenore Dove, Willamae and Sid—You wonder what they make of last night, as they’re just as likely to have witnessed your pathetic declaration as the rest of Panem. Ugh! Surely, they know it was honest and true. Unless they think it was all for show, or that you’ve lost your mind, or that you’re using Haymitch. Yes, that’s just as likely. Willamae and Sid probably think you only see him as a stepping stone to freedom, as if it wasn’t bad enough you’ve taken him. Haymitch may have given you his forgiveness, but you’re not entitled to theirs. 

Whatever their thoughts, you know the implications of what you’ve done. Your fingers spasm at your side, desperate to hide your face and the mortification rising like steam. 

There’s only so much room for embarrassment when you catch Haymitch staring. It evaporates as quickly as the aftereffects of rain under the rising sun. Is he thinking the same? Does he know if he tries to kiss you again that you’ll let him? Does he feel as shameless about it as you suddenly do? He grins, a quick, concealed gesture, and you have your answer. 

“We should try to locate some of the Careers’ packs,” suggests Maysilee once you’ve packed up camp. “They must’ve hidden them somewhere around here before they hunted you.” 

“Good thinking, but we shouldn’t linger too long,” says Haymitch. “We need to keep moving.” 

Maysilee crosses her arms. “Towards where, exactly?” 

“North,” you answer, shooting Haymitch a knowing look. “That’s where we were heading before Panache and his buddies caught us off guard.” 

“North?” she echoes. “Whatever for?” 

“Just a feeling.” 

“Hm. Some feeling,” she says dryly, staring at you with the intent to see through your words. 

It’d be easier to just tell her why you want to go north, but you don’t even know what you’re looking for yourself. Haymitch is the one with the answers, and you’re starting to doubt he has very many. Regardless, you aren’t mad at him for it any more. You can understand the secrecy, to some extent. And he isn’t trying to stop you now. That has to count for something. It does. 

“I go where the wind takes me,” you say, tacking on a half-hearted shrug. 

Haymitch snorts. “C’mon. Fifteen minutes, then we go.” 

Maysilee narrows her eyes. “I haven’t voted yes.” And yet, she reaches for her pack. 

“You need help?” you offer. 

She shakes her head. “You gave it to me to carry.” 

“You ripped it off my shoulder,” you correct. 

“Same difference.” She throws it over her body so it sits opposite her pack of darts.

Your search starts at the scene of yesterday’s fight. Locating the Career’s stash is a breeze—most of their things are tucked under a rock shelf not far from the hedge. You find three backpacks containing a bottle of medicine, two empty water jugs, a hammock, and a tarp. Food and handkerchiefs, too. Best of all, a blowtorch like the kind Tam Amber uses for welding. 

Haymitch starts fiddling with the second tarp, folding it into a crooked funnel of sorts. You watch him collect a couple of vines and tie them around the base. 

Maysilee laughs from beside you. “Making yourself a hat, are you?” 

He spares her a glance. “This, I’ll have you know, is a first-class water catcher.” 

You snort. “Stick to fire-building.” 

“You’ll eat those words. Both of you,” he says, nose turned up. 

“Will we?” retorts Maysilee. “Exactly how are all the raindrops supposed to find that tiny opening?” She raises a valid point. There’s hardly room for the rain to enter and nothing to keep the funnel sturdy. 

“More surface area, you thinking?” 

“I’m thinking.” Her solution is to punch a whole in the middle of the tarp; Haymitch’s is to offer up the stem of the grape juice glass as a tube of sorts. You follow Maysilee’s suit with her own tarp. Between the three of you, you manage to rig them both into something close to real water catchers. 

Haymitch motions to the second makeshift barrel. “No tube for this one.”

“We’ll make do,” you say, to which Maysilee agrees with a nod. 

She loads your creations into her backpack, along with the hammock and blowtorch. “With a second hammock, maybe we can all sleep up in the trees.” 

