Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Reaping Day is (obviously) the worst day of the year. As you stand on the stage waiting for this year’s tributes to be called, you wonder if having the Reaping on the hottest day of the year is part of the punishment. Besides having your children sent up to slaughter, you have to sweat like a pig for several hours beforehand! 

You have to stop yourself from scowling at your thoughts. The mayor is still giving the ridiculous speech about the Dark Days and Panem. You only pay attention when the speech gets to the part of naming the Victors from District 12. A grand total of 2: Haymitch Abernathy from the 50th Hunger Games, and you from the 55th. A glance to said Victor gives as much surprise as the sky still being blue; Haymitch is drunk. You almost envy him in a way. Haymitch is allowed to be a drunk slob, while you’re still forced to be pretty and polished every year for the Capitol. And drunk slob he is. Effie Trinket barely manages to avoid his grasp before she begins to read off the slip for the female tribute. 

“Primrose Everdeen!”

You scan the crowd to see which grief-stricken face would be your tribute for this year. To your dismay, it’s a little girl who can’t be older than 12. District 12 never stands a chance anyway, but a 12-year-old tribute is always extra cruel. You’re not like Haymitch, who detaches himself so easily from the tributes. 

Suddenly, a much older girl is fighting her way to the front and shouting to volunteer. Nobody has ever volunteered in District 12 and for good reason. When she introduces herself as Katniss Everdeen, it’s apparent she’s doing it to save her sister. Effie seems rattled by it all–screaming and crying children are only fun in the Games, apparently–and quickly picks the top slip from the boys’ bowl. 

“Peeta Mellark!” 

No siblings cry to volunteer for this boy. And you feel the first of many pangs of sadness that you force yourself to ignore. You don’t know Peeta, but you remember Otho Mellark from grade school. He was kind and always willing to trade a tart for a hemming. Plus, his bakery is one of the few District-run establishments that welcome you without judgment. You keep your face impassive as the ceremony finishes up. Not bored, not above it all, just sizing up your tributes’ odds. Which, like every year, are probably close to none. You can’t let your face show that since the cameras are still trained on you and the stage. 

Unfortunately, Haymitch is not so keen on maintaining appearances and is drunkenly staggering over to the female tribute. He begins to mouth off about spunk and nonsense. You’re about to go over there and wrangle him off her when he slips and falls off the stage. He lands face-first, and for a moment, you’re sure he’s finally killed himself. You rush to get down from the stage–a difficult task with your Capitol-assigned outfit tight in all the wrong places. 

Gritting your teeth, you roll him over. His blonde hair spills over his face and gets caught in the bloody gash on his forehead. You feel a flash of panic when he doesn’t respond. Is this actually what kills Haymitch Abernathy? Moments later, he opens his eyes and in his stupor seems delighted to see you. And you are the smallest bit delighted to see him not dead. 

“Is it morning yet?” he slurred. 

“No, Haymitch, it’s the afternoon. And you’re on television for all of Panem right now, so get up,” you sighed. 

“So bossy,” Haymitch groaned. He obeys your command anyway and sways as you help him up. He reeks of alcohol, but not of vomit or days-old sweat. You wonder if your insistence on at least taking a shower before the Reaping has gotten through to him.  He might not be dressed to the nines in Capitol couture, but it was a start.  

“Why’d you come down here for me, anyway?” Haymitch asked. 

“If you die, I’ll have no friends and be the only mentor for these kids. Not exactly ideal,” you grumbled. You have no idea how Haymitch was able to handle mentoring the first five kids alone. Truly alone, since you know he has no family. It was one of the reasons you could almost forgive the obvious copious amounts of alcohol. If it wasn’t for the tributes relying on you, you’d probably drink yourself blind, too. 

“You have no friends? Sad,” Haymitch frowns. 

“We’ve been over this. And neither do you, so don’t get mouthy,” you retort. 

There’s enough sense in drunk Haymitch’s brain that tells him to stop talking, because he’s silent for the walk to the car and the drive to the train. You didn’t know why you felt so called out by his remark. You hadn’t had real friends in 12 since before winning your Games years ago. Haymitch was your only friend, though the lines on that relationship were blurry. He was unpredictable–swinging between wanting you around and pushing you away for weeks at a time. You didn’t know why you kept coming back or why he kept letting you in. Well, you had an inkling, but Reaping Day wasn’t exactly the best time to unpack that. Or any day, for that matter. 

