𓇼My hand was the one you reached for𓇼
𓇼All throughout the Great War𓇼
SUMMARY: There's no victor glory. The Games are war, they're never fair. And there's no amount of money or fame that can make up for it, but maybe there's solace on finding an equally broken soul.
WARNINGS: age gap. canon-typical violence. implications of sex trafficking. nothing too explicit though. alcoholism. canon-typical angst. angst. they're both heavily traumatized. this is unhealthy. still, some comfort.
Oh, how you hate coming back to the Capitol.
Every year, it’s torture. The Capitol train that you had rode for the first time six years ago, the same bed you had slept in when you wondered how hard you’d have to push your spear to pierce someone’s chest, the same couch you had cried on during your trip back home—hands stained with blood that had long been washed away by your prep team and soul ripped in a way you’ll never be able to fix.
The same fancy food that reminded you of the starving boy from Eight you had seen a guy from One choke to death—a Career, just like you, but crueler. The same painting of a whale in the hallway that stares at you with the same hopeless eyes the boy had. The same way the Capitol escort—you had never bothered to learn her name—smiles at you, just like the Career had grinned your way after the cannon had echoed through the arena.
Every corner of this train is haunted—by memories of your first trip, back before you had killed anyone, when your only worry was to catch enough shellfish to meet your family’s quota and to stay away from the Peacekeeper’s view as you swam in a hidden cage along the coast. By memories of every other trip after—the nervous glances of every tribute you couldn’t save, the empty words you and Finnick had given them, the screams of their nightmares and how they often matched yours.
The actual city is not better at all. The Capitol is nothing but hungry eyes and faked smiles. The same gazes that undressed you when you were freshly seventeen and about to enter the arena now follow you with the same raw, putrid desire. The same hands that waved at you and threw you roses now try to reach you like piranhas, gloved fingers trying to wrap around any piece of you they can get. The drunken lips that screamed your name during your parade are now being licked slowly, like starving dogs ready to devour a bloody steak.
Every year, you have to walk through the crowd and smile at them, accepting their gifts and ignoring the way you want to rip all of your skin off. You’ve gotten used to it, you’ve become an expert at bowing your head with a bashful blush and giggle at their lewd jokes—trying to ignore the way their hands creep up your skirt and the way they talk about your tributes like they’re nothing but fighting dogs to beat on.
But this year, it’s worse. So much fucking worse.
Because as you look around the training center—the ground covered with confetti, horses sighing in exhaustion, the screaming of the Capitol people during the parade still ringing in your ears—there’s not a single person in here you don’t recognize.
It’s the 75th Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell. The Quarter Quell. And you wonder, not for the first time, if you’ll make it out of here alive.
The day this year’s rule was announced, you had sprinted across the Victor’s Village toward Annie’s and Finnick’s house. Panic clawed at your chest, and you felt like you were drowning—not in water, water would’ve been gentler with you. You were drowning in poison. Rose-scented poison that sunk on your skin and filled your lungs.
You had spent that whole day, and every day until the reaping, holding an unresponsive Annie in your arms while Finnick did his best to hide the shaking of his hands from the both of you. You had slept on their couch every night and stared every morning as your best friend was gently coaxed by her lover to at least eat something, your heart heavy with misery while Finnick’s soft voice washed over you too.
You stare at him now, almost naked with only a golden fish net tied carelessly around his hips, and your heart breaks for him. You try to think of his soft pajama pants and long-sleeve shirts he wears back home, you try to think about his face when he’s genuinely smiling, not the lazy grin that takes up his face right now, and most of anything, you try not to think about Annie’s desperate last words to you before you got into the train.
“Bring him back to me,” she whispered your name with a trembling voice. “Bring him back to me alive.”
And now you have to, because you don’t know how you’ll face your best friend again if you have to go back home with her soulmate in a casket.
But for now, Finnick is okay. Almost naked, being ogled uncomfortably by the sponsors he’s chatting with, pretending that their lingering hands on his biceps aren’t making him nauseous—but alive. Mags is next to him, and she’ll intervene if things escalate, so you look away from the scene that’s way too familiar before you hurl the red velvet cake you had eaten for breakfast all over the crystal high heels your stylist had forced you into.
But looking away doesn’t help, because every face in the room is familiar.
Tributes always look about to pass out after the parade, but now every face is tied to a name and a story you know too well. Johanna, with her sharp eyes and hot white rage that the capitol assumes is because of heartbreak or insanity, but that you know too well comes from immeasurable grief. Cashmere, with her big white smile and shiny dress, but with the same edge in her eyes as a sponsor places a hand on her waist you had seen in Finnick and in the mirror so many times. The woman from Six that everyone refers to as a Morphling, reduced by the Capitol to her addiction, but who had multiple times squeezed your hand when one of your kids got murdered in the arena.
