#thg x reader

You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”

What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?

Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.

A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.

“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.

The jabberjays heard it.

They swarmed.

Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.

Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”

But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.

You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.

Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.

You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"

And you believed it. You believed every damn word.

Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?

Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.

Now it was tearing apart.

You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?

You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.

You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.

You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.

But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.

A real voice.

“Hey. Hey, hey — breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Finnick.

You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.

"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"

“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”

You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.

“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”

Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”

“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”

Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.

“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”

“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”

You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.

The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.

You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.

"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.

He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.

Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.

Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”

You nodded against him, too tired to speak.

He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.

And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:

You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.

The walk was quiet.

Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.

Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.

“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”

You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.

He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.

“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.

He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.

The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.

Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”

You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.

“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.

You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.

He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.

Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.

His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.

Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.

You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”

Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”

You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.

“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”

His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.

"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.

Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.

“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”

Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.

“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”

You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.

You stopped at the edge of a small clearing, scanning the trees. You needed a place to sleep that wasn't a death trap. A cave was too obvious; the ground was too vulnerable. You looked toward a massive, ancient oak with low-hanging branches that disappeared into a thick crown of leaves.

"I'm going to scout the perimeter of that ridge," you said, adjusting the strap of your pack. "Stay here. Lean against that trunk and try not to pass out. Don’t wait up."

Peeta let out a short, dry laugh that ended in a wince, his hand flying to the bruised, matted hair at his temple. "Wait up? Sweetheart, if you think you’ll be going alone you must’ve hit your pretty head harder than I thought."

"I didn't hit my head at all," you snapped, though your eyes softened as you looked at him. He looked terrible—pale, smudged with dirt and dried blood—but his blue eyes still held that defiant, playful spark.

"Exactly. That’s my job," he said, pushing off the tree he was leaning on with a groan. He swayed for a second, then straightened his vest. "I’m the one with the concussion and the questionable survival skills. You’re the one who’s supposed to have the common sense. Leaving me here to be snacked on by a stray mutt while you wander off? Not great for the romance narrative."

"Peeta, you can barely stand."

"I can walk perfectly fine in a straight-ish line," he countered, stepping toward you. He reached out, his fingers grazing your arm, grounding you. "Besides, if the Careers find us, I can distract them with my winning personality while you run. It’s a foolproof plan."

You rolled your eyes, but you let him follow you.

The two of you picked your way toward the massive oak. It was the perfect spot—high ground, dense cover, and a view of the stream below. But as you reached the base, Peeta actually had the audacity to reach for the lowest branch, intent on pulling himself up to scout the higher vantage point.

"What are you doing?" you hissed, grabbing the back of his jacket. "If you try to climb that tree, I will freaking knock you out."

Peeta didn't even flinch. He just looked back at you over his shoulder, a lopsided, dazed grin spreading across his face. "I’m already concussed, I won’t even feel a thing."

You stared at him, deadpan, your hands on your hips. "You’re not making the point you think you are, Peeta."

He chuckled, the sound soft and genuinely warm, despite the circumstances. "Maybe not. But look at it this way: if I fall, the ground is soft, and you’ll have a very tragic story to tell Caesar Flickerman. It’s a win-win."

"Sit down," you ordered, pointing to the mossy roots of the tree. "Now."

Surprisingly, he obeyed, sliding down the trunk until he was sitting on the ground, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The bravado slipped for a second, and he let his head thump back against the bark, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You're very bossy in the arena," he murmured. "Back in District 12, you were much more approachable."

"Back in District 12, you weren't actively trying to survive every five minutes," you retorted. You knelt between his knees, pulling a small canteen of water and a clean-ish rag from your pack.

As you began to dab at the gash on his forehead, his eyes opened. He watched you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. It wasn't the look of a tribute looking at an ally; it was the way Peeta had always looked at you across the school hallway or from behind the bakery counter—like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

"You have a smudge of mud right there," he whispered, reaching up with a shaking hand to brush your cheekbone. His thumb lingered, warm against your skin. "Very tactical. Makes you blend into the scenery."

"Shut up," you whispered back, but you didn't pull away. You leaned into his touch, just for a second, letting the terrifying reality of the Games fade into the background.

"I'm serious," Peeta said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the sarcasm. "Thank you for finding me. I was starting to think the last thing I’d see was a very ugly rock."

"You're stuck with me now," you said, finishing with his wound and capping the canteen. "So you'd better start behaving. No climbing trees, no trying to fight Careers with bread-making metaphors, and no more fainting."

Peeta smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, turning them into chips of bright blue glass. He caught your hand, squeezing it gently.

"I'll try," he promised. "But I make no guarantees about the fainting. You’re very distracting when you’re being all heroic."

You felt the heat rise to your face, a ridiculous blush for someone currently being hunted for sport. You settled in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, as the first cannon of the night echoed in the distance. Peeta didn't flinch; he just shifted so his arm was draped around yours, pulling you closer into the safety of the shadows.

"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we find some actual food. But tonight? I think I'll just stay right here."

"Good," you muttered, resting your head on his shoulder. "Because if you move, I’m still going to knock you out."

"I know, sweetheart," he sighed happily. "I know."

