áŻđ mimiâs fan mail â messages & interactions
SIDE C â BEFORE YOU READ
do not interact if you are on the basic dni list â transphobic, homophobic, MAGA, ableist, etc. minors are welcome unless otherwise noted on individual pieces. please read all content warnings before engaging. i write for fun and with love, as i do with everything else.
addendum đđą under no circumstances do i allow the translation, modification, plagiarism, or reposting of my works without proper permission. suggestive content may be ahead, read tags responsibly!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
katniss and effie are eldest daughters. haymitch is an eldest son. all three of them are the eldest of two. then there's peeta, youngest of many, the TEAM's baby boy.
peeta mellark you will always be loved. so, so loved.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Lenore Dove and Burdock donât leave him to die in the woods. They mean it as a kindness, but Haymitch knows itâs your hand at work.Â
Curled in on himself, half passed out in a puddle of sleep syrup and Mrs. McCoyâs morning tea, he doesnât notice itâs them at first. When he feels a squeeze of his shoulder, he assumes youâve climbed down from the tree. You havenât said a peep since he made himself sick, and he hasnât moved an inch to see you again for himself. But he feels you there. Amid the maple leaves. And now, by his side in a display ofâŠcomfort or torment, he canât tell.Â
Haymitch would take either.Â
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.Â
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. âSheâs with the birds now.âÂ
With the birds, in the maple treeâwhat does it matter when youâre still dead, and so are Ma and Sid?Â
Burdock grabs Haymitchâs left arm and glances at the vomit on the floor. His frown deepens, drawing attention to the dried tears along his jawline.Â
âRuined your paâs suit,â Haymitch mumbles.Â
He hauls him to his feet, shaking his head like thatâs the least of his concerns. âIt can be washed.âÂ
Well, Haymitch has ruined a lot of things of theirs. A soiled suit must be a splash in the pond compared to everything else.Â
âLetâs get you back to mine, yeah?â Burdock squeezes his shoulder.Â
âDonât,â 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. Heâll never have a home again, and he doesnât belong inside yours. âI donât want to go there.â
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 canât find it anymore.Â
Burdock sighs, having reached a silent verdict with Lenore Dove. âOkay, thatâs all right.â
âIâm sure Blair wonât mind having you.â Lenore Dove wraps both arms around one of Haymitchâs, steadying him as his legs begin to wobble.Â
Blair wouldnât mind at all. Heâll 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 wonât taste like the kind he had on his birthday, but will be a noble effort all the same. âDonât wanna be there either.âÂ
âWhere do you want to go?â whispers Lenore Dove, patient yet strained.
âHere.â Where his rotten roots canât reach anyone. Where he can search for your branch until heâs granted his own wings to fly to it.Â
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. Heâs kept in his equally torturous reality by the clearing of Burdockâs throat.Â
âHereâs not an option, Hay.â He takes a step, beginning his and Lenore Doveâs pointless pursuit of finding a new home for Haymitch. âWeâre getting you somewhere warm and out of this suit.âÂ
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 whatâs keeping him good and numb now that the sleep syrupâs run its course. He doesnât have the heart to tell Burdock there is no warming him up. There is no substitute for you.Â
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 wouldnât deny him entry, but Clerk Carmine surely would, in looks more than words. And Haymitch canât blame him for that. For seeing him as isâa plague brought to infect them all.Â
If only the rest of your family had the sense to see Haymitch the same. Either way, he was right to refuse Burdockâs offer.Â
Blair joins them halfway through the Seam with a pot of bean and hammock soup. âFrom Mrs. McCoy.â He trades the pot with Lenore Dove, carrying the weight of Haymitchâs right side.Â
They get to where theyâre going quicker after that. When they cross the gates into Victorâs Village, Haymitch takes in all its magnificent, lonely, burdensome glory.Â
âGuess you get to choose your own,â says Blair, muffled by the imagined cotton balls in Haymitchâs ears.Â
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.Â
âThat one,â he mutters and points to his new cage.Â
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.Â
Burdock switches on the lights. âIâm going to find Asterid. See about more sleep syrup. Try getting him to eat something.â He glances at Haymitch like he wants to say more to him, not just speak of him. He doesnât, rushing back through the doorway and down the marble steps.Â
âDonât forget clothes,â 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, âDo you want a bath or food first? And donât say âneitherâ because youâre getting both eventually.âÂ
His tongue feels useless in a way his legs somehow donât. He pushes up, letting the blankets fall, and takes a shaky step forward. Blair catches him before he falls straight through the coffee table.Â
âLetâs find the bathroom in this place,â Blair says, dazed with more than grief.Â
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?Â
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.Â
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.Â
âHe shouldnât be alone right now. Or here, in their clutches.â Lenore Dove wipes the tear stains on her cheeks with rough movements.Â
âBlair and I are staying.â Burdock crosses his arms, straightens his shoulders, and reminds Haymitch so much of you that he nearly runs the other way. âYouâre already on thin ice with C.C. and Tam Amber. You gotta go back.âÂ
âNone of you should stay.â Either they canât hear Haymitchâs murmuring, or they ignore him. May as well be a ghost. And if he is, then where is yours to lend him guidance?Â
Lenore Dove shakes her head. âThey arenât allowed to be mad at me today.â Even through her pain, she holds herself with a boldness thatâd cut straight through her unclesâ leashes. The kind thatâd make Haymitch laugh and admire her under different circumstances. Right now, it makes his lungs shrivel up.Â
Burdock surely feels the same, because he scoffs and grabs her hand. âTheyâll be mad at you tomorrow. Lock you up for the rest of your life, and theyâd be allowed because of today.â 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 foreverâskirting around the nightmare with their roundabout speech, spouting riddles about what they should or should not do in your name.Â
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. âGo home.âÂ
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 theyâve formed. âYou should go home.âÂ
Whether itâs the expectant anger of her uncles or what her familyâs buried today, Lenore Dove drops it. âIâll be back tomorrow,â she promises, hesitating like she means to say more. She opts to pull him into an embrace.Â
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.Â
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, tooâhis wish that theyâd go away. He doesnât repeat himself. Canât. Seems he used up all his energy to shower and send Lenore Dove back into her unclesâ protective arms.Â
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. Sheâd recognize it for what it is: another set of Capitol chains.Â
Blair brings the bowl, but Burdock is the one who gets Haymitch to eat. He doesnât need to force the spoon into Haymitchâs hands, or coax him with words, or threaten him in any way. His eyes are plenty disarming, plenty influential.Â
Each mouthful strikes a cord in Haymitchâs misshapen guts. He stares off into the room, watches Burdock and Blair watching him in turn, but he isnât here. Heâs in the arena, sharing a pot of soup and mourning Wyatt alongside you and Maysilee. Heâs in the apartment with Mags and Wiress and their attempts at comfort. Heâs newly five, learning what it is to mourn for the first time.Â
Haymitch doesnât 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 doesnât care to hear right now. Blairâs well-meaning assurances of âWeâre here for you, Hay.â Lenore Doveâs promise of tomorrow, which sounds closer to a threat. Each word out of Burdockâs mouth, be it instructions or sympathies or under-the-breath comments to Blair.Â
His mimicry of your voice is the last Haymitch hears before slipping into a different kind of torture.Â
Haymitch canât 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.Â
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.Â
âHaymitch!â
Why isnât he fighting? Ma and Sid are dying. Why isnât he fighting?