And then—there he is. Clad in a stylish black and silver suit, blond hair long and messy in that way that’s rebellious enough to draw you in, but classy enough for Snow. He is, for once, sober enough to stand by himself. He’s across the room, next to the newest victors in here, Katniss and Peeta. He seems to be teasing their Escort, a woman who seems a lot nicer than yours, and his lips are set on a grin, but his eyes are just as tempestuous as ever.
Haymitch Abernathy, the most complicated man on the planet, the dangerous rascal and alcoholic that the Capitol loves to laugh at, and the one person that has stolen your cracked, bruised heart.
Just the sight of him makes it easier to breathe, but that’s when you feel eyes on you.
It’s not something new. For as long as you’re in the Capitol, there will be a lens or a pair of eyes focused on you. But the way the hairs in the back of your neck stand up tell you that this isn’t some drunk sponsor or one of Snow’s news reporters.
When you drag your eyes to the end of the chariot line, you see Caspian—the mentor from District Two. A Capitol favorite, a cold murderer that relishes on the blood he’s spilled, and a man that doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. His eyes are on your body, and before they catch your face, you turn around and walk toward District Twelve.
The click of your heels mix with the galloping of the horses as you all but run toward Haymitch, giving him and his victors a sweet smile—this time, it’s genuine.
“Hi, guys.” You turn toward Katniss and Peeta, who are just staring at you with wide, careful eyes. “Made quite an entrance there, huh?” You point to the ashes floating from their previously-burning outfits.
Peeta matches your friendly beam, but Katniss only keeps glaring at you, like the cat and puppy the Capitol loves to compare them to. “Yeah, Cinna really knows how to put on a show.”
You give the two kids another soft look before turning to Haymitch, who’s looking at you with amusement in his eyes, something a little warmer behind it that makes your cheeks flush. There’s something clouded, too. Not intoxication—thicker, darker, morose. It sends a pang down your chest, but you ignore it.
“Hey there, Hay.”
It’s always nice to see him in Capitol events, because he’s forced to dress up and look put together. He looks handsome, in a very troubled kind of way.
He chuckles huskily at the nickname with that deep voice of his, shaking his head slightly. “Hey, Angel.”
It’s been years, but it still makes you blush. Angel.
The first time he called you that was a year after your games, back when you had just started mentoring.
You had seen Haymitch before that, though, during your victory tour. You had walked onto District Twelve’s stage with shaky legs and teary eyes, and he had been there on the side, stumbling in his place as a Peacekeeper held him up. He had been especially messy that year, throwing up during the Games Afterparty in the Capitol and breaking half the dishes in his designated apartment. After all, the kids from Twelve had both died in the bloodbath that year—remarkably gruesome and gory.
And even though you had never even spoken to any of them, you still had felt everyone’s eyes on you like tracker jacker stings—some pitiful, some empathetic, some angry. Outside Districts never took well to a Career winning the Games. You had to swallow the bile that rose up your throat and face the crowd as you followed the speech Finnick had handed you in the train. You couldn’t bear to look at the families of the tributes, so you looked at Haymitch instead.
He had met your gaze—and his eyes had been unfocused and stormy, and his face full of trouble, but something warm and safe had washed over you as you stared at him. If he was still standing, so could you.
So you finished your speech, muttering fake gratitudes toward the Capitol through your teeth and offering genuine condolences to the mourning families, and then you attended dinner in the Mayor’s house. Haymitch had been there too, and he had been half passed out on the table by the end of the night, but not before he had gently pushed your hand away from the wine and had loudly interrupted the Head Peacekeeper when he tried to make a crude comment about you taking a bath in the lake during your games.
Finnick called it puppy love, Annie said you had “issues with your father you might want to reflect on,” Mags had only looked at you with gentle, almost pitiful eyes—but no matter the reason, you’ve been attached to Haymitch ever since.
You couldn’t help it—the way you seemed to find him at every Capitol even, the way your heart skipped a beat when his eyes would focus on you and they would turn a little more gentle, the blush on your cheeks when he pushed your hand away from another alcoholic drink you didn’t even knew the name of, during the first interviews you had to watch as a mentor.
You had been following him around all day, a little lost as Finnick promised to take care of sponsors by himself. Haymitch had been the only one in there that felt safe, amidst all the hungry wolves and damned souls—so you kept trying to start a conversation, voice soft and sweet even after only being met with grunts all afternoon. He seemed adamant on keeping you away, not really looking at you and scowling all the time.
That was, until you defeatedly sighed and finally accepted the purple cocktail an Avox had been trying to shove into your hand all night—the Capitol public seemed to be eager to see you enjoy their fun beverages now that you were finally eighteen.