You pinch your brows. “How—”

“You two won’t mind sharing with each other, I assume.” Maysilee lifts a shoulder, batting her eyes naively. 

Hmm. You respond with similar mockery, quirking your head and smiling. “No, we won’t.” 

She stifles what seems to be both a scoff and a laugh. Rolling your eyes, you leave her to finish packing and approach the found food a few feet away. 

Haymitch comes up behind you, brushing your shoulders together. Your heart gives another lurch. Is it going to keep doing that for the rest of your life? “You know, it would be safer to sleep up in the trees.”

“We wouldn’t have to keep watch,” you add in agreement. Your eyes scan the pile. It’s a pitiful thing, made up of one banana, four rolls, and a tub of nearly-empty nut-butter. The Careers left little behind, but there are enough scraps to make something edible. Ideally, you’ll find game somewhere along the way, in one of your snares. Or another generous sponsor. 

“More comfortable in a hammock than on the ground, too,” he continues to reason. 

“No doubt about it.” You wait a beat, squatting to collect the food into one of the spare packs. “Haymitch?”

“Yeah?” 

“Not happening.”

“Okay.” 

You spin around, which is a dumb move on your part. You’re hit with a wave of nausea, and the strawberries from breakfast rot in your gut.  

Haymitch grabs ahold of your elbows before you can trip over your own feet. “What’s wrong?” 

“Just got dizzy for a second.”

“Well, your head’s still banged up.” His eyes flit over your face. He looked so much more relaxed earlier. Maybe he’d ease up if you kissed him again. “You sure you’re fine to head north?”

“I’m sure,” you say firmly, but he lingers in front of you like you’re one step away from passing out. 

“We going?” cuts in Maysilee, approaching you impatiently. “Or are you not in a rush anymore?” 

You twist your mouth to the side and step out of Haymitch’s hold. “We’re going.”  

Haymitch lets you take the lead for most of the hike, taking over after your second break—as against your wishes as the first. At least Maysilee uses the brief downtime to reload on poison. 

By the time you reach the hedge again, it’s midday. The hedge seems less daunting now that you’ve put time and distance between you. It looks exactly the same, which makes you think nobody else has attempted to go through it since you and Haymitch. 

Maysilee sighs. She approaches the hedge cautiously, assessing its height and width. “What’s the plan now?” 

“We left marks along the way. If we take the opposite paths, maybe we’ll actually wind up somewhere,” you suggest. 

“That’ll take too long,” says Haymitch, pointing to the gap between the bushes. “I say we cut straight through.” 

“We’ll spend just as long hacking away,” you counter. “The branches are too thick to make an easy headway.” 

“Still worth a shot.” 

You purse your lips, regarding him and his plan and his irritatingly pretty blue-gray eyes from an objective standpoint. “Fine. We’ll try your way first, and when it fails, we pivot to my plan.” 

“We’ll already be on the other side by the time your plan becomes relevant.” He takes a step closer. 

Your jaw clenches. “And you’ll be one head too short by the time you put it to good use.” 

He grins and looks over his shoulder. “What do you think, Miss Donner?”

“I think Miss Everdeen has one over you, Mr. Abernathy.” Maysilee doesn’t tear her attention away from the holly berries. Triumphant, you stick your tongue out at Haymitch. She continues, “I also think there’s something weird about this hedge. But that’s nothing new.” 

“We were in it for hours yesterday, and the worst we got was lost. I think that’s its purpose,” he reassures her, but not without aiming his last sentence at you. 

You roll your eyes and reach for your dagger. Maysilee pulls out the one she took from Barba. The three of you slip into the opening and walk until the path begins to curve into the maze. 

“Here. This is where we should go in. Probably the faster the better.” 

“Gotcha.” Maysilee steps up on the other side of Haymitch. “On the count of three?” 

“Guess so.” You prod at one of the leaves with the tip of your blade. Unlike yesterday, when it responded to the graze of your fingers with complete stillness, a lone ladybug pops out from the bush. It crawls up the edge of the blade and onto the back of your palm. 

