Happy Birthday
No Sunrise on the Reaping spoilers bc that book fucked me up and I need a happy ending for Haymitch.
Haymitch hated his birthday.
For obvious reasons, of course. Before winning the Games, it meant the Reaping and watching two neighbors be sentenced to death. After, it was just a reminder of what he had lost. And his only birthday gift was the boy and girl he’d watch die in the days to come. It had taken ages of prodding and several bottles to find out when his birthday even was. You were awash with guilt when he drunkenly answered the 4th of July.Â
Now, there was no Reaping. Still, every year, Haymitch insisted on nothing for his birthday. You asked every year anyway because you thought he deserved something special. And finally, when the memory of the Reaping and the Games are far enough away, Haymitch relents. Â
“Something small. Don’t throw me a whole damn party.”Â
His words repeat in your memory as you go through his kitchen. His house–or rather, your house with the amount of time you spend here–is still somewhat of a mess. But things are better than they were before. The bedsheets hung haphazardly to block the light are replaced with curtains and open for once. The pantry has real food in it now, not just alcohol. The many bottles littered across the house have turned into a semi neat pile on the counter.Â
You decide on cupcakes and a simple butter frosting. It wouldn’t be like Peeta’s, but it’s small the way Haymitch wanted. They don’t take long to complete and you’re finished before Haymitch wakes up. You hide them behind some pickled vegetables in the refrigerator you know Haymitch’ll never eat. Just in time, too, because Haymitch is coming down the stairs as you shut the door.Â
“You make me breakfast?” he asked.Â
“Just coffee,” you lie.Â
Like usual, you pour the fresh pot into mugs. Sugar and cream for you, black for Haymitch. You’ve noticed lately he skips the usual addition of a flask into his mug. Not that he’s sober–you’re sure he’ll never quit the bottle. Now it’s just to “keep the shakes away” and not a daily drowning of his sorrows. You like him better this way and you think he knows it, too.
Mornings are easier for the two of you. You fall into a comfortable silence while sipping coffee, and that’s how the rest of the day is. The summer heat makes both of you lazy. You water the garden. Haymitch feeds the geese. The rest of the time is spent sitting on the shaded porch, drinking cold lemonade from mason jars and wishing fall could come sooner. You don’t bring up the date so neither does Haymitch until late in the evening.Â
“You’ve got that look in your eyes again,” Haymitch said, looking at you sideways.
“What look?” you ask.Â
“Like you’re plotting something,” Haymitch replied.
You sigh because he’s caught you. Either you wear your heart on your sleeve or he’s more emotionally perceptive than he looks. Probably both. You tell him to stay put and disappear to the kitchen. When you return with the cupcakes, Haymitch doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t look upset, either.Â
“You said nothing big,” you shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. The truth was that you were hoping you didn’t step over some unspoken boundary. Haymitch takes the cupcake from you and eats half of it in one bite. He’s silent for a good minute and you’re sure you’ve screwed things up when he speaks.Â
“They’re good. Not Peeta’s, but they’re good,” Haymitch said.Â
Coming from Haymitch, that’s as much as as a thank you. You tap your cupcake against his as a cheers and eat them in the same easy silence you had at breakfast. The two of you sit on the porch until after the fireflies disappear and Haymitch’s finished with his last drink. In bed, when you whisper “happy birthday” and kiss his temple, Haymitch doesn’t hate his birthday as much as usual. It might be a reminder of everything he’s lost, but it was also a reminder that he still had you for another year. Even if he has to hold you a little tighter to make sure of it.



