The anthem of Panem blared through the hidden speakers in the trees, the triumphant, booming brass sounding jarringly out of place in the silent, oppressive forest. You and Peeta sat perfectly still, your eyes glued to the sky as the Capitol seal flickered into view against the dark clouds.

One by one, the faces of the fallen appeared. You counted them silently—five tonight. The boy from 3, both from 4, the girl from 9, and the boy from 10. Every time a face vanished, the woods seemed to grow a little colder, the silence a little heavier.

When the sky went dark again, the temperature didn't just drop; it plummeted. The Gamemakers were clearly turning up the dial on the nighttime chill to force tributes out of hiding and toward each other for warmth.

"Well," Peeta whispered, his breath hitching as a shiver racked his frame. "At least we aren't on that list. Though if the temperature keeps dropping, I might just freeze into a very handsome ice sculpture. It would be a great addition to the victory tour, don't you think?"

"Focus, Peeta," you said, though you were shivering too. You pulled a thin, waterproof sleeping bag from your pack—the only one you’d managed to snag at the Cornucopia. It wasn't nearly enough for two people, especially not in this artificial winter. "We need to get under the overhang of these roots. The dirt will hold some of the day’s heat."

You dragged the sleeping bag into the hollowed-out space beneath the ancient oak. It was cramped, smelling of damp earth and moss, but it was shielded from the wind. You spread the bag out, looking at the narrow space, then back at Peeta, who was watching you with an amused, albeit weary, expression.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, easing himself down into the dirt with a grunt of pain. "And yes, I’m aware that I’m taking up a lot of room. I’m a baker’s son; we’re built for sturdy caloric intake, not for squeezing into rabbit holes."

"Just get in," you muttered, your teeth beginning to chatter. "And watch your leg."

Peeta slid into the bag, and you followed, pressing your back against the rough bark of the tree roots and pulling the zipper up as far as it would go. It was a tight fit—tight enough that you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your shoulder and the heat radiating off his body despite his chills.

"See?" Peeta murmured, shifting so his arm was tucked under your head, pulling you flush against his chest. "I’m essentially a human space heater. It’s one of my many talents, right next to decorating cakes and winning over hostile crowds."

"You're also a human radiator with a concussion," you reminded him, resting your hand on his chest to steady yourself. "How’s your head?"

"Spinning," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, velvet hum near your ear. "But honestly? Being this close to you is a much better distraction than the medicine Haymitch hasn't sent yet. I think I prefer this treatment."

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The forest was alive with the sounds of predatory insects and the distant, haunting cry of a bird. Every snap of a twig made you stiffen, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife tucked into your belt.

But every time you tensed, Peeta’s grip on you would tighten slightly, a silent, grounding presence. He began to trace small, idle circles on your arm with his thumb, a rhythmic movement that was surprisingly soothing.

"You're thinking about something," he said softly. It wasn't a question.

"I'm thinking about how much I hate the color of the sky here," you confessed. "It’s not real. None of this is real."

"We are," Peeta said firmly. He shifted, wincing as his injured leg bumped against the side of the bag, but he didn't let go. "This—the way my arm is falling asleep because you're leaning on it, and the fact that you're probably going to elbow me in the ribs at least twice before morning—that's real."

You let out a tiny, breathy laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like sweat, dried blood, and the faint, lingering scent of cinnamon—a smell that shouldn't have been there but somehow always followed him.

"I won't elbow you," you whispered.

"Oh, you definitely will. You’re a violent sleeper; I saw you in the living quarters," he teased, his voice thick with exhaustion. "But I'll forgive you. Provided you promise not to leave me for a more coordinated tribute tomorrow."

"Peeta," you said, your voice cracking slightly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," he whispered, his breath warm against your forehead. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your hair, a gesture so natural and tender it made your chest ache. "Now, try to sleep. I’ll stay awake for a while. I’m too concussed to dream anyway—all I see are bright lights and very confused squirrels."

"You need sleep more than I do," you argued, though your eyelids were already feeling heavy.

"Sweetheart, if I close my eyes, I’m just going to think about how cold my toes are. Talk to me instead. Tell me something... tell me what you’re going to do when we get back. Aside from avoiding bakeries."

You smiled into the dark, the terror of the arena momentarily pushed aside by the steady warmth of the boy holding you. You began to whisper a story—a quiet, rambling plan about a house with a garden that didn't grow poisonous berries—and slowly, the tension bled out of both of you.

As the frost began to silver the leaves outside your hollow, you finally drifted off, tucked safely into the space between Peeta’s heart and the rest of the fake world you were trapped in.

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Haymitch’s grey eyes widened with shock. His face was full of pain and confusion and for a fleeting moment, another emotion you couldn’t quite decipher flashed in his bright grey eyes. 

You bit down hard on your lip, your vision blurry with new tears filling your eyes. 

This is stupid. 

You shouldn’t have said that - of course you shouldn’t have, because what did you expect him to reply? He was deeply in love with Lenore Dove, and you knew that. 

„I’m sorry“, you managed to get out between silent sobs, and then, because you couldn’t take this strained, loaded silence anymore, you turned around, ignoring Haymitch’s increasingly desperate pleas for you to stay. 

That wasn’t how you’d wanted your goodbye with Haymitch to go, but there was no point dwelling on that now, not when there were bigger things to worry about what with the Hunger Games only being a few days away.

