«Not enemies’ words, but friends’ silence»

The author's proudly displayed fetish

The author's fetish you're pretty sure they don't realise they have

The author's fetish which they're firmly convinced everyone has and is just pretending otherwise

The author's non-sexual special interest which just sounds like a fetish because of their habitually unfortunate phrasing

The fetish the author is making a well-meaning effort to cater to in spite of clearly not understanding it themselves

The author's fetish that never quite makes it into the text because they keep getting sidetracked by the requisite worldbuilding

The author's utterly pedestrian sexual preference which the text treats like a bizarre fetish because they've got shit to work through

The author's seemingly innocuous recurring trope they're going to have a personal revelation about ten years down the road

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84694196

Notes: This is just a very short one-shot i wrote for a quick challenge in a group dedicated to hurt/comfort. It was originally written in italian and I translated it to post it here, so bear with my poor grasp on the language. The fic is kinda just an exercise for me to get back into writing, nothing much happens but I envision this being the moment when Haymitch first recounts the true story of his games and his life after them to Katniss and then Peeta. There's also a possible spoiler for SOTR. Thank you for reading, let me know what you think!

When I wake up in the middle of the night, the other side of the bed emanates a familiar heat. I stretch my arm to reach Prim's warmth and my fingers find Peeta's solid shoulder. Usually the comfort of his contact is enough to keep the dark thoughts at bay, tonight however something's disturbing my sleep. I rise to massage a sore spot on my hip, it seems even the little nugget is restless, I feel it moving inside me as if it knew that something is off.

My throath is parched like a desert so I convince myself I just need a sip of water to conciliate sleep. Naturally the glass, handpainted with a yellow flower motif, lays empty on the nightstand. I sigh and, just when I motion to stand up, Peeta's hand brushes over my mine.

“Ehy, what's up” he mumbles with a drowsy moan. A tempting warmth is asking me to slip back into his embrace, but i feel too agitate to give in.

“Nothing, I'm just getting some water downstairs” I whisper back.

He nods still half asleep. “Do you want company?”

“It'll just be a minute, don't worry” I reassure him and he gently squeezes my hand before letting me go.

I wriggle my feet into the slippers and walk over to the door careful not to step on Buttercup, he has made a habit of rubbing against my calves in what I can only call attempted murder. Tonight, however, the cat is nowhere to be seen. I imagine he too felt the heaviness and disappeared in the woods.

As soon as I step out of the bedroom the dark thoughts hover closer and I suddenly feel very alone in the perfect darkness of the landing. I try to keep their sharp edges at arm's lenght.

I place my palm protectively on my stomach while slowly descending the stairs, the other hand anchoring me to the banister. Recentely my body has learned new ways to move, new rythms to make room for the little life I'm growing inside it. Sometimes, though, it's still difficult and I feel the drive for independence, a part of me that wants to be outside, hunting under the moon like Buttercup.

I enter our kitchen, it's eerie seeing it dark and empty, like it's waiting for us to wake up in the morning. On the counter lays a cake that tomorrow Peeta will decorate with little sugar geese, right now it's naked and waiting like this room.

I walk over to the sink, I open the faucet and drink directly from the the tap. In this house we have running water, a luxury I'm still not used to.

I am distracted by a sound coming from the living room. I know it's not Buttercup and it cannot be Peeta either. There's one other person awake tonight, the source of the unrest I feel.

"Haymitch?" I call to the darkness. I'm met by a groan coming from somewhere between the sofas.

I move closer cautiously, my old mentor is known for greeting surprises knife in hand.

The couches are in the centre of the room, a pair of duvets pulled between them forming some kind of nest. I built it yesteday, next to the fireplace, to cuddle in with Peeta. He was reading me a book while I braided his blond curls which lately he is growing out.

I kneel on the carpet but I still struggle to see the man. I can hear a labored breath coming from deep inside the nest. I know he's meekly crying.

There's no use trying to shield myself from the dark thoughts, not when I'm entering Haymitch's personal cave of suffering. I inch forward with gritted teeth. The memories feel like a flood in my mind, my throath is closing up as if I'm going underwater, without a word I find my place next to my mentor, our shoulders touching. I hope my mere presence is enough because I never, not once in my life, knew the right thing to say.

Technically it's already the fourth of July, since midnight is long passed, but I don't wish him a happy birthday. Tomorrow night we will celebrate our friend and tease Peeta for his incredible skills with cake frosting, but this moment is reserved to pain.

I grab Haymitch's hand and he reciprocates my grip.

“Hi, sweetheart” he musters a crooked smile. “You seen the sky tonight? Not a cloud in sight, Sid would be insufferable teaching Prim how to read the stars”.

I swallow the lump in my throath to ask him: “Want to tell me how it really went?”

THEY RELEASED THE COYOTE VS ACME TRAILER !!!!!

WE WON !!!

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Rachel Ann Bovier is a Pittsburgh legend who has been publishing her poems in city newspapers for decades. In more recent years, she started putting up these bill boards along major roads. For what reason? I have no clue. But I would often pass them on my way to Oakland for therapy. They never failed to cheer me up.

As a young trans writer, they gave me this precious little spark of joy. There was someone like me, a writer, a Pittsburgher, a trans person, who was confident enough to put their face on a bill board! I would always smile as we passed by and my mom took note.

Fast forward a few years and it’s my 21st birthday. My mom has been super excited about my gift and teased me about it over and over again. She said it was the best gift she’d ever gotten me and in many ways she was right. It was a custom poem she commissioned from Miss Bouvier! It congratulated me on my birthday, my academic success, lots of little stuff. It was simple and sweet and perfect.