âHaymitch!âÂ
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 doesnât. He doesnât save anyone.Â
âHaymitch, itâs okay!âÂ
With a yank out of the cuffsâthe fingersâaround 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 heâs awake. Burdock and Blair loom over him with their arms raised in surrender.Â
âYouâre okay,â Blair soothes weakly. âIt was just a nightmare.â
Burdock steps forward wordlessly, letting the light from the hallway snuff out the darkness.Â
Haymitchâs demands of âGo away!â 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, âLeave.âÂ
âAll right,â sighs Burdock, catching Haymitch when he nearly trips over himself. âTake it easy.âÂ
Burdockâs dismissal hardens his resolve. âLeave me alone.â 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 heâs shooing them or if theyâre guiding him. âI want you to leave me alone.âÂ
They donât ignore him again; he doesnât let them. Burdock grabs Haymitchâs 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.Â
Haymitch bites down on his cheek until he tastes iron. Why does Burdock still care about anything, let alone about him?Â
âDonât pretend like you canât hear me,â Haymitch sneers, sidestepping Burdock and Blair, storming to the front door on steadier footing.Â
âWe hear you just fine,â says Burdock, dry and tired.Â
âGreat!â He jerks the door open to the star dappled sky and nearly loses his grip. âThen hear this: You want to do me a favor? Go.âÂ
Their faces begin to blur, just enough that Haymitch canât make out their reactions. Better that way. Â
Blair begins shakily, âHay, we arenâtââÂ
âStay away!âÂ
Even after Haymitch repeats himself, their hesitation stretches onward. The details of Burdockâs 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 Haymitchâs doing. He doesnât deserve Burdockâs care anymore; heâs not sure he ever did.Â
Finally, Burdock moves and takes Blair with him. He stops on the marbled porch, glancing at Haymitch. âIf you need to be alone right now, thatâs fine. Weâll see you tomorrow.â
âDonât bother,â Haymitch grumbles. âJust pass the message on to Lenore Dove.â He slams the door in their faces before Burdockâs sullen, curious eyes crack through him.Â
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 himâŠa while, he guesses. One of themâs gone in minutes.Â
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 youâve always exceeded his expectations.Â
Haymitch blinks at you from the couch. It isnât 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.Â
Your nose twitches with disgust. âYou really shouldnât drink that all at once.â
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. âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âRight now,â you sigh, âIâm watching you lose the fight against moderation.âÂ
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 werenât enough to patch up his oozing soul. âI thought youâd stay in the woods.â
âWanted to save you the trip. Iâd rather you donât undo the trouble they went through by getting lost again.âÂ
No shoes on, you drag your gown as youâd drag your feet. Silk fabric rustles along the floor. Itâs 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 Capitolâs ideals of luxury, Haymitch is still just a moth to a flame.Â
âDonât deny it.â You sit on the edge of the coffee table and lean forward. âI can see the gears shifting in your pretty little head.âÂ
Haymitch rolls onto his back, but he doesnât tear his focus from you. âTheyâd find me again anyways.âÂ
You hum. âProbably.âÂ
âBut I told them to stay away.âÂ
âOh, peach.â You smile gently, like youâre breaking difficult news to an ignorant child. âYou know better than to think getting them to quit will be that easy. Theyâll be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the nextââ
âWill you?â Haymitch flinches, the selfishness of his question further tainting the space between you.Â
Your smile doesnât fade, instead growing pained with the rest of your expression. âYouâd have me stay forever, wouldnât you?âÂ
He tries to push up on his elbows and falls back against the cushions. âIâd have you here,â he chokes on the last syllable. âIâd have youâIâdââÂ
âShh, Haymitch.â 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. âYou know better.â
He should, but even so, he reaches for you. And like a moth to a flame, he burns.Â
The second his nose makes contact with the floorâthe rug a poor buffer for the tileâHaymitch stops breathing. His nose isnât broken, but he canât breathe. Each intake of air pierces his lungs and slips through the resulting gaps. He canât move either, because he knows when he looks up you wonât be there.Â
He might as well let the roomâs shadows steal him. Sink into the hole youâve carved out of this world.Â
Theyâd find him. Haymitch feels them creeping aroundâthe Capitol, the cameras, President Snow. Thereâs no escaping them; he will never be free.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Fine by Haymitch. White liquorâs a hell of a lot stronger than sleep syrup anyway.Â
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?Â
Haymitch no longer concerns himself with keeping track. Itâs all one cyclical blur.Â
Blair was the first to throw in the towel, having endured weeks of Haymitchâs tirades. He nearly made it two months, or three, before he accepted the inevitable and left Haymitch with a tearful hug goodbye.Â
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 Burdockâs last straw. The latter should have been enough before Haymitch had been forced to use those rocks.Â
Lenore Dove⊠She sticks like a leech, dropping in as much as sheâs able to sneak out, despite his tactics to get her to leave him be, or her unclesâ efforts to protect her from danger. Haymitch can lock the doors and windows all he likesâher voice carries through, asking him to open up, then demanding that he does. When she decides she wonât take a locked door for an answer, she evokes your name.Â
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 youâd want and what needs to be done, he isnât sure he can use the same cruelty that worked on the others. He isnât sure. But he does either way.Â
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 doesnât 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.Â
The emptier the bottle, the less Haymitch feels. So he drowns himself in all Hattie has to sell in order to do whatâs really needed of him.Â
âHaymitch,â 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 othersâ happenings.Â
âBurdock is coming to trade again, but his colorâs not back yet.â Itâll return eventually, because his strength supersedes Haymitchâs. 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.Â
âBlairâs joining him now too, you know.â How would he? Heâs made it his mission not to. Blair has two younger brothers and parents to help feedâgo figure Sorrel and Burdock would teach him. They mightâve done the same for Haymitch.Â
âWord has it that Covey girl was suspended from school for an outburst in class.â Lenore Dove already told him herself, not divulging or admitting to the accusations, on one of those mornings Haymitch opened his door. Suspensionâs a far cry from a fourth arrest, so their teachers mustâve given her a pass on the grounds of grief.Â
Hattie told him this sporadic informationâabout his old friends, about the rumblings in the airâlike 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. âI appreciate the coin, but you oughta learn to ration, boy.âÂ
His gaze flits up to her worried eyes. The very ones that took him under her wing. Whatâs it to her when sheâs the one sustaining more vices than his? âStick to the business youâre good for, Hattie.âÂ
With daysâ 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 ofâŠfallâŠwinter⊠Who the hell cares?Â
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 doesnât give him the chance to pretend they arenât walking the same path. He spits out, âYou should pay more attention to your niece.âÂ
Clerk Carmine whirs around, glowering at him with no lost love. âWhat was that?âÂ
âNeed me to spell it out?â scoffs Haymitch. Leaves crunch beneath his boots. Maybe it is fall. âKeep Lenore Dove away unless you want her dead, too.âÂ
And before Clerk Carmine has the chance to curse him for his callousness, for all heâs cost them, Haymitch marches away. A tightened grip on his clinking bag, he doesnât linger on Clerk Carmineâs drooped face, or his mounting guilt, or the storm heâs probably sent Lenore Doveâs way. Itâs safer than the one sheâd get caught in if she kept by his side.Â
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.Â
His companions await him. Those heâs killed, those whose spirits heâs dimmed in place of the lives heâs ruined and will only continue to worsen.Â
And you.Â
Sometimes you are still merciful. You greet Haymitch after hours spent dodging Panacheâs sword in a heap of white roses, or running from exploding ladybugs while Maysileeâs scream plays from memory, or sifting through piles of ash and decapitated squirrels to get to Ampertâs bones. On the worst nights, when Sidâs burnt off face is the one under the rumble, you sing but do not appear to him. Different lullabies and ballads from the Coveyâs catalogue, many he didnât think he even remembered.Â
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 peopleâonce also hisâwarrants whatever harsh edges you have in store tonight.Â
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.Â
He may take her now; for she never speaks her mind,
But is ever the one thing silent here.
You arenât bothered by the chillâdo ghosts get cold? Or are they perpetually frozen? You were always warm, a sunbeam gifted from above, but Haymitch wouldnât 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.Â
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, heâs certain, but youâve decided they arenât 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 theyâre dandelions or jasmine, the kind you used to weave into your braids on happier days.Â
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.Â
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, youâll disappear, and you already have more than enough reason to tonight. âWhich part is that from?âÂ
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 doesnât 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. âThis could be a nice space if you put some effort into it.âÂ
Haymitch lets a gulp of liquor scrape the lining of his throat. He waits for it to dull his chest just enough to say, âI donât care about having a nice space. Which part is that from?âÂ
âAnd into yourself.â You drum your fingers against the bench. âI mean, honestly, peach, you couldnât even make it a year?âÂ
âYouâre dead,â he blurts, and nearly drops his crutch.Â
âDuh.âÂ
âMy familyâs dead.â Why wonât the earth tear in two and swallow Haymitch whole already?Â
âIâm dead, theyâre dead,â you say casually, flicking your hair over your shoulder. âSo is Maysilee, Wyatt, Wellie, Ampert, I could go on all night. You know whoâs not dead? Your friends.â You huff out a bitter laugh. âThough you sure almost changed that for Asterid.âÂ
Youâll never let that one go, having yelled at him plenty the night it happened, scolding how heâs disparaged Burdock, then mocking how he almost gave you matching concussions. Even though Haymitch expects the same now, he cowers. âIââ I love you. Iâm sorry. I donât deserve your forgiveness, but take me with you anyway. âI did it to keep them safe.â
âIs that what you told yourself when you left the Newcomers?â You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and cut through his quickening breaths with a vicious whisper, âYou just had to play the hero. You had to be a rebel. Howâd that work out for you?â
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. âNot great.âÂ
You hum, a satisfied look on your face that quickly sours. âAnd now you think you have the right to yell at my family? To threaten and hurt them?âÂ
âIâm trying not to.â And you know thatâyou 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 Snowâs vengeance.Â
Your lips are tightly sealed, a refusal to be swayed, so he repeats himself again in a broken slur, âWhich part are those lines from?âÂ
You stare down at him, and he swears he can feel your hand curled around his jaw, forcing him to hold your gaze. âThe irony is,â you chime, âyou donât need to try very hard to hurt people, Haymitch. You do enough just by loving them.âÂ
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.Â
High above, the moon emits a bright yellow like the primroses where Haymitch swears he left you alive. In his sleep, youâre 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.Â
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.Â
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 roomâs deceptive shadows, succumbing to your latest melody when his mind begins to spin. A song, not a poem, and not belonging to the Covey.Â
Down in the Willow garden,
Where me and my love did meet.
As we sat a-courtin,â
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.Â
Where the song comes from, Haymitch canât remember. It produces pictures of lakeside lilies and the caress of water at his feet before heâs pulled under the waves of your crystal clear message. On the night you sing it in full for him, he knows itâs time for another restock.Â
Effie Trinket doesnât give him the chance when he comes to hours later. He swipes instinctively, but sheâs wrangled his knife out of his grasp, standing above him with pursed lips and a weary disposition.Â
âHaymitch, Iâm so sorry to hear about your familyâs accident.â She sets the blade down on the kitchen counter, too far for him to reach from his place on the ground. âBut this simply wonât do. We have a responsibility, and you have a sacrifice to honor.â
Oh, sure, it was a real accident. Tragic, coincidental timing too, coming off of your sacrifice. Effie doesnât know any better, blind to the horrors of the Capitol and their dear president, but her ignorance isnât any easier to swallow.Â
Haymitch washes up under Effieâs 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.Â
Plutarchâs camera greets Haymitch as soon as heâs out the door, one step behind the entire way to the train station, where Plutarch informs him of Magnoâs demotion and Drusillaâs accident. âMaysilee was right about those boots. I suggested Effie as the natural successor. Given her innovative track record, they went for it.â
âBut youâre still stuck slumming it?â Haymitch deadpans, itching to run back to his prison when it hits him you wonât be joining him in this one. Steeled, not gilded.Â
âItâs in my contract I continue with Twelve through your first year as a victor. Who knows where Iâll go then,â Plutarch says with an attempt at a friendly smile. What intentions hide beneath it? âYou look like you could use a sandwich. Tibby!âÂ
Facing your kin and living with the ghosts shouldâve been enough to prepare Haymitch for the wretchedness of the Victory Tour. District Eleven proves that nothing couldâve 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.Â
He sticks to the cards.Â
Plutarch takes over Effieâs job of corralling Haymitch when the nightâs festivities come to an end. Heâs hidden away in a corner with the districtâs most recent victor, who has introduced him to the wonderful world of Elevenâs specialty rotgut.Â
âHeâs all yours,â says Chaff, toasting the air mockingly.Â
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 Haymitchâs hands when he begins to blow whistles into it.Â
âWe donât have long. This is the one place in the Justice Building that isnât bugged.â Plutarchâs lax posture and narrowed eyes, almost honest in their urgency, convince Haymitch heâs right.Â
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 Snowâs plan when he lent it to him? Was he a willing participant, eager to make one last show out of you?