In hindsight, you’re not quite sure how you made it through the following days. It was agony, this feeling of being trapped here in district twelve, all while your best friend was fighting for his life in the arena. Every day, you felt torn between not wanting to know anything about what was happening in the arena and obsessively following any news of the Games. 

You felt so angry and frustrated and helpless - and then, suddenly, it was all over. 

The Games were over and the victor was being announced. And it was none other than district twelve’s very own Haymitch Abernathy.

Though you’d soon come to learn that no one ever truly wins the Games. There are survivors, but there are never any winners. 

First, it was Haymitch’s family, his Ma and sweet little Sid. You tried to help them, tried to get them out of the burning house, and almost died in the fire yourself. It was Burdock that pulled you out of the flames just in time. 

And while you were still recovering, Asterid trying her best to nurse you back to health, Lenore Dove died. 

The moment you deemed yourself fit enough to make the walk over towards the victor’s village, you got up from bed, ignoring Asterid’s concerned protests. 

Yet when you arrived at Haymitch’s mansion, he was nowhere to be found. Determined to wait for him to get back, you sat down on the doorsteps, drawing your knees to your chest, and waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Night had long since fallen and he still hadn’t come back. 

But just when you were deciding to go looking for him, you heard the telltale sound of footsteps walking towards you. 

„You shouldn’t be here.“ 

You shouldn’t be here. 

The words echoing through your mind, you slowly got up from the ground, your fury building as you saw the calm and controlled expression on Haymitch’s face. You knew that expression, knew it far too well. Knew that it was the face he made whenever he wanted to seem distant and unfazed, but you could see the storm of emotion in his grey eyes, even as he tried to avoid your furious gaze. 

You shouldn’t be here. 

He’d almost died in the Hunger Games - his mom and Sid and Lenore Dove had died and you hadn’t seen each other in weeks, your last words to him had been an ill-advised, tearful confession of your true feelings for him, and this was the first thing he said to you? 

You shouldn’t be here. 

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, looking at Haymitch, who was standing a few feet away from you. 

„Haymitch.“ 

He sighed frustratedly, running a hand through his dark curls in distress. That’s when you noticed it - the almost empty bottle of liquor in his hand. So that explained the weird smell and the way his words seemed to have a slurred edge to them. 

„Haymitch, I-“

He interrupted you, saying your name. „I mean it. You really shouldn’t be here.“ 

„Haymitch!“, you burst out, crossing the distance between you two and reaching out a hand towards him, but he flinched, taking a step back from you. 

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, you could feel your eyes filling with hot, angry tears and you bit down hard on your lip, trying not to sob. 

„I don’t - I don’t understand“, you said, the words barely more than a broken whisper. 

Haymitch didn’t look at you as he walked past you. When he reached the threshold of his mansion, all he said was: „You should leave.“

And that was it - he didn’t even turn around again, didn’t even deign you with a look back, before letting the door fall shut behind him. 

Numb with shock, you stood rooted to the spot. 

What had just happened?

Sure, what with everything that had happened, you hadn’t exactly expected him to greet you with cheerful enthusiasm, but you hadn’t expected whatever this was. 

He hadn’t even looked at you, almost as if the sight of your burn marks was too much for him, too ugly to look at. 

Your best friend of almost ten years, and all he’d said to you was that you shouldn’t be here. 

„Fuck you, Haymitch Abernathy“, you said to the cold night air. 

But even though anger at his behavior was coursing through you, you were determined not to give up. Not when it was clear that he was grieving and deeply affected by everything that had happened during the Games. 

Not when it was clear that he needed someone at his side, someone to just be there for him, no matter how many times he told you to leave. 

Because even months later, long after his victory tour, with the next Hunger Games only a few more weeks away, you were still coming by his mansion regularly. 

The sight of Haymitch drunk and broken and helpless broke your heart every time you saw him, causing you to be even more determined not to give up. 

„You’re not going to get rid of me, Haymitch“, you told him the night before the reaping of the 51st Hunger Games. 

When he returned from the capitol some weeks later, the look in his eyes was even more haunted, the venom and vitriol in his words even more biting. 

„Just leave! Just leave me alone, I don’t want you here!“, he yelled, his chest heaving.

But you just shook your head, crossing the distance between you, until you were standing right in front of him and could feel his warm, uneven breath on your face. 

„No. I’m not-“

„Just leave me alone! I don’t want you here!“ 

He was still yelling. The bitter scent of his liquor colored breath hit you, and you could see the pain and fury written clear across his face, the unshed tears in his haunted eyes.

„I’m not leaving you, Haymitch!“

You’d raised your voice as well. You stepped even closer towards him, closing the last bit of distance between you so that your bodies were pressed flush against each other. 

You felt the heavy, uneven rise and fall of his chest, causing you to wonder whether he could feel the way your heart was hammering inside your chest as well. 

„If you even think for just a second that I’d just leave you alone-“

The rest of your words was swallowed by Haymitch’s lips. 

The kiss was rough and bruising and full of angry desperation. Haymitch tasted like liquor and tears and pain, and he was kissing you so hungrily, so desperately it felt as though he wanted to drown all of his sorrows in you. 