You were about to take a sip of the bubbling drink when a hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling the glass away from your glossy lips.
“Don’t do that, Angel. You don’t wanna fall down that path.”
His eyes were still hazy with inebriation, but his words were sincere and his calloused fingers on your skin warm. So you had put your glass down and given him a sweet little smile, fidgeting with the edge of your too-short dress. “Put down yours, too?”
He had snorted and shaken his head, taking another swag of his whiskey. “Nice try, but don’t waste your time.”
So you had stopped insisting for him to not drink, and he had stopped trying to push you away. He’s still as difficult as ever, grumpy and sarcastic and an asshole, but he still lets you stay by his side. Slowly, he had started to open up to you—not too much, but enough for you to get a glimpse behind the careless drunk act that he puts up for others.
Everyone here is familiar with putting on an act, anyway.
But you all break, no matter how close your acts are to reality. Like when vulnerability flashes over Finnick’s cocky smirk when he’s asked about his first party on the Capitol or when Beetee’s emotions get the best of him, and he does something reckless and not very smart after one of his tributes dies.
Like when you can’t hold onto your sweet smile for too long, and you’re suddenly not wrapped in lace and bows and pastel colors anymore but you’re drenched in blood, someone’s jawbone hanging from your fingertips, and you can’t find it in yourself to be the Sea Princess you’ve been sold to be.
Like when Haymitch smiles at Katniss and something too affectionate edges his lips, or right now, as he looks down at you and there’s none of that indifference that’s rumored to be intertwined into his very soul.
You notice the flask he’s holding on his hand like a lifeline—covered in leather, with a golden bird in the center. The animal is a little shapeless, not too bright. Close enough for everyone to know it’s a Mockingjay, not too obvious to test his luck. Cinna always seems to know how to balance it.
There’s a gold bangle with a flame pattern around his wrist to match, and it’s a nice addition to his scruffy look.
Haymitch takes a long swig from it, and you can’t help the way your brows furrow. “Started early this time, huh?”
He snorts, putting the flask away in the front pocket of his suit, but you know it won’t be long until it’s out again. “Yeah, this year—I’ll need it.”
You chew on your lower lip, wanting to argue but staying quiet, because Haymitch is right. This year will be cruel on you—so much that even the Capitol people, indoctrinated and doped by propaganda, seem to feel it too. And Haymitch, who had barely survived a Quarter Quell before, now has to send his two victors into another one—after being the first mentor to ever save both.
It’s almost impressive, how fucking wicked Snow can be with his punishments.
You hum, taking a small step closer to him.
“I know,” you whisper, eyes low and dimming, sending another worried look toward the flask on his pocket. You look up at him then, trying to give him a comforting smile. “It won’t be easy, but—we’ve survived worse, right?"
He chuckles, and you’re rewarded with a soft brush of his fingers on your bare shoulder—so different from the lustful, violent touches you’re used to.
“We have, yes.” He studies you for a moment, his voice melting into something quieter. “Don’t worry about me, I’m old and tough—and I can handle my liquor.”
Somewhere behind you, Katniss scoffs. It earns her a glare from Haymitch, but it makes you laugh.
“I know, Hay. I still worry, though.” you sigh, turning toward the Capitol’s favorite lovebirds instead. “But don’t you worry, kids. I’ll make sure he stays sober enough to help you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Haymitch crosses his arms, amused. “You plan to keep me in line, Angel?”
You nod solemnly, grinning up at him. “Someone has to, don’t you think?” You giggle, winking toward the kids. “You’re in good hands, I promise.” Your voice lowers into a fake-whisper. “I’ve heard sponsors say I make him more likeable.”
“No one has ever said that,” he drawls your name in that way that makes your stomach flutter.
“Yes, they do,” interrupts their escort in a high voice, not even looking at him as she fixes Katniss’ crown with swift fingers before skedaddling away in the same histrionic, short steps.
“Thank you for your contribution, Effie,” Haymitch huffs long after the small woman has left, only her bright, golden hair visible in the distance.
You turn toward him with a wide, triumphant smile. He only rolls his eyes, but the small curve of his lips tells you you’ve won this one. When you turn back to Peeta and Katniss, they’re both staring at you like you just fell from the sky—maybe covered in stardust, maybe covered in blood.
Peeta’s eyes are bright, almost admiring, and you remember the blue of them looking so pale when he was hiding in his games, slowly bleeding out from his leg as he buried himself near the lake. His blond hair that’s now shiny had been matted and caked with blood and dirt, and his face had been colorless and dull, nothing like the kind, warm smile that now flashes at you.