It doesnât 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. Heâs the killer here, after all. This should be easy for him.Â
âOkayââ Plutarch sidesteps another of Haymitchâs lackluster attempts. He grabs his wrists, forcing him to sit on the nearby windowsill. âHate me all youâd like, but get a hold of yourself for one minute.âÂ
His words do the opposite of their intended effect, worsening Haymitchâs 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 blazerâs inner pocket.Â
Haymitch falls back, fists dropping. âWhereâWhereâd you get that from?â
âThe surgeon in charge of victor affairs is a colleague of mine. Normally they toss all extra items on a victorâs person, save for their token, but I promised sheâd get this back.â He drops the bluebird into Haymitchâs outstretched hand.Â
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 haveâŠÂ
âNow I need you to listen closely. The arena plan may not have produced the results we wanted, but it wasnât the failure you believed it to be.âÂ
Haymitch sees you in the reflective light of the birdâs 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 tonightâs main course. âHow much did she know?âÂ
âNot everything. It wouldâve been a risk. Besides, she wasnât needed on the frontlines.â Plutarch smoothes his rumpled blazer. âSymbols are powerful weapons in and of themselves, and every good revolution needs one.âÂ
âAnd that symbol was meant to be her?âÂ
âIt couldâve 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.â Plutarch lifts a shoulder like heâs only trying to placate the rage emanating from Haymitch, not add to it. âThat doesnât mean we donât need you.âÂ
So itâs not enough to reduce you to a blip in his machine of revolutionâhe expects Haymitch to sign himself away to the cause once more. âYou donât want me. Everybodyâs dead because of me. It was a failure, and itâs on me.âÂ
âDonât sell yourself short. You shook up the Capitol in more ways than one. Every misstep along the way was outside of your control.â
âHer death wasnât a misstep,â Haymitch seethes, squeezing the bluebird in his hand, âand sheâs not a token you can replace.âÂ
âNo, I suppose not,â he relents. With a quick glance out the window, he straightens himself. âRevolution takes time, Haymitch, and it requires sacrifice to succeed. You can decide whether this one amounts to something or not. But I know she wouldâve liked to see a free Panem, and I know you should be a part of making that happen.âÂ
Thereâs 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 Capitolâs games, or Plutarchâs. Haymitch has half a mind to tell Plutarch just that and more. He should know youâre already free, and maybe you wouldâve liked the same for those in this world, but Haymitch isnât sure he still does for himself. What good can he do now? What freedom does he deserve?Â
âYou donât know a thing,â he mutters. âNone of you do.âÂ
Haymitch finds his own path to the train.Â
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 Wellieâs 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 heâs numbed himself to the point of permanently discarding all emotions.Â
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. Itâs obvious now why he hasnât. Beetee holds his wifeâs hand while she protects the swell of her stomach with her other. Ready to pop any day.Â
Another kid without a brother, and what a great one Ampert wouldâve made. Nothing like Haymitch.Â
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.Â
Effie tries her best to keep Haymitch sober for One and Two. Shame there are no locks on the bar car.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Effie gasps over Haymitchâs 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 isnât live. A part of him, buried beneath layers of alcohol, wouldâve liked more people than his wardens to see the bold orange letters sprayed across the platform.Â
THE CAPITOL LIES
As quickly as the satisfaction bubbled inside him, the fear kicks in. Because thereâs only one person Haymitch can think of whoâd do something like this. And thereâs no good moment to think about it with Effie ushering him to keep on schedule, looking to the Peacekeepers whoâve accompanied them for answers.Â
Sheâs 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 thatâs the case, Haymitch seethes internally, then why were forty-eight kids buried this year?Â
Mayor Undersee tries to assuage Effieâs worry, promising there is no tolerance for treason but the Peacekeepersâ 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.Â
While Haymitch has already had to confront your family, and the Donners, and the Callows, itâs horrible addressing them on those platforms. His speechâEffieâs, technicallyâis all stammers and slurs. Itâll earn him a scolding from her, maybe another surge of fresh spite from his own district, but he skips over any part thatâs a reference to you.Â
Afterwards, throughout the lackluster party in the square, Haymitch voluntarily sticks by Plutarch, whoâs a fine repellant. No one wants anything to do with Haymitch, and the feelingâs 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.Â
He avoids Burdockâs 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 heâs seen of her tonight, heâs caused her worry. More than heâs worth. Her time is better spent hating him, but for whatever reason, it doesnât seem her spirit will allow it.Â
He wonders why, wonders if youâll visit once the cameras are gone, wonders about Lenore Dove and that welcome banner and if thatâs why he didnât see her and the uncles anywhere in the square.Â
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.Â
âYou have more power than you believe, Haymitch,â he says in parting. âDonât quit before you have the chance to use it.âÂ
Haymitch feels the urge to kill him again. âAnd how do you use your power, Plutarch? Filming our last days, having tea parties with the presidentâyouâre not fixing a thing. Youâre just full of shit.âÂ
Recognition flashes across his face, and amusement comes fleetingly, though it takes Plutarch a beat to actually answer. âI never claimed my methods were perfect. But at least Iâm still in the game. For what itâs worth, your better half wouldnât disagree.âÂ
And with that, Haymitch finds himself alone in his much too large, much too quiet, much too golden cage. Itâs all the more constricting without any bottles in the house. He stocks up extra, enough that he doesnât have to leave Victorâs Village until three rounds of his winnings are delivered to his door.Â
In those three weeks, your visits are restricted to his dreams, always the same sequence of Maritteâs attack, the shattered pitcher, and then nothing. It replays in his head as he wanders District Twelve, prolonging his trek because he doesnât want to sleep tonight. He doesnât want to see if youâll be waiting for him when he returns. Weeks of silence can only mean a reckoning around the corner. One heâs earned but fears nonetheless.Â
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 sheâs not who heâs missing.Â
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.Â
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 doesnât resist letting them lead him where he asks to go.Â
Lenore Dove, expectedly, doesnât 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.Â
âYouâll get arrested for trespassing,â he says, a mimicry of the threats heâd throw at her and Burdock when both of them still came together. âI thought you already were.âÂ
âClerk Carmine and Tam Amber have me under house arrest except for school. In part thanks to you.â 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.Â
âGreat job theyâre doing.âÂ
âThey canât stay awake twenty-four-seven.â She wavers on the defensive for her unclesâ sake, despite her own blatant frustration with the circumstances. âHave you eaten anything real lately?âÂ
Haymitch senses Lenore Dove scanning the filth of the living room, wrecked beyond repair in just the few months itâs 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. âOh, donât you worry. I had a nice, hearty meal before we ran into each other.â
Heâs never challenged Lenore Dove, never had cause to, even in moments when they didnât see eye to eye, even when he didnât understand her riddles. They have never argued, and the closest theyâve 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. âI liked your painting. Couldâve used a softer touch though.âÂ
Her pity dissolves into confusion over his sudden ease with coded words. But Lenore Dove knows exactly what heâs referencing. âPeople deserve the truthââÂ
âItâs a shame you havenât shown anyone else,â Haymitch cuts in sharply. Did she know the cameras at the station werenât anything more than fillers? Would it have made a difference if they were? âBut you know what, paintingâs not really your style.âÂ
âI think it suits me fine,â she says without missing a beat. âI think you should give it a try instead of singing and dancing for them.â Â
Maysileeâs pinkie is a phantom sensation; yours wraps around his other. Haymitch opens his mouth, but Lenore Dove beats him to it. âYou think I donât see what youâre doing? Putting up all these walls to keep us out because you think you deserve it.â Sheâs close, so very close, and yet she couldnât be more off base. Heâs doing this for them, not just to himself. âYou arenât the only one who loved her.âÂ
âStop it.â He shakes his head. âI donât wanna hear this.âÂ
âMaybe it wasnât in the same way, but she was my cousin. And Burdockâs sister. And peopleâs friend.â Lenore Dove sniffles, and unlike before, the thought of you makes Haymitch want to slam the door shut instead of opening it to her. âIt was a different love but the same amount. We understand. You arenât alone in the pain, Haymitch, or the fight.âÂ
âThere is no fight, Lenore Dove. None I want a part of.â He rounds the corner into the main hallway, and sheâs on his heel.Â
âYou donât believeââ She huffs, working herself into a quick frenzy like when she found out about Maysileeâs canary. You may not be here to add fuel to her fire, but Haymitch sees youâre settled in the forefront of her mind. âYou canât believe it. Not after all the lives taken from us this year. The lives thatâll keep being taken if we do nothing.âÂ
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 heâs loved her, she causes him true anger. âI did do something, Lenore Dove. I fought, and I lost. You think I donât know how many people died?âÂ
âI never said that!â
âI know exactly how many of âem diedâI helped kill them.â Haymitch stifles the rumbling in his chest, stills the twitch of his fingers. âYou think you or Burdock or anyone understands, but you donât. And I donât have to explain it to you. But you need to quit what youâre doing before you get yourself killed.âÂ
The overly bright fluorescents catch the defiance in Lenore Doveâs 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, âNobody should have to die for their games. I wonât stop believing in the possibility of the sun rising on a better world.âÂ
A better world, a free Panem. Plutarchâs pipe dream rings in Haymitchâs head.Â
âGood for you.â 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. Theyâll figure out a way to watch her all hours of the day, to stop her before sheâs caught. How else can Haymitch protect her, besides falling into the role heâs written for himself. âNow get out of my house.âÂ
Lenore Dove doesnât fold or flinch or even look hurt the way she did over his callous return of the flintstriker, her expression burning. âI know what my cousin wouldâve wanted, and it ainât this.âÂ
What a shame you arenât here to tell him yourself. Haymitch says it out loud to her, yells it vindictively, and itâs hours, bottles, later before you prove him wrong.Â
âYou know she was doing this?â He pushes up from the kitchen table on shaky limbs.Â
âCourse I did.â You slip off the counter, black uniform nearly blending with the night. Â
Resentment is a treacherous thing; without a rhyme or reason Haymitch can name, it tints the way he accuses, âAnd you never stopped her.âÂ
âThereâs no stopping Lenore Dove. And itâs not like I can now. Or have you forgotten?âÂ
âI havenât forgotten,â Haymitch snaps, insides coiling as tight as your gaze. He stops right in front of you, backing you into the counter again. âHow can I? You wonât let me. You wonât leave me alone!âÂ
âIâll leave if you want.â You grin, tugging at the roots of his heart. âIâll go away like the others. Push me out that door, force me to leave, tell me you want me to.â The quirk of an eyebrow silently communicates go on then.Â
âSheâs being reckless,â is what he murmurs instead. Lenore Dove will go on fighting, go on trying to help him, despite being furious with him. Itâs in her nature, just as it is in Haymitchâs to have you stay.Â
âTake a look in the mirror,â 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. âLenore Dove is willing to die for her people, instead of expecting it the other way around.â Your nose brushes his, and Haymitch grows cold when he doesnât feel it, when he remembers the acidity of your poisoned blood. âYou think on that.âÂ
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.Â
Though heâs long since given up on telling time, Haymitch knows itâs 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, thereâs no risk of running into Lenore Dove.Â
Haymitch doesnât 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.Â
âToo late to run off now, boy.â Tam Amber stops him instantly. He walks around to porch steps, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief. âYou ainât subtle.âÂ