Haymitch begins the countdown. “One, two—”

“Hold up.” 

“—three!” 

The ladybug explodes right as Haymitch and Maysilee make contact with the hedge. Your blood ricochets onto your tongue.

Dozens upon dozens more ladybugs flutter to life and latch onto any inch of exposed skin. Haymitch reacts before you do. He whirs around and grabs your wrist, pulling you away from the herd. There’s no time to think about where to hide, or how much your knee hurts with the pressure, or anything besides getting away. 

Between the buzzing and exploding and unanimous hollering, you can hardly hear a thing. The ladybugs swarm your vision, too, making it so you can barely catch sight of Maysilee zipping out of the hedge. Haymitch pushes you through ahead of him. 

All three of you run in circles and zigzags, attempting to claw the bugs off. Once they’ve dug their mouths into you, the only way they’re coming out is by exploding. And they do. They detonate one after the other, taking chunks of skin and blood with them. Each explosion makes you loopier. 

“Pluck!” Maysilee orders. “Pluck!” 

You plant your feet on the ground—going in circles only causes the dizziness to flare up—and tear those you can reach. A few of them have made their way up your pants legs and down your shirt. Same goes for Haymitch and Maysilee. Chanting and panicking alongside them both, you strip down to your undergarments to reach them. 

“My back?” asks Maysilee. Sure enough, there’s another half dozen ladybugs there. You know you’re hardly better off, especially when you feel a stab to your left shoulder, but you focus on helping Haymitch pull the things from her skin. 

You’ve got the last one off when your skull compresses your brain tighter and tighter and tighter. Your vision goes spotty. You vaguely see Haymitch’s hand reaching towards you.

“Sunshine—”

He catches you before you hit the ground. Even so, his heart nearly gives out. Another ladybug explodes on your collarbone, splattering his face with your blood. As if the mess of his own weren’t horrible enough. Your eyelids flutter like you can’t decide to stay in the realm of consciousness or not. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he rushes out, sinking to the floor with you sideways in his lap, panicked and in search of any more bugs where he can see them. 

Maysilee rushes around you. “I’ve got her back.” 

Haymitch holds you upright and she pulls off the strays before any more explode. As soon as she’s done, he helps you sit on your own. “Still with me, sunshine?” 

You give a weak nod. “My head hurts.” 

“I bet,” he murmurs, cradling it between his hands, trying to find any sign that you’re worse off than you seem. 

“You could always kiss it better,” you suggest, oddly hopeful. 

Haymitch smiles, letting out a breath. “And there’s the blood loss talking.” 

You furrow your brows and pout. He goes woozy with more than just his own blood loss. If you really insist—

Maysilee gags. “Here I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

Tilting your head back to look at her, you shrug. “You could kiss it better, too, if you want.” 

The click of her jaw cuts through clogged ears. “You’re insufferable.” She steps away. “Stick to lover boy.” 

“Okay.” You slump forward until you’re resting on his shoulder again. 

Haymitch opens his mouth to ask Maysilee for help, but she’s one step ahead of him. No surprise there. She pulls out the three jerky sticks from his pack and hands them over. He props you up. “Here,” he gives you one and holds the other out for Maysilee. “Get some iron in your blood.” 

“Even or nothing,” you say, frowning when he breaks the third in half to split between you and Maysilee. 

He purses his lips. 

“Even or nothing,” echoes Maysilee. 

Haymitch retracts the broken pieces. “I’m sorry, this was my fault. Talking big like I knew what I was doing.” 

“You couldn’t have known,” you say, still leaning against him. Not that he minds. It’s probably better for you both anyway. You need the support, and he needs to feel that you’re still alive. “But at least we know my plan was better.” 

“Oh, sure,” he deadpans, “that’s the bright side.” 

“Well, I don’t think the Gamemakers want us going through the hedge at all.” Maysilee bites into her piece of jerky. 