It’s a short drive to the train station, and you arrive before the tributes do. The reporters from the Capitol are already there. No doubt they heard of the spectacle of Katniss volunteering and want to get pictures of her. You plaster your brightest smile and wave to them like they’re the friends you don’t have. The reporters love it, and the camera flashes sear your eyes like miniature suns. They call to you for questions –“ Who designed your outfit this year?!” “What do you think of Katniss Everdeen?!” “Will we see you at the Gala?! “– but you shake your head and gesture to the train as if saying “ gotta run! ”  They think you’re eager to start studying up on your tributes when in reality, you want nothing more than to get away from them. Your cheerful demeanor drops as soon as you get inside the train. The reminder of your ridiculous outfit has put you in a sour mood. It’s been 19 years since you won the Hunger Games, and President Snow still wants you dressed up like a showhorse.  A nice, pliant showhorse who loves its handlers. It doesn’t help that Haymitch has become sober enough to mock their words when inside. 

“Yes, I’d love to know who designed that outfit of yours,” Haymitch says in the ridiculous Capitol accent. In any other situation, it’d be funny, especially because of how good he was at it. Right now, you weren’t in the mood. 

“Shut up. I’m trying to read,” you snapped. The files for the tributes are given to the mentors when first arriving on the train and you try to read them before meeting the kids. 

“Well, excuse me, touchy subject,” Haymitch responded. He seems to realize this isn’t your usual banter and decides to exit. You’re sure he’s going to the bar car for the rest of the night. 

You try to put the conversation out of your mind and study up on the tributes. You start with Katniss Everdeen since looking at Peeta reminds you too much of his father. She’s sixteen, lives in the Seam, and has no special talents listed. Based on her appearance and the fact that she’s from the Seam, her only real advantage is that she knows how to be hungry. Still, she seems more well-fed than most from the Seam. She’s vaguely familiar, but everyone is vaguely familiar when you live in the smallest town in District 12. There’s nothing special about her besides the fact that she volunteered.

With a sigh, you move on to Peeta Mellark. Like you, Peeta is from the Town and is born into a family lucky enough not to have a coal mining job. He’s also sixteen and doesn’t have any useful talents listed. Baking is nice, but baking pretty cakes won’t get you far in the arena. To his credit, he’s broad and muscular. No doubt from hauling around all those bags of flour. He’s likely not missed any meals either being the baker’s son. 

On paper, Peeta Mellark stands a better chance than Katniss Everdeen. You have to admit they’re both hardier tributes than usual this year. Despite that knowledge, you push down any hope that you feel. District 12 has not had a winner in 19 years. And out of the two who did win, one cheated and the other through a mistake. The odds are not in District 12’s favor. 

****

When the tributes finally arrive, they’re much more eager than usual. Haymitch has abandoned you for the night so you’re to deal with them alone. Effie’s technically there, too, but she’s as helpful as Haymitch is six drinks deep when it comes to the Hunger Games. 

Peeta is the first to speak by asking for advice. Not wanting to overwhelm them on the first day, you tell him to slow down. 

“Have you two had anything to eat? The food is the only good part about this place,” you said. 

The two of them seem surprised at your dismissal of the Capitol. That tended to happen when you build your image around how amazing the Capitol and its people are compared to District 12. 

Peeta shakes his head no. 

“Eat first. Then strategy if you feel up to it. Or go to bed, since it’s been a long day,” you instruct.  Again, they eye you with disbelief at your kindness. Kids from 12 can never pass up a free meal, and for good reason, so they go eat their fill. 

It had been your rule to treat the tributes like this. Usually, you know they’re going to die, and so do they. You won’t try to delude them into thinking they could survive when they know they won’t. So you try to be as kind as possible to them. Let them eat their fill, comfort them when they’re scared. Give them enough advice to survive but not overwhelm them. Making their last days somewhat peaceful is your own quiet way of rebelling against the Games. It’s the only way you’re able to live with yourself as a mentor. The guilt that would eat you alive is the only thing stopping you from checking out the way Haymitch does. 

“How is it?” you asked. 

Both Katniss and Peeta had piled their plates with every food on the buffet table. You pick your comfort foods, indulging since it’s the worst few weeks of the year. 