A dozen sharp-tongued quips come to mind, but thereâs no use for them. Tam Amber isnât someone Haymitch needs to swat âhe is not a fly on the wall or a gnat fretting over him. He isnât 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, âCame to give that back.âÂ
Tam Amber glances over his shoulder, to where Haymitch points his finger. He isnât 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 youâHaymitch staggers over a rockâlike that.Â
âYou donât give back a gift.â Tam Amber doesnât move to help, but he holds Haymitchâs gaze until his breathing steadies, eyes flickering down to his wrist.Â
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. Doesnât make it a gift just because you let him hold onto it. Fleetingly, he can hear you calling semantics, imagines the smile thatâd be playing on your lips, and buries the image under his shame. âIt was more of a placeholder than anything.âÂ
âLot of care was put into this placeholder.â
âWhich is why Iâm returning it.â Heâd take it to you directly if he knew where you were buried. Whenever he sets out to find you, heâs sent packing by your condemnation not to follow.Â
âSon,â Tam Amber starts gently, mournfully, holding out the bluebird in his direction, âif it was entrusted to you, it was a gift.âÂ
Why couldnât it have been Clerk Carmine who caught him? Heâd 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. âYouâll take better care of it than I ever could.âÂ
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?Â
Itâs 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.Â
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.Â
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 sheâs quick on her feet, tells him so and all he says in return is that sheâll need it. Flint has more confidence than heâd 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. Â
He bumbles over what to do for them, how to be there, and if thereâs even a point in trying. He isnât given access to the other victors or mentors the entirety of their training period. Heâs confined to the Twelfth floor except for occasions where his presence is required. The parade, after parties, the interviews.Â
Itâs then, in an empty hallway, on the way to the bathroom after outdrinking Chaff, that Haymitch runs into Mags.Â
Sheâs aged five years or so since the night of his ceremony, but sheâs mobile and steady in the way she approaches him.Â
Haymitch struggles over what to ask first. âAre youâ Is Wiressâ What happened?âÂ
Mags squeezes his hands, eyes darting up to a corner behind him. Right. They canât discuss this here. Maybe not ever.Â
âIâm sorry about your family,â she whispers, voice more hoarse than it once was. For what comes next. Mags doesnât 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. âYou did everything you could.â
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 doesnât understand, but she does. To whatever extent.Â
He accepts the lie and falls into her arms. Â
How longâs it been since heâs been held like this? Out of kindness and comfort. The touch of Capitol citizens doesnât count. It comes in passing, with a million strings, and they feel theyâve earned every one. Running a hand up his arm, down his back, across his hair. Like theyâre petting a dog, like heâs back in his much more literal cage. Â
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 heâs making Maysilee proud in some way, if not you.Â
The worst victor in the history of the Games. Shame it makes him the worst mentor, too.Â
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.Â
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 heâs ever known her to be. Haymitch only ever frequented her booth at the Hob with you and Burdock. Sheâs 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 thatâs why she volunteered herself for this.Â
âThere was a big display, exactly two weeks after the reaping,â she says in a quick, hushed tone once theyâve left the station. Theyâve amped up the Peacekeepers there, but they were pretty unmoved when Haymitch stepped off the train and bid them farewell with a mock salute. âThereâs been so much loss. Weâve all felt it.â She glances at him pitifully. âI never got to tell you at the funeralsââ
âWhat kind of display?â His patience for sympathies has run out, and heâs not in the mood to postpone getting back to you now. A month of cooing Capitolites and deathbound children and recaps of last yearâs âbest bitsâ have stripped him of his ingratitude for you.Â
Cindy clears her throat and checks over her shoulder, looping her arm through his. âBurning of flags, a protest against watching the Games, a riot. Peacekeepers traced it back to that Covey girl.â
âLenore Dove?â Haymitch stops walking, sobering up quicker than he has in months.Â
âShe incited that riot last year,â Cindy says, cautious. âThere was word she sparked one at the school before the tour, and, well, sheâs got a history.âÂ
âIs she on the base now?â Three arrests was pushing it, but four? Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber wonât be able to sweet talk or negotiate or beg her way out of this on their own. âI have to get to her. I gottaâI have toââ Haymitch sputters and pulls away from Cindy, who only tightens her grasp on his arm. âCindy, I swearââ
âHaymitch,â she sharpens, detaches from emotion, reassuming the no-nonsense woman sheâs always been. âItâs too late.âÂ
Cindyâs wrong. Lenore Dove canât beâwhat sheâs 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 sheâs not gone. Because Haymitch canât have killed her too. Because you will never, ever free him from this torment.Â
Gone are the hateful shouts that found him the night he hurled rocks at Burdock and tarnished Asteridâs 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.Â
They werenât. Arenât. But they feel a lot like mercy compared to this. Compared to your husk of a ghost.Â
Youâre devoid of anything real, angry as you are at him. Heâs betrayed you. Again. Is that all heâs good for? You ask him that, completely indifferent. Over and over, until his yesâs 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?Â
None whatsoever.Â
And yet, you insist he keeps it. Mangled and shrunken and booze-soakedâitâs not a heart worth carrying around but itâs the one Haymitch has earned himself. Along with his complete isolation from Twelve.Â
He gets Bascom Pie to deliver his hooch, leaves the money on the steps for him, and doesnât 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 Amberâs 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. Â
âWhere do you think youâre going?â
âDonât know.â Haymitch shrugs roughly, a splash of his drink landing on the dirt. âDonât care.âÂ
You whistleâitâs the most emotion heâs heard from you since the news of Lenore Doveâs execution. âSomeoneâs in a mood.âÂ
âAnd I wonder why.â He strides over a large branch and forces himself not to turn to you.Â
âIâm the one who should be upset.â You walk in step with him. âI got glass sticking out of my stomach, a dead cousin, and you to deal with.âÂ
Night distorts the woods. Trees appear like weapons and hooting owls sound like screams. âYouâre not dealing with me. Iâm putting up with you.â
âI told you to send me away, Haymitch,â you say calmly, and itâs nearly enough to stop him, âbut you havenât. Why?âÂ
âIâm telling you now,â he sneers, lingering on the taste of rotgut before continuing, âYou donât belong here.âÂ
âYou know what I think?â
âNo, but youâre gonna say it anyway.âÂ
âIt wasnât enough to kill me.â You sigh in tandem with the rustling wind. âYou need to make sure Iâm never free too.âÂ
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. âI donât want you to be free?â He digs his heels into the floor. âIâm the one stuck here, living with it!â The lidâs blown off completely, and shoving down all the horrible, hideous feelings is useless. âI tried to make things right. I tried to keep you alive. I wouldâve died to do it!â
Clouds obscure the stars above, making everything darker, crueler. Your eyes are plenty dark, more ruthless than indifferent as you say, âTrying doesnât absolve you of what you did.â You poke and prod at him with the way you stare at him now, a different yet equally disarming effect from your tender gaze. Â
âYou promised weâd be on even ground.â It couldnât have been that hard to take him with you.Â
âAnd you promised youâd stay with Wellie.â You seem pleased when he flinches. âIf you hadnât broken your promise, I wouldâve found my way back to you. Maritte never wouldâve had the chance to attack. I wouldnât have been poisoned.âÂ
âI didnât drop you on the glass,â Haymitch spits instantly, even as the words come out with a quiver, because his bones say that itâs true. So do his memories.Â
Your mouth curves up and outrage sparks your expression, but it doesnât cut Haymitch down. For once, heâs not looking to get a reaction out of you. âNo, you didnât. You want a prize?â
âI caught you. I made sure the poison never touched you.â But it did somehow, and now itâs in Haymitch. âI did everything I could.âÂ
Your laugh chills his lungs. âEverything for who, exactly? For me? For your ma and Sid? For Lenore Dove? Letâs cover all our bases, because it sure didnât start with the four of us, and it wonât end with us either.âÂ
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.Â
âWhy wonât you just stop?!â he chokes out, dropping like the strings attached to his limbs snapped right off. He yanks on his scalp in the hopes itâll distract from the pain the way the alcohol shouldâve. âJust stop!âÂ
You meet him on the ground, an unavoidable nightmare even after he clamps his eyes shut. âI died for you.â Heâs back in the arena, every turn of events stabbing at him as you echo, âLive with it.âÂ
Curling in on himself, Haymitch stews in his boiling blood. He bites down 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.Â
âIs that how you remember me?âÂ
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.Â
You donât try to ease or rile him. You donât expect him to feel anything more or anything less than what he does now. Itâs 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.Â
He waits to see if youâll repeat yourself, but you donât. Your nose bunches up.Â
âSunshine,â he murmurs, crawling on scarred hands and battered legs. The wracking of his shoulders stops him, suspends him on the floor until heâs forced to realize this is the worst crime he could commit against you. Disparaging who you are. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry.âÂ
You arenât there to hear it.Â
Youâll 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.Â
Why did he do that? Where was the punishment in being haunted by you?Â
Not in the woods, not in his house, not in his dreams when consciousness fades away. Youâve disappeared completely, and no amount of anesthetic can fix that, can bring you back to Haymitch. Doesnât stop him from drinking into the night, sleeping through the day, wandering every bit of Twelve youâve touched. Wherever you might be.Â
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.Â
His body collapses on wooden steps, and he swallows the last syllable of his scream.Â
A door opens, a soft hand presses against his temple, and low whisper commands, âGet him inside.âÂ
He smells berries and wet earth, and a trace of jasmine when heâs 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. âI wanna go home.âÂ
âOh, sweet baby,â she says, deeper than he remembers her voice. Closer to Mags, minus the rasp, but she couldnât possibly be in Twelve. âBurdock, bring the towels!âÂ
No, no, no.Â
âYouâre all right, son.â Sorrel settles Haymitch back down when he tries to scramble off the bed, careful.Â
Nothing is all right. âIt shouldâve been me.â His brain flails while his limbs sink into paralysis, subdued by a wet towel on his forehead. âIt was supposed to be me.â
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.Â
Youâre 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 Haymitchâs 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.Â
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.Â
âHow are you alive?âÂ
She acknowledges him with a hiss and a hop off him. She doesnât go far though, curling into a ball where his feet dangle from the edge of your bed.Â
Your bed, your room, yourâ
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.Â
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 nightâdust concentrates there like an incoming thunderstorm.Â
Moving his focus from the limestone on your windowsill, Haymitch hobbles to the corner.Â
He understands why the dust has migrated here. This is the only spot where the fire or the cold canât hurt him. Where the hearth is gentle and kind and unconditional in its love. Haymitch figures itâs whatâs kept the jacket warm and soft despite the coarse material and mismatched threads woven through repaired holes. His lungs protest, but he doesnât care to stop breathing it in, because beneath the flecks irritating his airway, itâs meadowsweet and fresh as rained grass.Â
Instinctively, hopelessly, Haymitch turns in search of you. Expects the lilt of your voice to ask if heâs coming along, to boast about climbing that maple tree.Â
Footsteps thud over his panicked gasps. âHay?âÂ
Haymitch pushes past Burdock, not caring about the dropped jacket, or the clatter it causes. Daylight says itâs mid-noon, but Sorrelâs in the kitchen with Barb Azure, calling after Haymitch when he whirs out the door. His daughter, his suit, his Sunday of restâis there anything Haymitch wonât ruin for your pa?