“Message received.” 

Time passes slowly, or maybe it’s the exhaustion messing with his perception. The three of you eat in silence, pairing the jerky with olives and savoring the strawberries for dessert. The crown of your head brushes his jaw as you reach for another strawberry. Haymitch gets the sudden urge to press his lips to it. 

He doesn’t, and he won’t with Maysilee in front of you. He supposes it doesn’t make that big of a difference who’s watching, considering all the cameras picked up on what happened last night. How did that go over with the audience? Not horribly, if the gift you received this morning was any indication of the sponsors’ affections. 

His stomach clenches. How did that go over with Burdock? Your parents? Clerk Carmine? If he didn’t like Haymitch before, his opinion must be half-past rotten by now.

You slouch back into the crook of his arm. Well—Haymitch isn’t breaking any promises. He only hopes Burdock knows that.

Clouds move in across the azure-blue sky. Haymitch’s muddled brain hones in on the sound of rainfall. “The tarps!” 

Shakily, each of you find your feet and stretch out the tarps, making posts out of the surrounding branches. Almost immediately, a slow trickle of water runs off them into the gallons below. 

The rain intensifies. It’s as close to a shower that you’ll get in here. At the very least, Haymitch is thankful for the opportunity to wash the blood off his skin and clothes. Soon after you’re all declared as clean as possible, the rain stops and the clouds roll back. 

“Well, we don’t have to worry about making blood oaths now,” muses Maysilee once fully dressed again. “I swallowed enough of both of yours.” 

Haymitch passes her a water jug. “About a cupful each.” 

You hum, clearly returned to your senses. “If I recall correctly, you and Burdock tried your hands at a real blood oath once.” 

“Would’ve done it, too, if you hadn’t gone tattling.” He recalls the memory of your pa towering over him and Burdock with a look of disappointment that rivaled his ma’s. At nine-years-old, it was more than enough to snap Haymitch’s head back into place. 

“It’s my job to stop my brother from giving himself blood poisoning,” you say with a shrug.

“You’ve got me there.” 

Maysilee huffs out a laugh. “Either of you ever want a sister instead?” 

You shrug. Haymitch answers, “I had two for a short time. Twins like you and Merrilee. They didn’t make it.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know.” 

“No reason you should. It was before school and all.” 

She shuffles her feet. “I keep wondering, will Merrilee still be a twin, after I’m gone?” 

“Always,” he says immediately. If Sid is watching right now, Haymitch hopes he doesn’t think of himself as an only child.

You inhale slowly beside him. You fiddle with the charms around your neck. “I certainly don’t plan on leaving Burdock alone from beyond the grave. Don’t see why Merrilee wouldn’t get the same treatment.”

Her mouth twitches. “This is going to be hard on her.”

“It is hard on all of them,” you observe, blunt but not unkind. You’re right. Their grieving started from the moment each of you stepped onto that stage. Maybe even before then. The fallout of the Games is a peculiar kind of nightmare, but the lead-up… 

Haymitch thinks of his ma, the extra workload she picks up in the last weeks of June, claiming the extra money necessary for his special day. Really, it’s just a way of keeping her mind too busy to assume the worst of it. Still young and tender for this world, Sid has no way of distracting himself from his grief. “I worry about my brother, too.” 

“He comes in the shop sometimes,” says Maysilee, tilting her head. “Loves his taffy. Sid, right?” 

“Yeah,” he confirms, touched that she even knows this about him. 

The canon goes off twice. 

Startled, Haymitch looks over at you. “I guess it’s too much to hope it’s Silka and Maritte.”

“That’d leave only Newcomers,” you say, exhaling a low puff of air. 

“And then what?” asks Maysilee bleakly. 

“Another meeting, like you mentioned in the Capitol,” he suggests. What other option would there be? 

“And if we agree to stay true?”

“More mutts.” That’s the obvious answer. You promised none of you would turn on each other back in your interview, and Haymitch knows you meant it as much as he intends to keep it. “Another volcano eruption.” 