Not many victors are like him—not many of you can conserve the light in your eyes, not many of you can remember how to smile sincerely, not many of you remain tender. And Peeta is scarred and tainted, but he still shines. He reminds you a little too much of yourself, and it pains you to imagine him back inside that hellhole, being stripped of that last bit of grace in his chest.
Katniss—you can’t tell if she’s about to ask you to have lunch together or if she’s planning your murder. Her eyes are gray, the same gray that you’ve come to love in the man next to you. She’s glaring, but you think that’s just her natural way of looking at people. She’s taking you in, turning you in her head, wondering how much she can trust you. She’s wary, but not immune to the effect kind words have in a place like this. Like a cat that hates the water but still craves to drink it.
She’s a split image of Haymitch, and it makes your heart ache.
You open your mouth to add something, find something that will make everyone’s shoulders relax and their sorrowful faces split into the shadow of a smile. There’s too much misery going around in here—you could choke on it. Someone needs to keep this afloat, someone needs to be the ray of sunshine that keeps the path forward visible before you all get lost in the fog.
“Well, isn’t it our little mermaid I see here!”
You know that voice, and dread washes over you. You don’t turn around, still facing Twelve’s chariot. Caspian.
In the districts, rivalry is engraved in your bones from the moment you are born—you hate each other, and you kill each other, and every year you wish death upon every other child except yours. A child from another district standing in that podium means two of yours are dead, and it’s easier to hate each other than face the real enemy.
And even though every district feels the same way, Careers are even higher on the hate list. The people in the outside Districts believe you to be sadistic and cold-blooded, privileged and spoiled. Traitors—the worst kind, the kind that comes back to their homes to gloat over their little one’s cold corpses.
But as Victors, you have an understanding. No one ever really wins the Games, no one that comes out of that arena alive is any better than another. You’ve all committed unspeakable acts, almost none of you are proud of any of it, you were all just kids. So you keep the peace between you—an implicit truce.
The Capitol gives us enough shit to deal with, let’s not make it harder for each other.
But every so often, someone misses the memo. Caspian is one of them. Devoted to the Capitol, rumored to be close friends with some of the Peacekeepers in his District, close to Snow. You can tell, by the way he looks down on the rest of the victors, by the way he loves to intimidate already-terrified tributes every year, by how he pretends to be one of the sponsors instead of one of you, that he actually believes he one day will be part of the Capitol.
He puts on his fancy clothes, and speaks with a bad impression of the Capitol accent, and he exclusively refers to the Capitol as his home—but you know that no matter how hard he tries, Snow will never see him as anything but a circus animal. The president might put up with his overfriendliness and keep him around for as long as he is useful, but one day Caspian will realize that for him, and everyone in the Capitol, he has never been even human.
He could fit in, you think, because the way he presses against your back and his breath brushes your ear feels just like every other Capitol’s official.
Your face scrunches in disgust for only a second before you take a step forward, turning around to put a little bit of distance between you and the older mentor.
“Oh. Hi, Caspian.” Your voice is empty, still soft, but devoid of any sweetness. He doesn’t seem to mind.
He grins widely, his gaze roving over your figure with unabashed lust. He licks his teeth, clearly relishing in the way you fidget in your place, unable to do anything to stop him.
“There’s that pretty face,” he purrs, taking a step closer and reaching a hand up to your face. “You weren’t hiding from me, were you, little mermaid?”
The nickname makes your insides twist, but not in the same way angel does. It washes down your throat and turns in your stomach, making your skin feel too tight and your fists clench. Caspian notices, of course, and he laughs. His eyes burn into yours, a clear message on them.
“What are you gonna do with that, princess? Snow doesn’t want your pretty little hands getting dirty, be a good doll.”
You know he’s right. Any attempt at defending yourself will be seen as an act of rebellion—against the image you’ve been forced upon, against your role in the Capitol, against the natural order of Panem. You’re the sea princess, malleable and sweet and accessible—nothing of the little girl bathed in crimson they saw on the arena, of your grip on the spear or the bones in your fingers. A good little doll.
So you take another step back, the only defense you have left, but you smile at Caspian all the same, just like you do with interested Capitol citizens. “Of course not, I was just—”
“You’re all grown up,” he interrupts you, because your words have never been of any value. “But you still have that… innocence.”
You don’t. You haven’t been innocent since you entered that arena, and any trace of it had been wiped as soon as you got out. But you remember Caspian back then, in the banquet at the president's mansion at the end of your victory tour—same dark eyes, same wandering hands, same repulsive voice as he asked your age, and laughing in the same way he’s now when you shyly murmured seventeen.
He’d been obsessed with you ever since, and you wouldn’t doubt that he’s offered Snow all kinds of payment for you—but only Capitol citizens have that privilege, and Caspian will never be one of them. He still tries, though.