And you let him. 

That was how it all started - with both of you searching for an outlet for your grief and anger, trying to drown your sorrows in each other. 

It was rough and messy and even painful at times, especially when Haymitch would inevitably pull away from you again afterwards. Which he always did - one moment he was buried deep inside you, the wild and hungry look in his grey eyes holding you captive as he hooked your leg over his shoulder, the flint striker he never, never took off dangling from his neck, creating a barrier between you even in this incredibly intimate moment; and the next he’d be getting up from his bed, pulling on his shirt and reaching for a bottle of liquor again. 

At first, you tried to breach the barrier between you, tried talking to him, tried to address the fact that he was running through more liquor bottles than you could keep track of. 

But he always shut you out, again and again and again, creating impenetrable walls around himself, that you couldn’t breach, no matter what you tried. 

You didn’t understand it. One moment, his head was buried between your thighs or he had you positioned in his lap, his strong hands gripping your waist, guiding your movements as you moved up and down on his cock - but when it was over, he would always shut you out, always turn into this new, cold and cruel version of himself. 

But you knew that the old Haymitch was still in there somewhere, the Haymitch you’d fallen in love with all these years ago. And while you knew that what had happened to him in the Games and afterwards had forever changed him and that he’d never truly be the same again, you also knew that if your situations were reversed, Haymitch wouldn’t even entertain the idea of giving up on you. 

And so, you stayed, allowing him to break your heart with every kiss pressed to your neck, with every thrust of his hips, with every kiss that he denied you - because after that first time, he never kissed you again. His lips had explored nearly every inch of your body, except for your lips. 

Maybe it was too intimate for him. 

Maybe it should have been your sign that this was never going to work out the way you secretly still dreamed of. 

Because while you knew that for Haymitch this thing between you was just sex, for you, it was so much more than that.

Because even after everything that had happened, you were still in love with him. 

And now, almost seven years after that first ill-advised, inevitable night together, here you are. 

Your head thrown back in the pillows, your hands tangled in Haymitch’s dark curls as his head is buried between your thighs and he’s licking relentlessly at your folds, coaxing another orgasm out of your wrecked, spent body. 

His tongue hits that sweet spot inside you again and again and again and you can feel your vision blurring. Your grip on his hair tightens. 

„Haymitch, I - I can’t“, you try to plead with him. „I-“

But your incoherent mumbling turns into another loud moan when he presses his thumb to your clit again, his other hand splayed possessively over your stomach, holding you down as your hips attempt to buck up off the bed. 

You can feel your eyes filling with tears. 

It’s all so much, all so overwhelming.

Haymitch has already coaxed three orgasms out of you, first with nothing but his body moving against yours as he had you in his lap, both of you still fully clothed, desperately chasing the building friction between you. 

Then, his hand had found its way inside your underwear and he’d brought you to the brink of pleasure again in what felt like no time at all. 

By then, you’d already felt dizzy and wrung out, but the gleam in Haymitch’s eyes as he lowered your body down onto the bed and kissed his way down your middle told you that he was just getting started. 

Sometimes you think that he only truly comes alive during sex - which is a ridiculous thought, you know that. But then you meet his eyes again and see the wicked, dark gleam in them and-

„Fuck, Haymitch, I-“

The rest of your words is drowned out in an embarrassingly loud moan as a white hot wave of pleasure hits you. 

You tighten your grip on Haymitch’s dark curls and you think you can hear him release a strangled groan in response, but it’s all so much. You’re still coming down from your high, but the added stimulation of Haymitch greedily lapping up your juices has you writhing on the bed, trying desperately to buck up your hips. 

You’re a moaning, incoherent mess by the time Haymitch lets up.

Distantly, you register him moving up your body again, register the flintstriker dangling from his neck, brushing the skin of your collarbone as he presses an unusually tender kiss to your forehead. 

„Fuck, you’re amazing“, he says breathlessly, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. 

You can feel his erection pressing against your stomach, can feel the heavy rise and fall of his chest. 

Your gaze finds his again and the blissed-out haze in his grey eyes is so intoxicating, you find yourself reaching for his erection, stroking it slowly the way you know always drives him insane, despite how dizzy and exhausted you still feel. 

But there’s something so intoxicating about moments like these, something so irresistible about the way Haymitch is looking at you, his mouth falling open as you pick up the pace of your strokes.

It’s moments like these that always make you believe that maybe you can have more than just these stolen moments. 

Hope is a dangerous thing to have, you know that, but when Haymitch says your name again, his voice barely more than a strained whisper, you gather all your strength to move down his body, taking him in your mouth. 

And hearing the strangled moan Haymitch lets out makes it all worth it. 

It always does. 

Every time your broken, bleeding heart shatters when he inevitably pulls away from you again afterwards. 

Every time he shuts you out, again and again, hiding behind his walls. 

Every time he gets up from bed without a word or even a look back at you. 

In the end, they’re all worth it. 

Because there’s no better sound than Haymitch’s broken moans, no better feeling than pushing yourself past your own limits, taking him deeper and deeper, hearing him whisper your name like a broken prayer, feeling his hold on your hair tighten, his strained „Fuck!“, before he’s coming down your throat. 