“Hopefully it doesn’t come to that,” you say, voice shaking for a split second. You take a deep breath, and it seems to ground you. “Now, let’s get a move on.” 

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

You don’t make it very far before you run into another threat. About fifteen feet away from your current hiding spot, Buck and Chicory lie writhing on the ground. Hull is just as bad, a slew of gold, silver, and bronze quills sticking out of his thigh. 

Lenore Dove has a soft spot for the porcupines back home; you respect them from a distance. This one, giant and lethal and rageful, has your fear more than it does your respect. 

Hull’s cries of pain mingle with the porcupine’s squeals. You flinch at the grating harmony, taken back to the jabberjay’s cruel, torturous taunts. “We need a plan,” you manage through your quickening breaths. 

“Can’t you just shoot it?” Maysilee asks beside you, bordering on frustration. 

“I can’t get a clear shot of its underbelly from here.” Though you keep your bow at the ready. “I won’t do much damage otherwise.” Its quills are made of the same steel as your arrows—they’ll only lessen any impact you intend to make.

“We can get you closer,” she says. 

Haymitch’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “Are you insane?” 

“What other options do we have?”  

A cannon sounds; another ally gone. 

“None,” you say, tight-throated. 

“We could try soothing it,” Haymitch suggests, motioning to the bawling creature now waddling mindlessly towards your vicinity. The stench of musk and roses nearly makes you gag. “Like you would a baby.” 

“Sing it a lullaby maybe?” Maysilee deadpans. They both look at you. 

“I’d rather it shoot me,” you snap. “We’re only wasting time here.” 

You stand from behind the bush. Haymitch hisses your name, but you’re already running across the clearing. You make it a few feet without being detected by the porcupine, finding coverage behind another bush. You peer over the branches and leaves. It’s still throwing its tantrum with its back to you. You notch an arrow. If you angle it correctly, you’ll land it right—

An olive hits the side of the porcupine’s head. Your grip nearly falters out of shock. It gives a short wail, then runs its snout along the forest floor and snarfs up the olive. A couple more land in front of its nose, forming a trail in your direction. You turn to your left, spotting Haymitch and Maysilee poking up from behind their own bush. He pulls his arm back as he meets your gaze. You give a quick nod and raise your bow. 

The next olive flies through the air. Anticipating the treat, the porcupine stands on its hind legs. In an instant, your arrow pierces through its underbelly, straight to its heart. You duck right as a dozen quills shoot out in a sunburst. There’s another cannon and a dying squeal of indignation. Then nothing. 

You’re at Hull’s side in a matter of seconds, meeting Maysilee there. Haymitch checks for Chicory’s and Buck’s pulses. A noble but useless pursuit. He joins as you and Maysilee try to coax some syrup down Hull’s throat, plucking the quills from his leg. 

“Come on, Hull,” she tells him. “You’ve got to drink this down. Come on, now.” 

He’s trying. Really, truly trying. The veins of his neck pop out with the effort, but the antidote only bubbles back up and spills down his chin. 

You hold onto his hand. “Just a little bit, Hull. That’s all you need.” 

He chokes out a gurgled sound, squeezing your hand back in response. His grip is strong, even after the third and final cannon sounds. Maysilee doesn’t stop coaxing, Haymitch doesn’t stop plucking, you don’t stop holding his hand. Until finally, finally, you’re forced to accept his death. 

A pointless death in an already long list of them. So why does it feel so much more shocking? Hull was young and strong, deserving of life and by all accounts a worthy contender to win the Games. But you know that’s not why this end feels wrong for him. Hull had given you his friendship, a precious gift now severed at the knee. 

Your eyes fall on Buck’s and Chicory’s lifeless bodies; your thoughts wander to Ampert and Wyatt. To the losses that have hit you the hardest. Not because they matter more than others, but because you know if you had tried harder, you could’ve prevented them. Even if you hadn’t, you could’ve tried. 