Victorâs Village has never been more welcoming. A warped embrace that jabs and cuts at him, but he gladly chooses it over your familyâs grace.Â
Lucidity is purgatory, and Haymitch is unable to stay in it for long. He doesnât savor and doesnât 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.Â
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.Â
âPeppermint oil,â Burdock supplies, mouth twisting to the side briefly. His hair isnât as long as yours was in those last days, and certainly not before the Capitolâs intrusion. But itâll get there, just past his shoulders now, before the mines demand otherwise. âFor the headaches.â
Haymitch turns around. Be it old habits or chipped armor, he doesnât fight when Burdock slips through the crack in the door. âI donât get headaches.âÂ
âYou will once we dump out the liquor.â
âWhoâs âwe?â Last I checked, this is my property, and I can do as I pleased.â Haymitch spins back to him and gestures between them absentmindedly. âAnd we arenât friends.âÂ
âYou canât go on like this,â Burdock reasons, jutting his head at the bottle in Haymitchâs hands, then at the filth loitered around the hallway. He sets down the syrup and oil on a lamp table. âDetermined to send yourself into an early grave.âÂ
âMy graveâs a year overdue.â Be a kind soul and bury me deep. âIâm catching up, and you best catch the exit before I send you through it myself.âÂ
Burdock breathes out. âIâm still not okay with it, what you did to Asterid, but Iââ He sounds so unusually lost, it sends a shard through Haymitchâs ribcage. âI didnât realize how bad it was for you until last night. Lenore Dove told me. I shouldâve seen it myself sooner, I just couldnât.âÂ
âShut up, Burdock.âÂ
âAnd I couldnât be around you without talking about it.â His confession hangs overhead, and he takes a step closer. âOr without feeling guilty for wanting her home.âÂ
You arenât the only one. âI said shut up.âÂ
âThat made it easier to ignore how you were struggling. I wonât anymore, though.âÂ
Every dull, dark corner of the room suddenly sharpens, and the wound youâve left blows right open. âShut up and get out!âÂ
Burdock snaps back, running on his own desperation. âIâm not leaving without a good reason.â
âWere the rocks too subtle? Need me to get your twin killed again?â Itâs a low, low blow, and it doesnât work on Burdock anyway. Itâd be easier getting a brick wall to listen than making strides with him.Â
âGive me the damn bottle and take the syrup, Hay.âÂ
Haymitch holds it out, lifting an eyebrow with a simple, taunting dare. Take it and watch.Â
Theyâve 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. Itâs 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. âWell, itâs all gone now! Happy?âÂ
âI know you got more,â 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.Â
âHow many times I got to tell you?!â Haymitch screams, chest knotting around his heart. âGet out!â
âNo!âÂ
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. âGet the fuck out!âÂ
âIâm not losing you, too!â Burdock yells, as fearless as the day he walked up to Haymitch and said heâd be his friend.Â
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. âDonât come back, Burdie.â He lowers the spout. âNeither of us needs to see her when we look at each other.âÂ
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 youâve 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 heâs searching for you, too. âCindy and Hemlock are getting hitched.âÂ
Haymitch blinks, oddly shocked more by the news than Burdockâs delivery of it. The bomb inside him diffuses briefly as he hears you scoff and sputter into laughter. Vivid enough to believe the sound isnât in his head. He gives Burdock his back and the response you wouldâve. âFinally decided theyâre in it for the long haul then.âÂ
âGuess so.â Thereâs a lapse in his response. The clink of something placed on the steps precedes Burdockâs heavy breaths. Despite himself, Haymitch looks over his shoulder. His focus falls first to the clump of charms. He feels Burdockâs gaze burrow into him as he murmurs, âI just see you, Haymitch.âÂ
Cowardice disallows Haymitch from watching Burdock take his friendship with him. Curiosity forces him to pick up his final kindness.Â
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 wouldâve 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.Â
In the dark, Haymitch canât 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.Â
Heâs 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 thereâs 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. Â
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.Â
A gust blows through the front door; Haymitch doesnât resist, panting and following its current to the ground.Â
He didnât think he had it in him to feel anything besides the guiltâhe hadnât in these weeks of your vanishing. Didnât think he could weep like this again after Lenore Doveâs death, but he surprises himself. There are more tears to shed; more to miss.Â
Consumed by the loss of your presence, how could Haymitch have known before now to mourn your stolen future?Â
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.Â
A/N: lenoreâs death in the raven is a mystery (my covey girls đ) so thatâs the symbolism in her execution happening prior to haymitchâs return. i also found itâd be worse for him to not be there for it. another thing to haunt him for years to come!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
a small reminder that Jill basically IS the uroboros (both in terms of the metaphor (abuse cycle ok?) and in terms of the fact that only thanks to her antibodies the uroboros virus was completed)
summary. You think guys that cook are hot.
pairing. John Tucker x Reader
tags. Fluff, crack-ish?
note. I did giggle while writing this at 1am.Â
ice time. 1.8k
You think that guys that cook are hot.
Thatâs basically the number one thing on your list of standards for a guy.
And if you add in, John Tucker, #46 of the Briar U hockey team, who not only cooks but does it wearing a pink apron with the kind of earnest, unbothered pride that should not be as attractive as it is â you can therefore conclude that Tucker is hot and totally your type.Â
Hannah and Allie are 100% aware of this fact, considering that they were there when you started massively crushing on the hockey player back in sophomore year, and were the ones who listened to you ramble about said hockey player early into the year when you found out he could cook.
Unfortunately, your two friends learning about this fact while also actively dating two guys in Tuckerâs own friend group meant that you were now in the unique and deeply unfortunate position of being perceived. Specifically, being perceived by people who knew Tucker, liked Tucker, and had absolutely zero reason to keep your little crush under wraps.Â
Allie, bless her heart, had lasted approximately three weeks before she'd accidentally let it slip in front of Dean that you thought Tucker was, quote, "disgustingly attractive and it's all because of the cooking thing." Dean, being Dean, had found this information deeply funny and had done absolutely nothing responsible with it, ultimately teasing you every time you and Tucker were in the same vicinity of each other, although thanks to Allie, had really did keep the teasing to just you. You still found the whole situation deeply mortifying.Â
The only thing keeping you from burying yourself in gravel and suffocating was the knowledge that Tucker, as far as you knew, had not been told. Yet.Â
You were choosing to believe the "yet" was still working in your favor.
It mostly meant that whenever Tucker showed up places that Hannah or Allie also happened to be, you developed an immediate and urgent need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Bathroom. Kitchen. The parking lot. You were adaptable. Very much so.
"You're not even being subtle about avoiding him anymore," Hannah had told you once, watching you physically reverse direction in the hallway when you spotted Tucker heading your way. "Like. At all."
"I'm being incredibly subtle."
"You walked into a trash can."
"I meant to do that."Â
She had given you a look that said, very clearly, that she did not believe you. You had chosen to ignore it on account of self-preservation.
The problem was that Tucker kept showing up. Outside the dorms when you'd come to hang out with Hannah and Allie. At the coffee shop near campus. At Malones â because you worked there and that was literally where the group hung out. At the rink when you'd come to watch a game and hadn't factored in post-game corridor hangouts. And every time, without fail, he was easy to talk to and warm and sincere in that genuine, unguarded way he had, the kind that felt less like a personality and more like a reflex â like being kind was just the thing he defaulted to, same as breathing.
It was even more annoying because he was always like that. Like the teasing from his teammates rolled right off him, and he just kept showing up with food and a good attitude and that small, steady presence that made you feel like whatever room he was in got a little calmer.
It was fine. You were fine. Everything was completely fine.
Which brings you here, to Hannah and Allie's kitchen, helping set up for a casual get-together that you had been assured would be small. Just a few people. Chill. Relaxed.
They were currently hosting eight people and counting, and Tucker's jacket was by the door when you arrived. Hannah had neglected to mention this when she'd asked you to come early and help with the food, even when you asked about the paper bag on the counter, which you later on learned was brought by none other than Tucker.
You were starting to think your friends were not entirely on your side, because the moment you arrived, Allie and Hannah started teasing you increasingly.