You greedily swallow every last drop, watching him lose the fight against pleasure, his lips falling open, his features relaxing, his eyes rolling back. 

There’s no better feeling than the rush you get from seeing him like this, knowing that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. 

He might not love you back, might never return your feelings, but you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. You’re the only one who gets to see this side of him. 

It’s not what you want, not really, and it’s not what you’ve always imagined love to be like, but it’s all that he’s willing to give you. 

And if you can’t have his heart, you’ll take everything else he’s willing to offer you.

His grey eyes find yours again, the expression in them full of a pleasure drunk haze, and for the moment, everything else simply ceases to exist.

There’s only him and his gaze holding you captive, and the still burning desire between you two, despite the exhaustion catching up to you both. 

No words are needed. 

Not when you’re both still burning, frantically reaching for each other, desperate for more. It doesn’t take more than a few hurried, frenzied touches, and you’re in his lap again, sinking down on him, taking all of him in. 

You set a slow, punishing pace. 

His hands are gripping your waist, his touch burning your skin, and in the back of your mind you can’t help but wish for his touch to leave marks on your skin. Permanent ones, just like the handprint he’s left on your bruised heart. 

Your eyes meet. 

You’re so incredibly full, and there’s only Haymitch, his hands on your waist, his gaze burning into yours, his breathless, strained moans like a bittersweet symphony to your ears. 

Your name falls from his lips again, and then - 

And then - 

And then he leans forward, his lips finding yours in a desperate, bruising kiss. 

After, you fall back against the bed, your body completely spent. 

Your mind still in a frenzy, replaying that kiss you shared with Haymitch over and over again. The way his lips had moved against yours so desperately, the way it had felt as though he was trying to pour everything he’d ever left unspoken into the kiss-

You’re drawn out of your thoughts by Haymitch laying down beside you and reaching for the sheets, covering you both. 

He’s never done that before. 

Never. 

Usually, he either gets up immediately after, pulling on his shirt and leaving the room or he sits back against the headboard, reaching for a bottle of liquor. 

Never before has he stayed in bed with you, though. 

He doesn’t reach out for you or cuddle you to his side, doesn’t do anything to acknowledge your presence, really, except for pulling the sheets over both your bodies. 

And maybe that is enough. 

At least for now. 

Something shifts in the dynamic between you and Haymitch after that. 

It started with the kiss and him staying in bed with you after you’d slept together. Of course, Haymitch is still Haymitch - you can still feel him pulling away whenever things get too emotional, too real. 

But some things are different. 

Now, whenever you sleep together - which seems to be happening even more than before, now that you think about it - Haymitch usually stays with you afterwards. More often than not, he just pulls the sheets over both of you, falling asleep some time later without saying anything else to you. 

But there’s this one time where you’re so desperate for each other that you don’t even make it back to the bedroom of his victor’s mansion and you end up pressed against the cold tiles of the shower in his bathroom. You just wanted to take a shower after wearing yourself out with Haymitch last night - these days it also feels as though you’ve quietly moved into his mansion, you can’t even remember the last time you’ve slept in your own bed in your family’s house in the Seam - but then Haymitch entered the bathroom and one thing led to the other. 

Now, your body is pressed against the cold tiles of the shower stall, as Haymitch enters you from behind, one arm slung across your stomach, pressing your body against his, the other working on your clit, the added stimulation to the hard, punishing pace he’s setting making you dizzy, leaning back even more against him. 

There’s no other sound but that of the water still running, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the wet, squelching noises he coaxes out of your cunt, mixed together with the high, breathy moans that leave you. 

„Fuck, Haymitch, I can’t-“, you whimper, your words turning into yet another loud moan.

Blindly, desperately, you reach for his hand that’s still slung across your stomach, interlacing your fingers together. 

„Fuck, that’s it“, Haymitch groans when he can feel you tightening around him. „That’s it.“ 

Something about the way he says your name, his voice breathy and full of pleasure, combined with his hard, punishing thrusts, breaks you and you squeeze his hand as pleasure overtakes you. 

You throw your head back, pressing yourself against him, and then your eyes find Haymitch’s. 

And he doesn’t let go, squeezes your hand back, doesn’t take his eyes off of you, as he comes inside of you, his grey eyes still dark and hungry with lust searching yours. 

It’s so intense, so new, so real that you come again right then and there, your lips falling open, an embarrassingly loud, broken moan escaping you. 

„Fuck“, Haymitch breathes, and then he’s pulling out of you, and you barely register him coming all over your stomach as he turns you around in his arms, his hands landing on the small of your back, as he hugs you to him. 

You wind your arms around his neck, your head falling into the crook of his neck. 

You’re not quite sure how long you stay like this, pressed against each other, the water still raining down on you, quietly shaking in each other’s arms. 

Eventually, Haymitch turns off the shower, scooping you up in his arms and carrying you over to the edge of the bathtub, where he gently rubs you dry with a soft towel, before giving you the shirt he was wearing earlier. 

It’s ridiculously oversized on you, but you can’t complain, not when it feels so soft and worn and smells like Haymitch. 

Haymitch, who’s still kneeling down on the floor before you, his eyes finding yours again. 

There’s a bright, intoxicating gleam in his eyes, and despite how tired and spent you feel, you find yourself nodding, your hands tangling in his dark curls as he buries his head between your thighs. 