Your fingers brush the bracelet on his wrist. Somewhere back in Eleven, pretty-faced Clementine mourns the love she’ll never have the chance to confess. Letting go of Hull’s hand, you reach out to close his eyes. 

You push up on numb legs. Neither your head nor your knee protest. Maysilee and Haymitch are just as silent, but when they stand, they help you arrange your allies’ bodies properly. 

On the edge of the clearing, you watch the hovercraft circle overhead, the claw beginning its descent. A memory overcomes you. The first funeral you can recall ever attending had been your papaw’s. There was no funeral song to perform then—your mama had yet to teach it to you and Burdock. You only remember the ache in your chest, bits of the mayor’s speech, and the salute which was Twelve’s tradition. 

Then, it was started by a man you only briefly recognized from visits to the Hob. A man you never knew to be your papaw’s friend. He may not have been. You still don’t know for certain. Yet, he offered his condolence, his admiration, and his love as if he were. Everyone followed suit, as they’d done for every funeral before, and as they’ll continue to do for every funeral after your own. 

Just like the man, just like all your people in Twelve, you press three fingers to your lips and lift them. To every one of your losses, even those you’ve hardly known, for they’ve all held a fraction of your love. Out of your periphery, you see Haymitch and Maysilee do the same. 

Your head begins to throb again as the hovercraft collects the last body. It bypasses the dead porcupine, and your heart spurs with something akin to guilt. You haven’t felt that when shooting an animal in years. Your papa taught you early on that every piece of an animal is revered and handled with careful necessity. Their deaths are never a mindless feat. Not like this one. Poisonous, the porcupine will only go to waste. And really, you don’t want to see it dead any more than you do your so-called enemies in here.

You lower your hand. “I need to sit,” you confess in a murmur. Without a glance their way, you leave the clearing, and another piece of you behind.  

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Haymitch tries to be subtle, but he’s positive you can feel him watching you. Between your allies’ deaths and the subsequent pang in his chest, there’s not much to say. Not much to do, either, besides watch out for your physical well-being, and Maysilee’s, and hope the pang subsides soon enough. 

The three of you find solace in a patch of katniss. Side by side, completely done in, you take turns checking your allies’ discarded supplies. They must’ve received a parachute recently, because one pack holds crackers, baked beans, and raisins mixed with nuts and candy. There are other practical supplies, too: a blanket and a half-full water jug. 

Haymitch gets a fire going, and Maysilee heats up the beans. The trail mix, she calls it, serves as a fine dessert. 

It’s a cruel shock to see Ringina and Autumn start off tonight’s anthem. Buck, Chicory, and Hull follow after them. 

“Five gone,” reports Haymitch. 

“Besides us, it’s Silka, Maritte, and Wellie,” says Maysilee, dejected. 

You clear your throat. “We’ll look for Wellie tomorrow.” 

Haymitch nods. “Tomorrow.” 

“Right,” mutters Maysilee. For a long stint, the only sound in the air is the chirping of crickets. But then she whispers, barely audible, “One of us has to win this thing.” 

“Why’s that?” he whispers back. 

“One of us has to be the worst victor in history. Tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the Victor’s Village. Refuse to play their game.” 

He remembers his Pa in that corner room of the Justice Building. “Make sure they don’t use our blood to paint their posters?” 

“Exactly. We’ll paint our own posters.” She extends her pinkies in either of your directions. 

“Sounds as good a plan as any,” you say in earnest, and loop one pinkie around hers, the other around Haymitch’s. 

He mimics the gesture with both of you, locking your pinkies tightly. More binding than any blood oath, as permanent as his promise to you. They’ll never let him be the victor, he knows that. But he can swear to protect Maysilee, to prioritize her life along with yours. As best he can. He doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen if it’s just the three of you in the end.

When Maysilee lets go, she sniffles a little. “I’ll keep watch. You two sleep first tonight.” 