His hand is almost on you, fingers inching closer and closer to your cheek—
You take a step back at the exact same moment someone takes a step forward, and suddenly you’re pressed against someone’s chest. You want to panic, for a second, but you’re engulfed by a wave of wildflowers, fireplace ashes, and the unmistakable scent of whiskey.
A hand is placed on your lower back, and instead of recoiling, you lean into it—it’s warm, sturdy, safe. This is safe, a kind of safe you had never felt before.
“You okay, Angel?” Haymitch whispers above your ear. You tilt your head to look at him over your shoulder, his face solemn as he glares at Caspian.
You nod softly, not trusting your voice not to reveal the turmoil that twists in your gut like a hurricane. But then you feel Caspian taking another step closer, and your nails dig into the palm of your hand as you fight the urge to hide.
“Am I interrupting something, Abernathy?”
Or murder. You could murder Caspian, if you tried to. Humans are so fragile, their lives so frail. You still remember how the girl from Eight had plummeted to the ground when you stabbed her, how easy the soft tissue of her temple had given in to the edge of your blade, the way her mouth had been frozen open with her last silent scream—
“No,” Haymitch says in a calm, cold voice as blood starts to drip from your fingers. But there’s a small edge to it, a very thin veil that conceals the anger beneath his words. “But your tributes are waiting for you. Seems like they might be in trouble.”
He points somewhere behind Caspian, and when you look over his shoulder, you can see Brutus and Enobaria, having a heated conversation with a pair of Peacekeepers. Brutus shoves one of the guards, making the other one pull out his gun. Enobaria snaps her shark teeth toward him, and a new wave of Peacekeepers approach the pair.
“You should go check that out,” you murmur, giving Caspian a smile that feels less painful when he turns back to glare at you.
“I don’t think Snow would like it if one of his best allies can’t control his tributes.” Haymitch drags the word like it’s the worst insult in the world. A Capitol ally, a viper, the enemy.
Caspian doesn’t seem to get it. He just sends one last snarl to all of you before stepping away, walking toward his pair of victors like nothing is happening. You gotta give to him, he has an admirable willpower to act like a douchebag.
As soon as Caspian has stepped away, your smile falls off your face and you take a step forward. Pulling away from Haymitch’s orbit feels like tearing your soul in half, but you still force yourself to turn around to face him and his tributes.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, giving yourself a second to focus on nothing but the distant huff of horses, the smell of wildflowers that lingers on you, and the sting of the wounds in your palms.
You can feel their eyes on you, so once again, you find it deep in your chest to put on a smile and look at them with gentle eyes, but the edge to them is impossible to hide. You’re tired. You’re so fucking tired.
“Are you okay?”
That’s Peeta, eyes soft blue and a little downturned. His face twists with genuine worry, and his hands seem to itch to do something, to soothe. You’ve seen that exact same face, in the reflection of a vodka bottle as you coax a victor to put it down or in the passing window of the train as you pull a tribute away from the welcome crowd that’s trying to get their filthy hands on them.
So familiar, so close to being crushed. So you make your grin a little softer, just a little warmer, just for him. “Yeah, I’m good.”
You meet his gaze, and he looks a little more convinced, and then you meet Katniss’, and she doesn’t look convinced but more like she’s trying to decide if she cares, and then you lower your eyes, because you can’t look at Haymitch.
You don’t think you could stand if he’s looking at you with disgust—even though you know he’d never. If he believes the whole little mermaid crap, the sweet doll who’s just here to look pretty and entertain and be touched. It would be almost worse if he’s looking at you with pity. Like you’re just a kid, a naive little girl who can’t defend herself. Someone to feel sorry for, but never care for. Just a child, not strong enough to be loved.
But the worst possibility, the one that makes your nails dig deeper into your skin and your head hang low, is that he simply doesn’t care. That you’ll look up, and his eyes will be barren and cold. That he stopped Caspian because he’s just—good, but that he couldn’t care less that it was you.
Someone takes your hand. When your head snaps up, you can see Haymitch, a lot closer than before. His hands are rid of any callouses, just like everyone else’s in here, but they feel different. Different from the Capitol people, different from Finnick or Annie, different from anything else you’ve ever felt. His thumb brushes over the bloody wounds, smearing the blood across your palm—dark crimson against the pastel silk you’re covered in.
“You sure about that, Angel?” His jaw is clenched, his firm eyes on you, a gray storm you wouldn’t mind getting lost in.
You sigh, low and defeated, and shrug. “Nothing I’m not used to.”
That makes him frown, and his fingers slide down your wrist and around your hand—not holding it, but close. He looks… angry. You didn’t even consider the possibility of him being angry.