“It’s good. I’ve never had anything like it,” Peeta finally speaks. Katniss says nothing. 

“I bet,” you smiled at him. He smiles back, and the second pang of sadness hits. He seems like a good kid. Katniss hasn’t said a word, seemingly weary of you. You don’t blame her. You wouldn’t have trusted yourself either when you were reaped. 

“So, how are we supposed to survive in the arena?” Peeta asked. He said it casually, like asking for advice on shoes and not a fight to the death. Again, his eagerness makes you think he might be a fighter. Both of them, if Katniss ever decides to speak again. 

“The most important thing is–,” your advice is cut off by Haymitch staggering in. He’s even worse than he was onstage. 

“Did I miss supper?” he slurred. 

Peeta stares at you like a deer in headlights. Katniss looks fiercely irritated and you’re not far behind. Before you can open your mouth to reprimand Haymitch, he opens his and vomits all over the plush carpet. And for the cherry on top, he slips and falls right into it. Wonderful.

You have half a mind to leave Haymitch right there. You’re not his keeper and you’ve already cleaned up his first drunken fall. The only thing that changes your mind is when Peeta of all people goes to help him up. You can’t let Peeta soldier through vomit-y Haymitch alone and it becomes a group effort to carry him. 

“This is the second time I’ve fucking done this today,” you seethed.

“I don’t know if I feel worse for you or Effie,” Peeta laughed a little. 

Katniss still says nothing. The expression on her face says enough – she’s utterly disgusted by it all, and for good reason. As soon as you get Haymitch to his compartment, she flees with Peeta’s permission. Again, you think that Peeta is a good kid. He’s kind just to be kind. You decide to spare Peeta the act of stripping Haymitch down and tell him to go back with Katniss. He looks relieved and thanks you before promptly leaving. 

You aren’t amused as you quite literally hose Haymitch down. The shower head detaches from the wall, and after taking his clothes off, you spray him with cold water. It was effective, but by the end Haymitch is shivering and you’re reminded of the stray dogs in 12 during a heavy downpour. You douse him in warm water before thrusting a robe on him. You wonder why you’re still able to feel sympathy as you tuck this grown man into bed. 

“If you throw up, I’m not coming back. You’re on your own,” you added for good measure. To convince yourself you don’t feel sorry for him. 

“So nice,” Haymitch mumbled, eyes closed. You think he’s being sarcastic until he tugs on your spandex. “Stay with me.” 

Shit.

You hated that you almost considered it. You tell yourself he’s drunk and none of this counted. It’s not like he says anything like this sober. 

“No,” you state baldly. 

Then you leave before your feelings of sorrow can turn into anything else.

In the morning, Peeta knocks the glass right out of Haymitch’s hand during breakfast and you’re pleasantly surprised. Even more so when Katniss joins in and drives the knife right into the table. You can see the gears working in Haymitch’s head over Effie’s hollering about the table. You’re both thinking the same thing. 

District 12 might stand a chance this year. 

And you can tell Haymitch is thinking that because he finally puts the flask away to inspect them. Katniss’s handiness with a knife and Peeta’s visible strength make them better contenders than most years.  

Your faith in them is further reinforced when Peeta takes to the advice of winning over the crowd. He’s waving and smiling to the Capitolites outside the train car as you pull into the station. He reminded you of yourself now. Katniss refuses, likely thinking herself above it all. Again, you don’t fault her for it, but you know firsthand that part of survival is getting the Capitol to love you. Your personal morals don’t exactly matter when you’re starving or bleeding and need a sponsor to save you.  

The arrival to the Capitol makes the fact that you’re about to suffer through another year of the Games official. The horde of people outside leaves no time for self pity. Reporters and fans alike are swarming on the other side of the train door. You take a deep breath, plaster on a smile, and step out onto the platform first. The station erupts in cheers as you come out. They increase tenfold when Katniss and Peeta follow close behind. Both your tributes are wide-eyed as they try to take it all in.  You stop to let them go ahead and then put your arms around them. 

“This is the easiest part. Just smile and wave,” you murmured to them. 