The thing is, you didn't know exactly when the conversation in the kitchen shifted to types in men (again), and your crush on Tucker. Which you tried very hard to keep his name as lowkey as possible. They find it amusing. You donât.
Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left. Â
Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left, humming something under her breath like she isn't the reason you're currently in this situation.
"So," she says, turning on the tap. "Hannah was telling me you nearly bolted out of the rink last week when Tucker walked into the corridor."
"I didn't nearly bolt. I had somewhere to be."
"You told us you had to go check on your laundry," Hannah calls from across the kitchen, not even bothering to look up from where she's arranging the snack bowls. "At eleven at night."
"Laundry doesn't have a curfew."
Allie snorts. You smooth the tablecloth aggressively.
"Can we not do this tonight?" you ask, with as much dignity as you could muster. "There are guests."
"There are guests because we invited them," Allie says pleasantly. "Including Tucker, who brought ingredients and is currently grabbing something else and will be back in a few, which I know you clocked the second you walked in."
You had, in fact, clocked it the second you walked in. You say nothing.
Hannah finally looks up, the picture of innocence. "You know, it's kind of impressive how much energy you spend avoiding someone you claim to just have a small crush on."
"It's a normal-sized crush."
"You once left through a fire exit."
"The regular door was blocked."
"By Tucker saying hi to you."
A pause. You smooth an already-smooth section of tablecloth. "It was a crowded hallway."
Allie turns off the tap, reaching for the dish towel with the serene expression of someone who is deeply enjoying herself. "All we're saying is that it might be time to, I don't know, exist in the same room as him for more than four consecutive minutes."
"I exist in the same room as him all the time."
"Without a planned escape route," Hannah amends.
You open your mouth. Close it. The tablecloth is extremely smooth at this point. You are doing a great job with the tablecloth.
"My type," you say finally, pivoting with what you feel is remarkable, amazing, grace, "is simply guys who can cook. That is a completely reasonable standard."
Hannah rolls her eyes at you, turning to set down a bowl of snacks while you finish wiping the counter. "Your type is guys that can cook."
âAnd? I think cooking is hot.â You miss the way Hannahâs eyes drift past you to someone behind you, busy wiping down the counter as you shrug. Your increasing embarrassment had made your tongue loose, and you had in fact given up on being vague. âWhy else do you think I like Tucker?â
âOh?â The voice behind you makes you freeze. Your hand stiffens on the tablecloth, eyes widening as youâre now suddenly acutely aware of the warmth behind you. âIs that so?â
You look up, and Hannah has a hand over her mouth, amusement dancing in her eyes as she speaks to you through your head.
"Hannah. Help me."
"Nah, girl. You got this. Go you."
Fingers gripping the tablecloth, you plaster a smile on your face and slowly turn.
Behind you stands Tucker, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at you. "Hey, Name."
Your cheeks warm. You are pretty sure that you are the definition of a tomato at this point as you clear your throat in an attempt to be nonchalant. "Heeey, Tuck."
His grin only widens, arms crossing over his chest. "So." His brow lifts, and you swallow. "You think I'm hot?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"I think," you say carefully, in the measured tone of someone carefully disarming a bomb, "that the cooking thing is hot. Objectively. As a concept."
"Uh huh." He doesn't look even remotely convinced, which is deeply unfair considering he's the one who snuck up on you. "And I cook."
"Lots of people cook, Tucker."
"Do they cook as well as me?"
You pause. And the horrible, traitorous, honest part of your brain supplies: no, actually, because you'd had his cooking twice now, once at a team dinner Allie had dragged you to and once when he'd brought food to the apartment for no stated reason, and both times it had been genuinely, annoyingly, unfairly good.
"That's not the point," you say.
His smile tips into something a little softer, a little more knowing, and somehow that's worse than the teasing. He takes one step closer, enough that you would have to actively crane your neck to look away from him, and doesn't say anything for a beat.
"I'll cook for you sometime," he says finally, like it's easy. Like he's offering to lend you a pen. "If that's what it takes."
You stare at him.
From somewhere behind Tucker, you hear Allie make a noise that she unconvincingly tries to smother with a cough. Hannah, you suspect, is still standing at the counter with that same hand over her mouth.
"That," you say slowly, "is the most confident thing anyone has ever said to me."
Tucker shrugs, that easy grin back in place. "I'm a confident guy."
"You're a menace."
"You think I'm hot."
"I think your cooking is hot."
Tucker laughs, saying your name in a way that makes your stomach flip as he tilts his head, and there's something warm in his expression underneath all the amusement. "Same thing."
You look at him for a long moment. He looks back, patient, like he has all night and fully intends to use it.
"Fine," you say, because apparently self-preservation has fully left the building. Your face feels like a furnace, and you are hyper aware of every little sound Allie and Hannah makes behind you, plus thawing Tucker this close to you. "Yeah. Okay. I think you're hot."
The smile that breaks across his face is, genuinely, a little devastating.
"Cool," Tucker says. "I'll text you about dinner. This week?"
You're pretty sure your soul briefly vacates your body.
"This week," you hear yourself agree.
He nods, satisfied, like that's settled then. He glances over his shoulder at Hannah and Allie, who are both staring with the barely-contained energy of two people who have been waiting for this for approximately two years. "Ladies." Then, back to you, quieter, "Talk to you later?"
"Yeah. Yep. Sure." you say, a little helplessly.
Tucker smiles. Then he's heading back toward the living room, and you are left standing in the kitchen, gripping the tablecloth, staring at the middle distance, smiling widely.
A beat of silence.
"Look at you!â Hannah says loudly, while Allie rounds the counter to throw her arms around you, giggling at your still flushed face.
"I hate both of you," you tell them, but the smile on your face doesnât fade.
Katniss please tell me what was the reason for kissing a boy you only knew for a day on the cheek, when you hate touching or being touched by people youâre not close to? And why did Finnick and Gale not receive this treatment when you were annoyed at them when you first met them?
summary. Nicknames catch on really quick in your group of friends. And for you, you have been dubbed the Mama to Tuckerâs Papa.
pairing. John Tucker x Reader
tags. Fluff, Friends being friends, I have no idea if this is ooc or not, but I tried</3
ice time. 2.7k
Usually, you wouldnât have minded.
Nicknamed are big in your group. Hannah first became Han-Han to you and Allie, and then later on, Wellsy, when Garrett joined the picture. Allie was Als, then Allie-Cat from Dean, and you were called multiple variations of your name by your two best friends before another one clicked.
And this one was Mama.
Sometimes Mom. Most of the time Mother.
And really, it made sense. You more often than not took on the caretaker role. Designated Driver during parties, the friend who prepares tea and hangover soup the next morning. The one that would be at home in the kitchen than anywhere else.
You really wouldnât have minded.
If it didnât mean that being Mama was having a Papa to be paired with.
And that Papa, was none other than Tucker, hockey player, anchor to the boysâ group, and resident cook of the house. One of your closest friends after Hannah and Allie, and most of that stemmed from both of you bonding over your very nurturing characteristics.
Dean started the whole thing.
It happened on a normal Friday night. Everyone had chosen to hang out that night, with the idea of movies, dinner and a few drinks. Soft music came from the living room while Hannah and Garrett argued over the movie considering it was their turn to pick that night. The rest were out on a beer run, and dinner fell on you and Tucker, as it usually did.
Tucker stood beside you at the stove while you chopped vegetables.
Neither of you had actually planned on cooking together.
It just sort of... happened. It was Tuckerâs turn that night, and when you got tired of waiting in the living room, you got up and headed to the kitchen.
âHey.â You sat on one of the stools, leaning forward as you watches him prep. Tucker looked up, and smiled. âHey. You got bored?â
âYeah. Doomscrolling while Han and Garrett argued over whether to pick a romcom or a horror movie was amusing only for the first ten minutes.â
Tucker snorted. You watched him grab a pan. âNot surprised. So, you decided to head here?â
âI think Iâd much rather be here than there at the moment.â You chuckle. Then you eye the vegetables on the table. âWhat are you preparing?â
âMac and Cheese. Probably a lot of it. Andââ He gestures over to the vegetables. âSomething with those. I havenât decided yet.â
You hum, tilting your head. âNeed help?â
His head snaps up to you, brow raising. âYou donât have to. Itâs my turn tonight.â
âYeah, but I want to.â You shrug, sliding off the stool to take the knife from his hand. âNow scoot over, you work on the Mac and cheese and whatever thing youâll do, Iâll handle the prep.â
Tucker grins, letting out a laugh before moving to the stove. âYes maâam.â
Sometime in the middle of it, you settled in a familiar, but also not familiar routine.
You handed him ingredients before he asked for them. He moved aside before you needed the space. You knew exactly where he kept everything, and he knew exactly how much seasoning you liked adding.
At one point, Tucker held out his hand behind him without looking.
You immediately placed the spatula into it.
And Dean happened to walk in at that exact moment, arms full with six packs.
Both your heads snap up, at the sound of someone entering, Tuckerâs hand still holding the spatula, and your arm still outstretched in the middle of handing it over.
The silence lasted three seconds, before a shit-eating grin spread on Deanâs face. âOh my god.â
You and Tucker blinked at him
"What?" Tucker asked.
Dean stared.
Then he puts the six packs down on the counter, and pointed between the two of you again, the grin on his face not at all wavering.
âYou guys are literally likeâ Mom and Dad.â
You make a face. âDean, what the hell are youââ
âNo, like. I mean, I did comment on it to Allie-Cat about how you two seem to have this flow in the kitchen but seeing it happen just solidified the whole thing.â
âYouâre being weird, Di Laurentis.â Tuckers laughs, turning his attention back to the sauce, stirring it with the spatula while you work on what you decided to be coleslaw. You nod along, but Dean shakes his head.
âIâm serious. Wait Allie-Cat,â He calls for Allie who pops her head up from the couch she flopped onto the moment they returned from the beer run. âAgree with me here.â Dean gestures to you and Tucker. âMama y Papa.â
Allie blinks, then grins. âYeah, I see it.â
Dean looks back at the two of you. âSee!â He points at you. âMama.â Then to Tucker. âPapa.â
âDean.â You groaned.
âNo, no, it works.â Hannah piped in from her place next to Garrett. âI mean, we already call you Mom as a joke. And Tucker is Dad here. It just works.â
âOh my god.â You sigh, and turn to Tucker, who doesnât seem like he has a problem with the whole thing, grinning in amusement when he met your gaze.
