#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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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.”

Or: Eleven years after the second Quarter Quell, Haymitch Abernathy’s life takes a sudden turn for the unexpected when your name is drawn in the Reaping. 

After weathering through a less than ideal start, you slowly start to realize that there’s more to Haymitch than just the drunk, cynical recluse you’ve always known him to be. And though he’d never wanted it to happen, Haymitch starts to feel the walls he’d built to keep everyone away crumbling whenever he’s around you as well. 

But the Capitol, and especially President Snow is always watching, and soon enough Haymitch finds himself faced with an impossible choice …

contents & t.w.: mentions of canon-typical violence; angst!!, arranged marriage; slow-burn with a sprinkle of enemies to lovers; age gap! (Haymitch is in his late twenties, Reader is 18 at the start of the story); mentions & discussions of alcoholism; eventual smut in later parts; spoilers for SotR, minor original characters (mainly reader‘s father & two younger brothers and her best friend - while these characters will get some pagetime, the main focus of this story will absolutely be the relationship between Haymitch and reader!); mentions and discussions of grief, trauma and death

I try my best not to mention detailed descriptions of reader's physical appearance, but please lmk if I missed something!( though I can't resist reader having long enough hair for someone else (who could it be lol) to tuck strands of it behind her ear)

key: 🦋 fluff || 🪷 angst || 💫 smut

Chapter 1 🪷🪷 || After being reaped for the 61st Hunger Games, you and your mentor Haymitch Abernathy are off to a rather rocky start …  [5.1k]

Chapter 2 🪷🦋 || Surviving the Hunger Games was only the beginning. As you try to navigate through this strange, terrifying new life, you find comfort in someone you least expected it from, but new threats are already rising … [4.7k]

Chapter 3 🪷🦋 || After your interview with Caesar, Haymitch starts to distance himself from you. What will it take for him to let you in again? [5.3k]

Chapter 4 🪷 || Being back in District Twelve isn’t at all the silver lining you’d imagined it to be [4.9k]

Chapter 5 🪷 || After making it through your victory tour, new threats arise back in the Capitol … [4.6k]

Chapter 6 🪷🦋 || In the midst of desperation, you and Haymitch strike a deal … [4.5k]

Chapter 7 🪷🦋 || After the chaos following your engagement, you come to a terrible realisation … [5.5k]

uploaded: 6/16 [chapter count may change]

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…