Only Peeta takes you up on that. The two of you wave as you make your way down the roped off path to the Tribute Center. The crowd responds gleefully, throwing flowers and calling your names. Peeta takes it all in stride, even catching a rose. A wave of disgust roils through you when he does. He’s only sixteen, and you’re no stranger to what the Capitol wants to do to charming tributes. Your ironed-on smile will melt if you keep looking at the crowd, so you glance back at Haymitch and Katniss. 

If you weren’t leading her to slaughter, the way her behavior mirrored Haymitch’s would be funny. Both of them are practically sulking behind you and Peeta. So much for coming off as likable. They clearly want nothing more than to get out of here. You feel the same way, but only one mentor in District 12 is allowed to show that, and it wasn’t you. 

“Are we almost there? My face hurts from smiling,” Peeta asked, not breaking his smile. 

“Another block,” you replied through grinning teeth. 

The last block is thankfully the most merciful. Everybody wants to be the first to get a glimpse at the shiny new tributes, so there’s less of a crowd the closer you get to the Tribute Center. 

You finally relax once you get to the elevator and know you’re away from the spotlight. Peeta does the same and rubs his sore jaw.

“If you think that was a lot, get ready for the next few hours,” Haymitch breaks the silence. 

Katniss’ stoicism finally breaks and she glances at you. She’s already figured out you’re the more reliable of the two.

“It’s just the stylists,” you add quickly. 

Your tributes seem to relax but not by much. You remember Haymitch’s command to them about not resisting. You want to tell them that it’s not so bad, but that would be a lie. The moment the door opens, the prep team descends on Katniss and Peeta like vultures.  You want to spend the least amount of time as possible with the prep team and immediately make a beeline for the dining room. 

It seems like every year the Capitol gets more excessive. You remember your own Games where you stayed in a mediocre apartment and were given three hearty meals a day. Now, there’s an entire feast laid out in front of you in a penthouse. And it’s only lunch. There are piles of cheeses with fruits, deep bowls of soups, sprawling beds of greens, and slices of cakes littered about the table. In the center of it all, there’s an entire stuffed lamb with the seal of Panem branded on it. The way it’s laid out reminds you too much of a Cornucopia, so you skip the protein and opt for a slice of cheesecake. 

“Healthy,” Haymitch commented. 

“So says the man who uses whiskey as creamer,” you retorted. But your tone has lost its bite from earlier. 

“Excuse you, I’m cutting back,” Haymitch replied. 

You raise your eyebrows at that and say nothing. 

“Don’t give me that look. I am, honest,” Haymitch said. He holds up the glassful of (shockingly) water and grins at you. 

First the tributes, now him. It seems like everyone is full of surprises these days. You cut into your cake and take a bite while you think about what that means. 

“So you believe in them this year,” you decided.

“I don’t see why not. The girl’s decent with a knife. And I have a feeling there’s more to her than she lets on,” Haymitch shrugged. It almost sounds like he’s made up his mind on which tribute to back more. 

“What about Peeta? They’re practically swooning over him already,” you said. 

“Knifing or making friends. Which do you think is more useful?” Haymitch asked sarcastically. 

“Obviously, the knives. But the crowd doesn’t know that, and Katniss isn’t exactly…approachable,” you replied. 

“We’ll work on that,” Haymitch said.

You give him another look that must be cutting because he backtracks slightly. 

“ And we’ll work on Peeta in the whole weapons department.” 

 “Fine.” 

“Fine.” 

“I’m gonna start tallying your drinks.” 

“Eat your cheesecake.” 

But he’s smirking and so are you. It was easy to go back and forth like this. It almost made you forget that the Tribute Parade was in a few hours and the Games in a few days. Almost.

The prep team assigned to District 12 this year is almost bearable. They’re miles better than what you or Haymitch had. You’re almost grateful to them as you stare in the mirror. 

Your makeup is mercifully subtle–small red and yellow wings on your eyelids that mimic flames and a slightly darker tint to your lips. Even your outfit was bearable this year. Your shirt buttons all the way up, your pants weren’t uncomfortably tight in certain places, and you were even allowed to wear boots instead of your typical footwear. You assume the new stylist, Cinna, must’ve taken pity on you after seeing what you were wearing for the Reaping. 