âSo, weâre calling them Mama and Papa now?â Logan interrupts as he heads down from, looking between the kitchen and living room. He eyes you and Tucker, before nodding. âI can roll with it.â
The nickname stuck, and spread in the friend group like a highly contagious disease. And with the nickname came the teasing.
-
âOh good, Mama brought snacks.â You looked up from unloading grocery bags onto the counter to find Hannah already reaching for the chips.
"Hannah."
"What?" she asked innocently.
"You are twenty-one years old."
"Yeah."
"You can buy your own snacks."
"Why would I do that when Mama always remembers?"
"Han-Han."
"Love you too, Mother."
Across the kitchen while unloading the other grocery bag, Tucker tried not to laugh as loud at the incredulous look on your face.
You kicked his shin.
He ended up laughing anyways.
-
Then there was the movie night incident.
Everyone had crammed themselves onto the couch, fighting over blankets and snacks.
You'd gotten up to grab more popcorn, and when you returned, your spot had disappeared, because Dean just moved slightly to your spot, and you stared at him.
Dean only grinned, patting the spot where he once sat, which is conveniently, next to Tucker.
You glowered. âDean.â
He grinned wider. âSit beside Dad, Mom.â
You froze, and you catch Tucker visibly stiffen, his eyes flickering to you, then to Dean.
Dean looked between the two of you.
"What?"
"Dean," you warned.
"What? Married couples sit together."
"We are not married."
"Yet."
Your friends just exchange grins and teases, your face immediately going hot. You glance at Tucker, and ignored the way your stomach flipped slightly when he met your gaze, before burying his face in his hands at another tease.
He groaned into his hands. "You people are unbelievable."
This time, it was your turn to smile in amusement at his reaction.
Things only escalated by the end of the month with the road trip, which was a six-hour drive to a neighboring city for a random weekend getaway.
You had volunteered to drive the car, and Tucker offered to sit at the front and switch with you when you were halfway.
It was reasonable, so you agreed, and when the day came, it was Dean (again) who made a huge deal about it.
"Oh look."
"Dean." Tucker was the first to give Dean a pointed look while you sigh in the driverâs seat.
"The family car."
You eye him. "Dean."
"Mama and Papa taking the kidsâ"
"DEAN."
Needless to say, by the time you reached the hotel, your patience was hanging by a thread.
Tucker, unfortunately, thought your annoyed face was hilarious.
"You know," he said as the group unloaded bags, "you get this wrinkle right here when you're mad."
You stared.
He poked between your eyebrows, his grin widening when you nearly slapped his hand away.
"Youâre testing my patience.â You glowered.
His grin widened, and he nudged you. "Iâm just pointing things out.â
âI hate you.â
He shut the trunk door, and grinned. âNah. You love me.â
Something in your chest tightens. You choose to instead huff and ignore the feeling, turning on your heel just as Logan comes by to grab the other bags.
-
Months passed, and you thought the joke would have died down along with it.
It kind of did. Because the joke stopped being a joke.
People stopped questioning it. Everyone stopped laughing every time, instead treating it like it was normal.
And it did, because at some point, becoming the Mom and Dad of the group became normal.
It became a fact. An accepted thing.
Which somehow made it ten times worse, because somewhere along the way, the joke stopped feeling entirely like a joke.
At least to you.
And judging by the way Tucker sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attentionâ
Maybe not to him either.
You didnât know when you started liking him. When it stopped being just a nickname to you. But you could pinpoint when things really started to change between you and Tucker.
It was another Friday night gathering.
Another Friday night where you find yourself in the kitchen with Tucker. Usually, youâd have the others clean up while you lounge in the living room after making dinner, but after another round of jests that Logan started this time:
âYou both are disgustingly domestic. Just get together already.â He points out.
Grace, new to the group but had already caught on and was definitely in on the whole thing, nodded along. âItâs cute. Like youâre married and all.â You didnât shoot them your usual pointed glares, instead opting to look away, but Logan caught the flush in your cheeks and, like Dean, made a huge scene about it enough to get the attention of the others.
âOh my god youâre blushing.â
Allie looked at Tucker, and grins. âTuckerâs blushing too!â
âOh my god this is new.â Dean cackles.
You sent them all out for snack and beer runs so that the house would be quiet from all their jests, but you didnât think ahead far enough because now youâre alone with Tucker.
The silence between you in the kitchen is usually comfortable. Familiar. Easy.
But tonight, its different. Heavy and awkward, like the all of the teasing finally settled into something more real between you two.
You curse yourself for not thinking ahead, busying your hands with drying a plate. Tucker was putting the dishes away, and it was silent for a long time (a minute), until he finally broke it with by clearing his throat.
âSo.â
At the same time, you also decided to break the silence, and looked up to face him. Both of your faces were flushed, embarrassment obvious on either of your faces.
âSo.â
You both stare at each other for a brief moment, before you both burst into laughter.
The tension cracked immediately.
When the laughter dies down, Tucker nervously shrugs at you, shifting his weight. âSo, like, you donât mind?â
âMind what?â You blink at him.
Tucker rubs the back of his neck, and gestures vaguely. âWell. The whole⊠Mama, Papa thing.â
You stare at him, before letting out a shy laugh. âNo. Not really. I donât mindâŠâ
âYou sure?â He eyes you for a moment, and the seriousness in his gaze makes your stomach flip. âI mean, I could always tell them to back off.â
You shake your head. âNo.â
âNo?â A brow raises.
âNo.â
He meets your gaze, and you swallow. âI mean, I donât mind.â You look down at the dishtowel in your hands, and mumbled quietly, âI think itâs cute.â
The silence that followed was deafening.
When you dared glance up again, Tucker was staring.
Not a hint of amusement or anything close to teasing in his gaze. Then he smiled.
It was soft, and dangerous, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest.
âYeah?â He hums, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity makes you want to hide, but instead, you try to cover up the way your heart is pounding by looking away and grumbling, âDonât make me repeat it.â
His grin widened. "I wasn't gonna."
"Liar."
"Maybe I was."
You rolled your eyes.
He laughed, and you lightly swing the dishtowel at him, earning an offended gasp and a âHey!â from him. Your grins donât exactly fade as you went back into the routine of wiping and putting away the dishes again, but something new has settled between you.
Something warm. Something hopeful. A quiet understanding about something that has been brewing there for months.
Dean noticed first. Of course he did. But it was mostly because neither of you were very good at hiding things. Or that neither of you was exactly hiding anything.
Tucker started sitting beside you more often, and you always saved the seat next to you.
He'd bring you coffee, meeting your outside your classes to walk you to your next one.
Sometimes, you'd drop by to bring him food.
You'd steal his hoodies. He'd let you.
Dean pointed it out to Allie. Allie told him to let it happen.
That wouldnât stop him from commenting on it when he recognized the hoodie you were wearing after Hockey practice and you tagged along with Hannah and Allie.
"You guys are disgusting."
"Donât be such a hypocrite, Dean." You poke at him. He scoffs, but doesnât deny it. I mean why would he deny it, when Allie herself is wearing his hoodie?
You grin, "Exactly."
The funny thing is that neither of you were explicitly going out. No confession, no formal talk. It was just an understanding that settled after that one night, though you did think about actually doing the whole confession thing.
But it seemed like Tucker thought the same thing.
Because just a few days later, sometime around the early afternoon. It was just you and Tucker. A simple invitation to hang out, making lunch and all that.
You were helping Tucker clean up. Again.
Because apparently that was your thing. He was drying dishes. You were washing them.
Routine. Something normal. Comfortable.
"You know," Tucker suddenly said.
"Hm?"
"I think Dean might actually pass out if we started dating."
You nearly dropped a plate, glancing at him with squinted eyes.
"Tucker."
"What?"
"Tucker."
His laugh was warm.
You shook your head, but despite yourself, you smiled. âHe would. Definitely.â
The room went quiet.
You glanced over.
Tucker was already looking at you.
The smile slowly faded from his face. Not like in a bad way, just in a manner that was softer. Serious.Â
Your breath hitches. âTuckerâŠâÂ
He steps closer, âIâm not saying this because of the whole nickname thing.â He murmurs. âIâm saying this because I like you, and I'd really like to date you. If you'd let me.âÂ
The plate nearly slipped from your hands, but he catches it, setting it down in the sink. His gaze doesn't stray from yours, and you can feel your face heat up. "Tuck."
"Yeah?"
Your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest.
"You have really terrible timing."
His grin returned.
"You saying no?"
You stared, then tilted your head back and laughed. A beat, and you shake your head with a chuckle, "No."
His expression softened immediately.
"No?"
"No."
The smile that spread across his face was blinding.
âThis confirmation that I get to call you my girlfriend now?â You grin.Â
âYeah.â And when he leans in, you tilt your head up in response. It's gentle. Careful, and youâre both smiling into it, and just as you pull away, you couldn't help thinking that maybe Dean had been onto something all along.
The next day, you walked into the hockey house holding Tucker's hand.
The silence lasted long enough for everyone's gaze to flicker from your joined hands, then back to you.
âAre you guys actuallyâŠâ Hannah tentatively asks, pointing from you to Tucker.Â
You nod. He just smiles, simply squeezing your hand tighter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Mama and Papa finally got together," Dean announced dramatically.
You just laugh, finding a seat on the couch. Tucker instead pulls you onto his lap, smiling widely, and for the first time since the nickname startedâ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
the difference in hunger games narrators is so funny to me like this is our starting lineup
katniss: i go to a place and do a thing using a skill. also everyone hates me. oh you want to know more about myself? here are four straight paragraphs just describing food instead.
haymitch: so the bakerâs in love with my best friends girl and my girlfriendâs uncle is gay and secretly dating the town window-fixer and sheâs actually related to lucy gray and has beef with the mayors daughter who bullied me and her social security number isâ
snow: everyone here is UGLY and OBNOXIOUS and TACKY and I Am God.