Later, he carries you over to the bedroom again, gently lowering your body down on the mattress. He doesn’t say anything as he gets into bed beside you, he just reaches for you, slinging one arm across your waist, drawing your body in against his. 

Slowly, tentatively, you reach out your hand, but his open hand is already waiting for you. 

Interlacing your fingers together, you close your eyes, and fall asleep almost immediately, exhausted and spent as you are. 

You don’t notice Haymitch’s grip on you tightening, don’t notice him closing his eyes as he presses a soft kiss to your neck, don’t notice his heart beating wildly in his chest as he realizes that he’s completely defenseless when it comes to you and his feelings for you - feelings that he’s seemingly not able to fight against any longer, despite trying his best for years to keep them buried deep, deep down, to not let you into his heart, to keep you away and locked out-

It’s no use, he realizes, his heart lurching. 

Because try as he might to keep you away, to scare you off like he did with everyone else, you’ll always be there. 

Because you’re you and you’ve always been there for him. He’s tried pushing you away time and time again, and yet - you’ve always found your way back to him.

To each other.

Unconsciously tightening his grip on you, he realizes with a sudden, frightening clarity that the prospect of you not being there anymore scares him more than the thought of finally letting you in, of really breaking down his walls for you. 

Fuck.

The next morning, you wake up in Haymitch’s arms. 

He’s stopped wearing the flint striker. 

You don’t really notice it, until one day, you see it laying on his bedside table and the sight of it has you freezing in your tracks. 

And then it hits you - you can’t remember the last time he wore it. 

He used to wear it all the time, and the sight of it was so ingrained in your thoughts that it almost seemed like a physical manifestation of the walls he’d built around his heart. 

And now, for him to not wear it- 

You don’t know what to make of it. 

Which is why Haymitch finds you, still rooted to the spot and staring at the flint ststriker in cold fear minutes - really, how long has it been, you’ve lost all track of time - later. He hugs you from behind, his arms closing around your waist, and then his lips find your neck and he quietly says your name-

„Haymitch.“ 

He’s kissing your neck and his hands are already starting to wander lower, but you say his name again, and now he must pick up on the dread in your voice, because his lips leave your neck.

„What’s wrong?“ 

You feel so cold, despite Haymitch still hugging you and wearing an oversized sweater of his. 

„Haymitch, I-“, you say, and why, why are you eyes already filling with tears, why is your heart pounding inside your chest, why-

Haymitch says your name and something about the way he says it, so soft and sincere, breaks you down completely. 

Blindly, you reach for the flint striker, and, turning around in his arms, press it into his hand. 

This is it. 

He knew that the moment was coming and yet-

He should’ve known-

Should’ve known better than to keep pushing you away, to keep building up his walls again and again, to shut you out, when all he really wanted was to let you in.

And now, it’s too late. 

Too late. 

Haymitch just stares down at the flint striker, not saying anything. 

„Haymitch“, you whisper at the same time as he says your name. 

Your eyes find Haymitch’s and you have to squint against the rising sun bathing his bedroom in warm, golden light. 

„I don’t-“, Haymitch starts to say, but then he trails off. 

You can see his grey eyes filling with tears and acting on instinct alone, not even conscious of the movement, you reach up with your free hand to brush a stray curl out of Haymitch’s face. 

He shivers, his grip on the flint striker and your other hand tightening. 

„Haymitch“, you say, but despite your heart pounding wildly in your chest, you’ve never felt so sure of anything, „I knew who I fell in love with. And this - this is part of who you are. Part of the reason why I …“, now, you do falter when you feel the intensity of his gaze, feel his warm, uneven breath on your skin, but you keep going. 

„Part of the reason why I - I love you“, you finish shakily. 

Your knees feel like jelly. 

You’re breathless and shaking and caught between the urge to just up and leave, to take back everything you’ve just said and-

„Fuck.“ Haymitch sounds just as out of breath and shaken as you do, if not even more. „I“, he breathes in, your name falling from his lips like a broken prayer, and then his eyes find yours again. „I - I love you so much and I - … I love you.“

I love you. I loye you. I love you. 

The words echo through your mind, and yet you can’t make sense of them. 

Is this actually happening? 

It can’t be. 

And yet-

Eyes filled with unshed tears, you look up at Haymitch again. 

„Haymitch.“ Your voice is barely more than a whisper. „Haymitch, I-“

„I love you“, he says again, resting his forehead against yours. He squeezes your hand, the flint striker caught between both your hands, digging against your skin. 

It hurts, but not as much as it used to. 

The sensation is barely even there, in fact, you’re so distracted by everything else that you hardly notice it. 

Haymitch squeezes your hand again and you can feel his lips forming a smile against your skin. 

„I love you.“ 

It’s Reaping Day. 

Lying in Haymitch’s arms, you watch as the sun rises, bathing the room in an unforgivingly bright light. 

Things are - different than they used to be. 

Haymitch still has bad days and nights, lots of them actually. More often than not, you’re woken up in the middle of the night, realizing with a cold fear that Haymitch is yet again plagued by nightmares. He still drinks in order to numb the pain and to try and forget. 