The walk to the Promenade isn’t far, and mentors are to arrive early for the Tribute Parade to get seating. Typically, the Capitol citizens get pay to sit in the very front. Behind them go the mentors, but Haymitch always insists on sitting further back. You don’t want to be alone, so you forgo the assigned seating to sit with him. You’ve figured out by now that something very bad must’ve happened during his Parade, because most years he stares at the ground until it’s over. 

“You ready?” you asked as you both emerged from your rooms. Haymitch is wearing whatever clean outfit they’ve forced him into. No makeup, since getting Haymitch to wear something decent is a battle in itself. And you have to admit he cleans up nicely. 

“Absolutely not,” Haymitch replies. He does a once over on you too but doesn’t comment on your outfit or makeup. 

Haymitch stops to fill his flask as the two of you leave together. He holds a finger up when you go to say something. 

“Just one, don’t get all worked up about it,” Haymitch says. 

To his credit, you haven’t seen him have anything since breakfast. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” you smile innocently and bat your eyelashes in the way a Capitolite would find genuine. You both know it’s a lie and he shakes his head and chuckles. 

That good mood dissipates as soon as you get to the stands for the Parade. The more the crowd fills in, the quieter Haymitch gets. You’re obligated to socialize with the citizens around you and dodge the questions about why on earth a Victor would sit here of all places. 

When the anthem swells and the chariots start to come down the Promenade, the crowd erupts. You crane your neck to see District 1 come by. They’re average for Careers–not much comfort considering they’ve been trained to kill since they could hold a spear. The real problem comes with District 2, carrying a huge boy and an equally deadly looking girl. The small semblance of hope you had felt earlier begins to wither. 

When District 4 becomes visible, you turn to make a comment about how awful their coral reef outfits look. Haymitch, however, is gripping the fabric of his pants and dripping with sweat. His eyes are locked onto the ground. 

“Hey, are you okay?” you ask, touching his shoulder gently. 

“Just tell me when it’s over,” he gets out. He doesn’t even look up. 

It’s early for him to shut down like this. You try not to look concerned and hope the people around you assume he’s just drunk. Your worry for Haymitch makes you hardly notice Districts 5 through 11.  The crowd’s enthusiasm has begun to dwindle as District 12 approaches. Your tributes’ outfits are plain black leotards and you wonder what Cinna was thinking when–

“They’ve caught on fire!” you shake Haymitch’s shoulder as you stand up. For a second, Haymitch looks utterly horrified, and you add “Not really! Just look!” 

Someone would be reasonable to assume the crowd had been set on fire too from the way they’re screaming. If you thought the attention on the train platform was decent, this was off the charts. The Promenade is soon filled with the chants of Katniss and Peeta’s names. When they run out of roses to throw, people begin tossing other belongings onto the road. In your almost 20 years of mentoring, you had never seen a reaction like this for 12. Not even when you and your District partner were paraded out half naked. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Haymitch breathes in disbelief. You felt the same way. 

Cinna was right. The Capitol would not forget District 12. He had laid the groundwork; now it was up to both of you to see it through. 

Chapter Text

The excitement in the air for District 12 is palpable. Effie is dripping with it throughout dinner. She even insists that the Careers don’t always win when Haymitch explains what they are. 

You fail to interject that it doesn’t matter to them if a Career loses if they’re already dead. Mainly because you want to let Katniss and Peeta eat dinner in somewhat peace. Dinner is luxurious as lunch, with roasted fish and truffle pastas and stews. There’s a full wineglass at each seat, even Katniss and Peeta’s. It doesn’t seem particularly fair to tell a kid they’re not old enough to drink when they’ll be dead in a few days. 

You internally kick yourself at that thought. District 12 might have a fighting chance this year and you need to change your mindset before you throw it away for them. Haymitch seems to be surprisingly ahead of you on that since he speaks about the Games first. 

“I hear you can shoot,” Haymitch commented. 

“I’m alright,” Katniss replied. It’s noncommittal. As if hunting isn’t one of the most valuable skills you could have in the arena. 

“She’s better than alright. She hits them right in the eye. Every time,” Peeta interrupts. 

That seems to anger Katniss because they begin to bicker. Katniss tries to play up Peeta’s physical strength as they go back and forth. Haymitch looks mildly amused with it all. Peeta is not, and he silences Katniss with a final outburst. 

“I have no chance of winning! None! My mother said District 12 might finally have a winner, and she wasn’t talking about me!” Peeta burst out. With that, he throws his napkin on the table and storms off. Moments later, Katniss does the same. 