“Don’t worry about me, Hay,” you whisper, giving him a reassuring smile that comes easy. Nothing is ever easy in this world, but here, next to Haymitch, you feel like you again. No doll, no princess, just you. “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.”
His eyes burn into yours, and he’s close. Closer than he’s ever been. And he doesn’t reek of alcohol as much as previous years, and there’s a fire in his gaze—the same fire glowing around his victors.
“Oh, I have no doubts about that.”
The air stills, all the murmur of distant conversations vanish, and it’s just you and Haymitch in the eye of the storm. You’re floating, swimming in a crystalline waterfall. But you’re not falling, you’re going up. Up, up, up—
Something dark flashes on his face. Something somber and pained and broken, and he moves away. Lets go of your hand, steps back, clears his throat. The next time he looks at you, it’s guarded, and you lost him.
“Uhm,” you wipe your palms on the back of your dress, and your stylist will kill you later, but right now you can’t stay here. You beam at Katniss and Peeta, who now look almost spooked. “Anyway! I should probably get going. Finnick must be done…” being objectified to death. “Talking to sponsors.”
The kids nod, and Haymitch’s jaw clicks before he does too. “Yeah, you should do that.”
His hand reaches back for his flask, and you give him a small, sweet smile before stepping back.
“Take care of yourself, Hay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And you do. You see him in the corner of every room and auditorium you’re forced into. You don’t get to talk to him, and he doesn’t seem to be making any effort to do so either. So you just stare, starry-eyed and longing.
Because the training days are just a constant routine of being passed around by sponsors, hands on your arms and hips and waist. But none of them feel like haymitch’s. Their accents are like screeching in your ear, and their perfumed gowns feel like venom in your lungs. You spend your days laughing at tasteless jokes and eating intricate dishes and pretending you’re not about to vomit over their expensive fabrics, and your nights worrying about Mags as you hold Finnick through another panic attack.
The day of the interviews is weird. You still haven’t gotten the chance to speak to any of the other victors, not even to hug Wiress or hear Johanna complain until she gives in and lets you hold her. And it’s always a tense night, with escorts and stylists roaming around, tributes grumpy in their silly costumes, and drunken Capitol people screaming at all of you like a circus show.
But Finnick is quiet, which he never is in public. Him and Mags keep sharing silent glances, and a few other tributes seem to be doing the same. Johanna winks at Beetee from across the room, after years of making fun of him, and Haymitch still won’t fucking look at you.
And you plan to find out. To corner one of your friends back in the apartments and make them tell you what the hell is going on. But then the interviews end, and Katniss is pregnant—you’re pretty sure she isn’t, because Peeta blushes furiously just from holding hands and Haymitch smirks at him from the audience when he announces it—and then the victors commit the biggest act of rebellion you’ve seen in a long time.
Union.
In Panem, the biggest defiance isn’t hate, or violence, or pain. It’s love. A love the Districts share, the kind the Capitol people will never understand, stronger than the hostility forced upon you. A love born from blood, rot, and tears.
Snow can try all he wants to divide you, but he’s also given you your biggest advantage—a common enemy.
It’s you versus them, and it will always be, even if people like Caspian would like to pretend otherwise.
But acts like these will never come without a price, and so every tribute is ripped away from every mentor’s hands—without a last hug, without a last look into their eyes, without a goodbye.
You’re forced to wake up early the next morning, being dragged by your prep team into a dressing room. They hide the dark circles under your eyes and brush your messy hair, matted from turning in bed all night, consumed by nightmares of the pale, vacant eyes of Finnick, and Mags, and Peeta and Katniss. Each and every tribute, every victor, every friend.
You’re shoved into a light teal, fluffy dress by your stylist, who’s giving you a huge grin that makes you want to cut her head off. The dress is short, lacy edges and puffy sleeves. Like everything else in your brand—the high blush on your cheeks, the eye makeup that makes them look bigger, the mary janes and ruffly socks on your feet—it’s made to exude innocence. Your hair is put into two low ponytails, bows attached to them, and just looking in the mirror makes you feel sick.
Little mermaid, doll, innocent. It gets the Capitol people going—how adorable you are, how sweet you can be, not like those barbaric animals that sometimes win the Games.
Any scars from the parade are gone from your palms, but your nails once again dig right where they’re supposed to be as you walk inside the Watching Room. It’s huge, all white walls and fluorescent lights. When it’s not Hunger Games season, it’s used as a ballroom—or so you’ve heard, from the multiple sponsors that have tried to invite you to one. A screen takes up most of the back wall, where soon enough they will transmit the Games live.
There are couches and tables all around the place, multiple open bars and Avoxes roaming around with wide trays. You take a glass of champagne as you walk across the purple carpet, ignoring the eyes that follow you and the haunting presence of Caspian in a dark corner.