But he always comes back to you, opening up to you and letting you in, not shutting you out any longer. 

And so, painful recollection by painful recollection, you learn about everything that happened during and after his Games. 

Beside you, you can feel Haymitch going stiff with fear of what lies ahead. You know exactly what he’s thinking - that he still hasn’t kept the sun from rising on Reaping Day. 

And so, you turn around in his arms, meeting his eyes. You brush a stray curl out of his face, fingertips lingering on his forehead. 

And as the sun hits, you say: „I love you, Haymitch.“ 

divider by @uzmacchiato

corio under pressure for an heir + his pretty little wife...

coriolanus is deadly with his thrusts, making you positively throb around his length as he takes you over and over again. “m-mmph!” you squeal when he pushes the pads of his fingers on your clit just right, teasing you closer to the edge.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” your president coos into your ear, as sly and seductive as ever. he’s only got one thing on his mind - getting you so fucked out that you won’t notice when he pumps his load into you.

he’s got you in a mating press and everything, trying to melt you under him, so he presses at the back of your legs a little harder so he can get deeper into your guts. “shh,” he hushes you, stuffing his big fingers into your hot, wet little mouth. using all the strength you have left, you lazily suck on them between your messy moans.

“don’t worry, just give me one more n’ i’ll be done, kay?” his whispers nearly go unheard until he says, “just gotta fill you up. yeah, i got you - fuck…” your eyes change into saucers filled with tears of pleasure, making a half-hearted muffled protest that goes unheard.

“my pretty little wife, about to be a pretty little mother,” he groans as he doubles over your body, spilling into your insides, your own body already shaking with an orgasm. both his cock and his fingers slip out of you simultaneously, gooey strings of bodily fluids attatched to both appendages as he retracts from you, leaving your holes feeling completely empty.

you let out a gurgling whine as corio wipes some of your spit on his fingers on your cheek as he cups it lightly. “god, you’re going to be the prettiest mother in all of panem.”

You blinked. “What are you—?”

“Shh,” he whispered, like he was performing surgery. “Makin’ you presentable.”

And then he braided your hair.

Not just some pathetic attempt, either. A real braid. Tight and clean and even, tugged with practiced pressure and tied off with a hair tie—a hair tie, which you’re certain you didn’t give him and have absolutely no explanation for. Where did he get it? Why does he have it? The questions multiply, unanswered.

“There,” he said proudly, swaying just slightly as he surveyed his masterpiece. “Now you look like a girl who hasn’t been raised by wolves.”

You stared at him. “How the hell did you learn to do that?”

He shrugged, acting like he hadn’t just done something so out of the norm as he flopped back down onto the couch. “’S just rope made of hair. Braids are braids.”

You sat there, stunned, touching the braid like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. It was beautiful. Which was somehow the most confusing part.

“Haymitch?”

“Mm?”

“I’m terrified to say this, but… that was weirdly impressive.”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “I’m full of secrets, sugar.”

You blinked at the nickname. It’s not biting or sarcastic—it doesn’t carry the usual edge. Just something warm and unexpected in the drunken haze. You let it pass, unsure what to make of it, but somehow it stays with you longer than it should.

The braid’s perfect. He’s drunk. The world is upside down anyway.

A week later, you find yourself sitting at his kitchen table with damp hair and hopeful eyes, a comb in your hand.

“Can you do it again?” you ask, offering the comb like a peace treaty.

He squints at you like you’ve just asked him to solve a riddle using only mushrooms and spite. “Do what again?”

“The braid. From the other night.”

“What braid?”

“Haymitch,” you say slowly, “you braided my hair.”

He looks mildly offended. “No I didn’t.”

“You did. With a mystery hair tie that may or may not have come from another dimension.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It was you!”

After a long pause, he snatches the comb from your hand with exaggerated flair. “Fine. Move.”

You turn around, triumphant. That is, until two minutes later, when he growls in frustration.

“Why the hell is your hair so slippery? Is this sabotage?”

“It’s wet!”

“Feels like trick wire!”

He ends up tying your hair into what you can only describe as a deranged tumbleweed secured with a kitchen twist-tie. You stare at your reflection in the window and blink slowly.

“Beautiful,” you deadpan. “Like a noble shrub.”

He squints at it. “Looks fine.”

“You were surgical when you were drunk. Are you telling me liquor gives you hair-braiding superpowers?”

“Apparently.” He sounds offended by the fact. “Don’t ask me to explain it.”

“You’re like a fairy godmother who needs to be drunk to do magic.”

He grins at that, leaning back in his chair with smug satisfaction. “That’s right. You want a decent braid, you bring whiskey.”

A few hours later, he’s drunk again.

You find him in his living room, sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch like gravity gave up halfway through. The bottle is nearly empty. You weren’t even planning on going back over, but your hair’s still a little damp, and curiosity—or maybe something else—dragged you across the lawn.

He squints up at you like you might be a hallucination. “You came back,” he slurs.

“I live next door.”

“You came back,” he insists, like it’s a romantic gesture instead of you standing in your socks with a blanket over your shoulders.

Then he pats the floor between his spread legs with the kind of solemnity reserved for important ceremonies. “C’mere, sugar. Let me fix it. M’gonna make it right.”