To Haymitch’s surprise, you don’t protest. You hand him the blanket, and he wraps it over her shoulders. “Wake me next,” he tells her. She gives a short nod in response. 

He makes two hammock beds beside each other for you and him. He curls on top, leaving a couple inches of space between you. You’re lying on your back, eyes still wide open. “How ’bout that lullaby?” He actually gets a snicker out of you. “Miss Donner?” 

She snorts. “You don’t want to hear what’s running through my head. It started back in the maze and just won’t quit.” 

“The only cure for an ear worm is to pass it on,” you say, shuffling onto your side to glance up at her. 

“You asked for it.” She scoffs and begins to sing an old schoolyard song about ladybugs and houses on fire. 

Once she’s passed on a verse, you roll back to look at Haymitch. He arches a brow and grins. “We did bring that on ourselves, sunshine.” 

“We did, didn’t we, peach?” 

“Oh, shut up,” says Maysilee, stifling a laugh. It wins her over in the end and drags you both into fits of your own laughter. Though it’s tainted by grief, the noise lasts until you fall asleep. Haymitch isn’t far behind. 

Save for the starlight, it’s dark when Maysilee taps him in. She takes his spot on the hammock by your side. 

He must last a couple of hours before you settle down next to him without an inch of space between your shoulders and knees this time. You allow him to stare at you uninterrupted and appreciative. Tonight’s fake stars brighten the details of your face as if they were real. 

“Get some sleep,” you finally whisper. 

“I can stand guard with you,” he offers.

“It’s my turn.” Looking him up and down, you add, “And you could use the sleep.” 

He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “You’ve seen better nights.”

You snort, but he wants to hear you laugh again. He wants to see you smile. He wants to make it better. “Did I tell you I saw a nightingale the other day?” 

“No. Did you really?” 

He nods. “At least, I think it was a nightingale. Could’ve been a different breed.” 

“I think you’re right,” you say, staring at him with that same raw, all-consuming gleam. “I think it was a nightingale.”

Your eyes well as you adjust the bluebird around his neck. Haymitch can tell you’re thinking of home, of today’s loss, and of him. You lean in hesitantly, giving him time to pull away. Strange that you think he would. 

When you kiss him, it’s less frenzied than last night. Softer and slower, like a free world is still within reach instead of actively shattering. A little sadder, too. He can feel it in the tremor of your fingers where they’re woven in his hair, taste it in the salt on his tongue. Sad as you are, you steady him as he does you. 

You pull back, wrapping your fingers around his wrists to pry them off of you. “Go to sleep, peach.” 

He hesitates and wipes the stray tear by your chin. When you rub your forehead against his, he relents with a nod. The only comfort he can give you now is understanding. Securing the blanket around you, Haymitch indulges one more time tonight. He presses his lips to the crown of your head. You smile gently, and he carries the sight back to the hammock. 

Morning comes with a warm breeze. Haymitch wakes to a picnic less bountiful than yesterday’s, but you were right—you’ll make do with what you have. And you won’t catch him complaining about a breakfast of fresh cornbread and peaches. From Haymitch’s view, still on the ground, there’s a carton of buttermilk, too. 

You and Maysilee have set the food on a tarp again. She’s teaching you how to fold the handkerchiefs into flowers, and you’re taking turns infecting each other with her ear worm. Your voice flows out purposely nasally, but he can still hear the shape of the real thing. 

Ladybug, ladybug fly away home. 

Your house is on fire, your children are gone. 

All except one, who answers to Nan. 

She’s hiding under the frying pan. 

Such a terrifying image for such a silly song. The paradox is no longer lost on him as it was when he was younger. His time in the arena has taught him the destructiveness of beautiful things. Nothing is as it appears. Those ladybugs won’t surrender to anything. Except…

Haymitch pushes up on his elbows. He catches your attention as Maysilee picks up your tune. You lock eyes, and that’s all he needs to know you’re on the same page. 

What could you use to burn through a maze, if not fire? 

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