You make your way around sponsors and unsolicited suitors until you find him.
He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, a leather coat on top. Once again, there’s a golden bird embroidered on the back, and this time it’s clearly a mockingjay. But you don’t think Cinna is bothering with subtlety anymore, not after Katniss’ burning wedding dress.
The leather is worn, and when you’re finally close enough to see his face, Haymitch looks as bad as you. Any trace of it concealed by makeup, but not even the Capitol has a way to mask the absolute exhaustion that lingers in his eyes.
He’s drunk. Not as drunk as usual, but tipsier than he had been this whole time. And you had promised to Katniss and Peeta that you’d keep him sober, if only for the sake of the kids. You have already failed so many people, you can at least do this.
So you plop down next to him on the pristine Capitol couch, grinning up at him and bumping his shoulder with yours. “Hey there, Hay.”
When his eyes meet yours, the electric storm on them relaxes, looking more like a cloud that’s sparkling but not quite ready to strike. He lets out a gruff hum, raising his glass of whiskey in greeting.
“Hey there, Angel.”
His eyes seem to roam over your body, but unlike everyone else, he grimaces. You would be hurt, but you feel seen instead. He knows. Haymitch knows the real you, and not the Sea Princess from Four.
So you clink your glass to his, and take a small sip before putting it down on the coffee table next to you. Haymitch glares at it, and you know he still doesn’t like you drinking, but he lost that battle a while ago.
You cross your legs, propping your chin up on your hand and tilting your head as you lean forward to rest your elbow on your knee, your attention solely on him. “How were your kids? Did you… did you get to talk to them?”
Haymitch only stares at you for a long, slow moment. His eyes are like balm and fire on your skin, burning you and soothing you at the same time. A moment passes, and then his eyes close with almost shame.
“Yeah, I—I got to say goodbye right after the interviews, before the Peacekeepers dragged them away.”
You nod, mind a little loss on every word you didn’t say to Finnick, every hug you didn’t give to Mags, how you’re going to look at Annie in the eye, if you—
“You—that’s cute.” Haymitch interrupts your spiraling. When you blink up at him, he’s pointing at the seashell tiara resting on your head.
You pout, giving him a dirty look. “Hey! Just because you get the coolest stylist doesn’t mean you can make fun of me.”
He chuckles, husky and low. God, he needed to stop doing that.
“‘M not making fun of you, Angel. It’s kinda cute.”
You wonder if he's being mean, but the smirk he gives you is not condescending. It’s lazy, but genuine. Warm, safe, handsome. Fuck.
You blush, but you try to hide it. “It’s not, it sucks. I envy you so much, Cinna actually knows how to make you look cool.”
He simply huffs, leaning closer until all you can smell is whiskey and wood and wildflowers.
“Don’t let the Capitol make you feel bad about yourself,” he murmurs your name so beautifully. “You look—fine.”
You raise an eyebrow, giggling as you reach for your champagne and hide your silly grin behind the glass.
“Wow, I think that’s the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”
He rolls his eyes, but his shoulder brushes yours, leather against lace. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” He grumbles, but not even the long swig of whiskey he takes can hide his matching smile.
“Y’know, you’re not half as tough as you make people believe you are.” You lean forward, raising your chin in challenge. He laughs, leaning back on the couch.
“Oh, yeah? You think you have me all figured out, Angel?”
You nod earnestly. “I know I do. You love to play the bad guy, but I’ve seen you with Katniss and Peeta. Hell, I’ve seen you with Finnick when he was younger. You—” you poke his chest with your finger, your faces closer than they’ve ever been. “Are actually just a softie.”
His eyes stay on yours, now overcome with a wave of something that makes your brain fuzzy. It’s hypnotizing, and so beautiful. His lips part with words you would never know, because the whole room erupts in roaring before he can say anything.
The Games have started.
Haymitch’s eyes move to the screen, but his face is twisted with something like sorrow. And you’ve heard the stories. The rumors that circle around in parties, the whispers of Haymitch’s past, the hushed words of Wiress and Beetee to Finnick and Johanna—the warnings. You’ve read it in Mags’ scribbled additions.
Talks of an ex lover, someone he loved and lost. The proof of Snow’s cruelty, why you should follow his orders. The ghosts that haunt him, something about Doves. You’ve never asked, never tried to pry for more. It’s not your place, it will never be. Because you know, by the way his hands stay away from your skin and his grip on the whiskey tightens, that you will never be his love.
But you don’t need to. You don’t want to. He doesn’t have to love you, not like he did her. You would never ask that of him, never would expect it. You just—there are so few places in this world that feel safe, and he’s one of them. You could fit, in his life, in his arms. Not as his love, but as something. A warm smile, someone to hold when the night is dark and the horrors alive, someone to count on.