“Fix what?” you ask, but you already know.

“The rat’s nest,” he mumbles. “Tried earlier. Failed. I failed you.” He looks devastated. “Twist-tie was not the answer.”

You almost choke trying not to laugh. “No, it really wasn’t.”

He holds his hand out for the comb you didn’t even realize you brought again. “Gimme another shot. I got the magic back.”

You hesitate only for a second before settling down on the floor between his legs, your legs stretched out in front of you, one arm resting casually on his knee. The contact is small, steadying—quietly intimate in a way neither of you acknowledge.

His fingers are clumsy at first, warm and wandering, but then something shifts. The same rhythm from before returns—steady, practiced. He hums to himself, off-key and tuneless, as he works. It shouldn’t feel comforting. But it absolutely does.

“Sorry ‘bout earlier,” he mumbles near your ear. “Didn’t mean to make you look like an angry bush.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“’Cause you’re sweet,” he mutters, tugging the braid just tight enough to ground you. “Sweet, sugar. Let me do right by your hair. Deserves better than me sober.”

You smile without meaning to, the corner of your mouth tugging up as his breath warms your neck.

When he ties off the braid—with the mystery hair tie again, of course—he leans his forehead against the back of your head for a second like he’s hit the emotional wall of drunken sincerity.

“There,” he murmurs, pleased. “Now you’re shiny again.”

You don’t know what that means. You don’t ask.

It’s a few weeks later when you learn he has another absurd drunk talent.

You weren’t expecting to see him that night—you were just coming by to return a book he lent to Katniss, because apparently even she has limits on how long she can tolerate his handwritten notes in the margins (“this guy’s an idiot,” “wow, murder again?”). You don’t knock. You never do anymore.

But you freeze halfway through the doorway.

Because Haymitch Abernathy—victor, drunk, emotionally stunted disaster of a man—is sitting on his couch with a half-empty bottle at his feet and a pair of knitting needles in his hands.

Knitting.

Knitting a sweater.

It’s light blue. There’s a tiny uneven heart on the sleeve. You know it’s a heart because you can see the failed first attempts in a little pile beside him, a lumpy collection of false starts that clearly pissed him off.

And he’s muttering to it like it’s got opinions.

“Been workin’ on it whenever I drink,” he slurs proudly, barely glancing up as you stare at him like your brain has short-circuited. “Was gonna be a scarf. But you’re cold all the time, so it… evolved.”

“You knit.”

“I drunk-knit,” he corrects, stabbing the needle through a loop like it insulted him. “Tried it sober once. Ended up stranglin’ myself with the yarn.”

You walk in slowly, in complete disbelief. “You’re making me a sweater.”

“Not just you. Made Peeta socks.” He scowls. “He doesn’t know. Gonna sneak ‘em into his drawer. Real covert-like.”

You honestly don’t know what’s more ridiculous: the fact that he’s doing it, or the fact that he’s actually good at it. The stitches are neat. Focused. Full of care he’d never admit to while sober. The little heart on the sleeve is uneven, but it means something. It feels like being seen through a haze of whiskey and grumbling affection.

“You’re a menace,” you say, sitting beside him, careful not to touch the project. “A drunk, secret-knitting menace.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Better than fightin’. Or drinkin’ and fightin’. Or fightin’ the sweater.”

That one’s muttered under his breath. You don’t ask for details.

It spirals from there.

A few days later, you catch him in the kitchen making a pie from scratch at two in the morning, completely plastered and dusted in flour like he lost a fight with a snowstorm.

He turns slowly when he hears you in the doorway, one eye barely open. “S’for you,” he slurs. “Wanted you to have somethin’ warm in the morning. Don’t eat enough.”

“You’re making me a pie?”

He nods solemnly, like this is a sacred task. “Been practicin’ my crust technique. Had to drink three glasses just to get it right.”

He burns himself pulling it out of the oven, curses loudly, and then proudly presents you with a lopsided apple pie that somehow smells like it came from a professional bakery.

You can’t even mock him. You just eat it, silently stunned, while he watches with the wary expression of a man who put too much heart into something and doesn’t know how to ask if you liked it.

There’s no pattern to it.

Sometimes it’s a perfectly carved wooden bird on your porch step.

Sometimes it’s him fixing a squeaky cabinet hinge like it’s a goddamn life mission.

One morning you wake up to find your leaky roof patched with tar and spare sheet metal, and when you confront him, he just mumbles, “Was worried mold would start growing. Thought I’d… do somethin’ about it. Had to drink half a bottle first. For focus.”

You’ve never seen someone so functionally incompetent while sober and yet domestically gifted when plastered. It makes no sense. It breaks physics. You don’t understand it, and honestly, you’ve given up trying.

But one night, when he’s working on your sweater again, arms moving clumsily but steadily, he murmurs, “You always looked like you needed someone to take care of you a little.”

Then, after a pause, without looking at you: “Think I like tryin’. When I can.”

You don’t say anything. Just rest your head on his shoulder, watching the needles move, the yarn tug, the world settle into something oddly steady for once.

Haymitch Abernathy is a drunk, foul-mouthed, emotionally constipated man with hair-braiding hands, secret pie recipes, and a sweater in progress just for you.

And somehow, despite everything…