There are degrees to owing people. A borrowed pencil equals a seat at lunch. Covering for someone with a teacher means theyâre indebted until the end of the school year. Now, if the stakes veer into life or deathâsay, a rescue from the Peacekeepers or a meal for oneâs familyâitâs a guarantee theyâll be paying that debt until theyâre rested in their grave.Â
Itâs just the way of things. When someone does you a kindness, you return it. No one wants to live with anotherâs good deed hanging over their head. Every one of them is already working off their own dues.Â
Haymitch reckons hanging out with a bunch of merchant brats falls somewhere between an alibi and saving a life. So, Burdock owes him big time.Â
This was only meant to be a quick drop in, but Burdock and Asterid are still going on about the healing properties of honey. He roped Haymitch into following him to her lunch table. Apparently, what he had to give Asterid couldnât wait until after school. Technically, you and Burdock are now allowed to trade without Sorrelâs supervision. But Burdock told Haymitch that your pa still sets parameters around where you can go until youâre a little older. Because haggling at the Hob requires a special skill set, the two of you are really only allowed to deal with the merchants.Â
Burdock has a particular affinity for the apothecary, and more importantly, who helps to run it. He found a crop of chamomile when he and Haymitch were forging just yesterday. Perfect for Asterid, Burdock claimed.Â
âChamomile helps with nerves,â he told Haymitch, carefully pocketing the tiny flowers. Â
Asterid doesnât seem like the nervous type. Quiet and modest, sure, but not anxious. She has the same self-assurance most merchant kids do, which says theyâve never had to worry about where their next meal is coming from. But sheâs careful with her words, kind with them, and that makes her a lot more likeable than her friends.Â
Scratch thatâmore likeable than Maysilee. She and Merrilee are normally the only friends Haymitch sees Asterid hanging around.Â
Thatâs not the case today. Merrilee isnât bad at least, and Othoâs a very quiet person too, if not awkward for his stature. Though he sure looks uncomfortable with half his ass hanging off the bench. He kept stealing glances at Burdock, more cautious than irritated, after he squeezed himself between Otho and Asterid. Haymitch should count himself lucky his bench corner is plenty spacious, the only other occupant being Oliver Schmidt.Â
They exchanged exactly three words when Burdock and Haymitch showed up to their table. Oliver doesnât resemble Otho much, but the two of them have been thick as thieves for years, and they both have brown eyes in a sea of merchant blue. So, Haymitch naturally broke the ice by asking, âYâall cousins?âÂ
Oliver smiled, shyer than Maysileeâs mocking grin from across him, reaching over to knock Othoâs arm with his fist. âSure.â
Not related then but as good as family.Â
Really, Oliverâs presence next to Haymitch is pretty easy to forget, and he takes it Oliver feels the same, being heâs also the only one actually paying attention to Asterid and Burdockâs chatter. Itâs mostly Burdock talking and Asterid chiming in occasionally. On this side of the lunch table, with a perfect view of you reading under the old oak tree, why would Haymitch care to keep up with them?
You sit crisscrossed in your still too big overalls, looking like a piece of the sky brought down to brighten the earth. The bookâs title is obscured by the distance and your knee. Haymitch isnât interested in the book though, more taken with your reactions to it than anything else. Not even a blowhorn could rouse you out of your concentration, or dim the wonder that makes the corners of your eyes go soft and round.Â
âYour sister likes those.âÂ
Haymitchâs head is on a swivel, turning away from you and to Oliver, who either doesnât notice or doesnât care about the pair of eyes drilling into him. He continues with that typical merchant assurance, âHas a real penchant for finding them.âÂ
He glances at Burdock and waits for his nod of agreement to turn into some kind of scorn against Oliver for talking about you instead of minding his business. When it doesnât, Haymitch slots into the conversation. âFinding what?â
âLimestone,â Oliver answers, and itâs the first time Haymitch realizes how calmly he speaks. âThe natural kind, not what they turn into gravel. She brought us a whole bunch with a blue hue to them when theyâre held in the sunlight. Thatâs rare to see.â He ducks his head, going cherry red and beaming like he just got told he can leave school early. âWe made a door knob out of that batch.âÂ
Well, good for Oliver. So you brought in a whole bunch of rocks for him and his family to make use ofâthatâs no reason to brag. You gave Haymitch a rock for his tenth birthday as a gift, not a trade.Â
Burdock snorts, his eyebrows pinching up with mild amusement. âIâm sure sheâd like to hear about that.âÂ
And now Burdock owes Haymitch for the rest of the year! Whyâjust whyâwould he tease Oliver like heâs got a real foundation to stand on with you, let alone encourage him to actually talk to you? You arenât friends with each other, and sure, Oliver seems harmless and friendly, but heâs got nothing in common with you. Besides the fact that you both ramble when prompted, or that he seems to care about things and people. Or that he knows about rocks, which Haymitch is beginning to notice you do too.Â
Otherwise, what would you even talk about?Â
Haymitch observes you again, then turns his attention to the doe-eyed glimmer in Oliverâs brown eyes as they focus on you. He feels spikes prodding inside his chest. âShe doesnât like when people stare.âÂ
Oliver quickly averts his gaze from you and blinks at Haymitch. âThen why are you staring?âÂ
âI wasnât staring,â he defends, because Oliver has no room to throw around accusations.Â
He shrugs, as calm as his voice. âIf you say so.âÂ
âAnd if I was staring, which I wasnât,â Haymitch sits up, âit ainât any of your business.âÂ
âYou told me to stop staring.âÂ
Haymitch could very easily tell him what Mamaw used to say about not bending to anotherâs mold, or something like that. Instead, he huffs. âYou gonna keep track of everything I say then?âÂ
âIsnât that what a conversation is?â Oliver doesnât cover up the bluntness in his tone. Haymitch tries not to add that to the list of things you and Oliver have in common.Â
âGood thing this oneâs ended.â Haymitch gathers up his trash and slides out of the bench.Â
His movement is enough to steal Burdockâs attention from Asterid. âWhereâre you going?âÂ
Itâs not on Burdock that Oliverâs gotten under Haymitchâs skin, but heâs irritated enough not to give him a straight answer, or to respond to Maysileeâs good riddance. âIâll see you after lunch.â
He tosses the napkin that came with his stale school bread in the trash on the path to the old oak tree. You donât acknowledge Haymitch until he slides down the bark beside you and stretches out his legs. He doesnât say anything either, letting you glance briefly in question then return to reading. Once you get the hint he isnât going anywhere, you close your book. âWhat are you doing?â
âPretty obvious. Iâm sitting down.â Haymitch leans his head against the tree, closing his eyes.
He hears the way your breath escapes in a sharp, irritated sigh. âI donât want you to.â
âYou know, itâs funny how you donât own this tree, and I can sit here if I want.â Clearly, Haymitch hasnât shaken off his own annoyance. He curls his fingers into the dirt and twigs beneath him. âInteresting book?â
You drum your nails along the spine, glaring at him like youâre trying to decide if you should address his snark with your own. Maybe you recognize his mood is in need of cheering, or maybe you donât have anything to hurl back for once. Must be the mood thing. You havenât been very cheerful yourself since Lenore Doveâs recent stint in jail. âItâs about plants.â
âI thought you already knew all there was to âem.â Least the ones that can be found in the woods surrounding Twelve. Sorrel did well to teach you and Burdock, and Burdockâs done Haymitch a favor by telling him some about them.
You shake your head, biting back a grin. âThis oneâs about beliefs, not facts. Different meanings people gave to plants. Or still do.â
âWhat kind of meanings?â
A moment passes before you crack the book open, turning to a page with the title Larkspur and a large picture of a bunch of colorful stalks. Haymitch scoots closer to get a better view. Thereâs all kinds of information, but you tap the bold letters that read July Birth Flower.
âLarkspur blooms all throughout summer, but theyâre brightest around July. I think thatâs why they were given to it.â You smooth the crease on the corner of the left page. âSays here they symbolized positivity in cultures of old, and summer weather is a positive thing.â Lifting an eyebrow at Haymitch, you say, âThat trait didnât rub off on you obviously.â
âThink that up on the spot, did you?â He points to the one front and center of the photograph, a dark blue shade with purple shadows in the middle of the petals. âI like the color of this one.â
You donât withhold your smile at his comment. âWhen my papaw was courting my mamaw, heâd take her larkspur every day âcause that was her name.â
Haymitch snickers. âCourting?â
âIt meansââ
âI know what it means. Just sounds like something a merchie would say.â Your eyes narrow coldly, and Haymitch lifts his arms in surrender. âSorry. Keep going, sunshine.â
A leaf breaks off the nearest branch and lands on top of the book. You pick it up along with your story again. âHeâd take her purple ones. On the day he proposed, he brought every color larkspur he could find because she was his true love, not just his first.â
âThe purple ones mean first love?â
âIâm sure it was just something he made up. She wore them in her hair for their wedding though. And they used the leftover petals to make ink.â
âThat sounds real nice.â Haymitch drags a stick across the dirt, tracing a halfhearted copy of the larkspur.
âI think so, too.â Your face is downright bashful, and for longer than he should, he thinks about the kind of flowers you might wear on your wedding day, which is weird because youâre years away from marrying anyone.
Jasmineâs a likely option, considering you were wearing some yesterday, the smell still noticeable from how close heâs sitting to you. You could also follow in your mamawâs footsteps. Haymitch imagines you both a little older, pictures that mix of blue-purple dappled in your hair, wonders if heâd even be invited to your wedding.
His pulse spikes up much like it did earlier, not at the worry over his invitation, but at the next natural question of who youâd marry. Someone kind and patient, hopefully, who could make you laugh, whoâd notice the important things. And because his mind is having trouble catching up to his body, Haymitch finds Oliver still sitting at the lunch table, glancing at you again. Unabashed and doe-eyed.
Haymitch breathes in deep when his jaw gives a painful click. âSunshine.â As you turn to him with remnants of that soft, round wonder in your eyes, Haymitch squashes all thoughts about Oliver Schmidt and his musings. âWhat does limestone look like?â
You explain in as much detail as you can, likely unaware of the glee emanating from you, until youâre all called back into class. On the way inside, once Burdockâs parted from Asteridâs friends and joined up with you, Haymitch doesnât care when Oliver sends a quick wave your way. Doesnât even notice when you wave back. And he most definitely does not trip over his own feet as a consequence of not looking at where heâs going. Got you laughing at him though, so maybe a winâs a win.