Someone to protect him, and protect back.
But maybe he has had enough of that. You’re just another kid tugging on his sleeve and begging for safety. Begging for something he could never give you.
But when your eyes find the screen, you see Finnick. He’s soaking wet, already splattered with blood, but he’s alive. He’s with Katniss, and you frown. You had been under the impression that Twelve didn’t want allies.
But then you notice the flash of gold around Finnick’s wrist. A bangle, flames engraved carefully on it.
“You gave that to him?” You turn to Haymitch just to find his lips twisted with satisfaction. “Why?”
“Katniss—I like that girl, but she’s the most stubborn person I know,” he huffs with affection. “She wouldn’t accept Finnick as an ally, so I had to work around it.”
You frown, chewing on your lower lip for a moment. “I know Finnick is good, but your kids could’ve probably survived a while without him.”
Haymitch sighs, sending you a quick look that only leaves you more confused before turning back to the screen. “It’s safer if they’re together. These Games—I fear that the tributes won’t be the biggest danger in there. Katniss had to trust someone, might as well be him.”
You giggle, and Haymitch looks at you a little bemused.
“Sorry, Haymitch Abernathy, the lone wolf, is talking to me about ‘there’s strength in numbers’?”
He laughs, and his grip on the bottle relaxes, and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. “Sometimes you need allies, Angel. That’s just a fact.”
You hum lowly, playing with the edge of your dress before leaning forward.
“So are we allies, Abernathy?”
The gray of his eyes burns in yours, like oil spilling over sweet water. He doesn’t say anything for a long second, and some sponsor screams in the background, and people are dying. Friends, family, kids. In the Games, in every district. There’s so much death you could drown in it.
But when Haymitch takes your hand in his, squeezing once, you’ve never felt more alive.
“We’re allies, Angel.”
Someone screams, and then Katniss’ voice echoes through the ballroom. When you look at the screen, Peeta is on the ground, pale and cold. Katniss is yelling, Finnick is pressing down on his chest like you’ve done so many times when kids swim a little too far away from shore and get swallowed by the waves. But Peeta isn’t moving.
Haymitch’s grip on your hand tightens. His face is emotionless, but his ring digs into your skin as he holds onto you like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.
“It’s okay,” you whisper in his ear. “He’ll be okay, Hay.”
But your eyes water the longer Peeta stays unmoving, your breath picking up. Finnick keeps trying, and Katniss keeps screaming, but it’s useless.
This is worse, so much worse than you could’ve even phantom.
And suddenly Peeta is breathing again, and Katniss is kissing him, and Finnick is fine, but everything is still hazy. Because this time it worked, but it won’t always. And it doesn’t matter who it’ll be, but one of them will end up cold, eyes pale and heart still. And Snow will win.
“Hey, hey, Angel.” Haymitch takes your face between his hands, but you can’t breathe. You’re drowning. You’re their mermaid but you’re drowning in sweet, rose poison. “Peeta is fine, you need to breathe.”
“But he won’t be,” you whisper, and you can feel the eyes of sponsors on you, and somewhere in the distance, Plutarch’s cameras are capturing this. And they’ve already taken so much away from you. “They’re gonna die, Hay. All except one, and I can’t—”
“Shhh,” he murmurs your name, his thumb brushing over your damp cheeks. And it feels good, to be touched by someone who sees you. “They’re gonna be okay. I promise you.”
“But you can’t, they won’t be.” you choke out, leaning against his touch.
“Do you trust me?”
You nod, small and soft, breath finally slowing down. You don’t know why Haymitch looks so calmed, why he’s making promises we won’t be able to keep, but you do. You trust him.
“They’re going to be fine,” After a long moment of hesitation, he leans in to press a quick kiss to your brow. You melt into the touch, sighing lowly. He presses his lips against your ear, still holding you close. “I’ll tell you all about it, all right? Just—not here.”
You murmur a low agreement, only pulling away after hearing the boom of a cannon. It’s the boy from Six, and your heart aches as Caesar comments on the details of his death, but you force yourself to breathe.
You turn to Haymitch, who’s still studying you with careful eyes. The ghost of his lips still lingers on your skin, and his hands have moved away from your face but one of them remains on your back—and yes, you’re going to be fine.
“Allies, Hay?”
“Allies, Angel.”
NOTES: this is the most random shit i've ever written. but after finishing sotr there's not a day that passes where I don't think about this poor man. I love him and all his traumas. I could fix him and make him worse. anyway, if anyone is even reading this, pls let me know if you liked it. It's long and silly but I had to do it. I love you all!
(I'll be posting less these days because college is already fucking me over, but I promise I have something fun planned for you soon)
TAGS: (sorry to my usual readers for this random ass fic) @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby<3