“Well, that was informative,” Haymitch sighed. 

“I’ll go talk to him. You deal with Katniss,” you decided. 

“Oh, let her cool off. Besides, I’m eating,” Haymitch said. He gestures at his plate of food as if you’re blind. You stop to consider his words. Katniss, who’s been silent and mostly independent this whole time, might be better off left alone for the night. On the other hand, Peeta’s outburst seemed like a cry for help. 

“Fine, but I’m still talking to Peeta,” you said. 

You grab two plates, one for you and one for Peeta, since he didn’t finish dinner. You remember the pies on display in the Mellark bakery and pile on different slices. Some flavors accessible in 12 and some you could only get in the Capitol. By the time you find Peeta on the roof, you’re practically a walking bakery. 

You’re glad Peeta picked the roof of all places to sulk. He’s tucked away in the corner of the garden, staring down the glowing buildings through the glass fence. You wonder if he’s already figured out that it’s hard to overhear anything up here. When he realizes you’re there, he turns back around to stare at the cityscape below.  

“Leave me alone,” Peeta mumbles. 

You sit down anyway and put the plates of pie between you as a peace offering. It works because he turns again to look at them and then you. His eyes are rimmed with red, and his face is puffy. You’re stabbed with another spike of grief upon seeing it.   

“Try this one. It’s got a plant called coconut in it,” you said. 

“Coconut?” Peeta asked. 

“They’re like giant chestnuts. From District 4,” you explained. You think he’s not going to take until he speaks a moment later.  

“No fork?” Peeta asked. You clap your forehead when you realize you forgot them. 

“Shit. You’re gonna have to use your hands. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Effie,” you promise. You add a wink for good measure. 

That coaxes a small laugh out of him. He takes a bite from the coconut cream pie and chews thoughtfully.

“It’s…really good,” he admitted. You know it’s better than good. As much as you hate the Capitol, you can admit their food is delicious. You pick a slice of cherry pie and the two of you eat in silence, save the wind and city noise. You let Peeta get through his slice of coconut and halfway through a pecan before talking again. 

“Did your mother really say that to you?” you ask gently. 

“Yeah. She even said ‘ she’s a survivor’,” Peeta said, looking even more crestfallen as he spoke. 

You sigh and rub the back of your neck. Most of your tributes knew they were going to die going into the arena. And if they didn’t, it was your job to tell them, not their parents. What kind of mother says that to their child? 

“Do you…believe her?” you said. 

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want to win,” Peeta said miserably. He won’t look at you now. Just keeps staring at the city life passing by. You can’t blame him for that thought either. The only examples for a life after winning are you and Haymitch, and the two of you aren’t exactly living it up. Part of you wished Peeta did want to win, because now you have to ask the question you dread asking every year.

“Okay. If you don’t want to win, what do you want from the Games?” you ask. 

“...I guess…I don’t want them to change me,” Peeta says, “and…” He stops himself from continuing. 

“And?” you prompt him to keep going. 

“I…I want to you to help Katniss win. Instead of me,” Peeta said. 

You have to pause at that. You have never had a request like that in all your years of mentoring. Protect their District partner, sure, but not over themself. 

“ Instead of you?” you questioned.

Suddenly, it all comes rushing out. How he’s been in love with Katniss since kindergarten and she has no idea. The bread and the pig. The way she can sing. The effect he thinks she has on people.

“I won’t be able to live with myself if I let you choose me over her,” Peeta finishes. 

“Are you sure? When it comes down to it in the arena, you might change your mind–,” you start to say.

“I know it’s what I want! Train us separately if you don’t want to tell her, but you have to help her win! Please!” Peeta pleaded. 

One look at him made you know there was no convincing him otherwise. 

“Okay. If that’s what you really want, and it comes down to it, we’ll help Katniss over you,” you relented. 

The gratitude in Peeta’s eyes when you say that makes your heart break. 

“Look who’s back. Did eating your feelings together help?” Haymitch asked when you finally returned from the roof. Your plates are considerably lighter than when you went up there. Your heart, however, is considerably heavier. 

“No, it made things worse!” you whispered. Even though Katniss’s room is much further down the hall, you’re irrationally afraid she or other listening ears might hear you. You sit at the seat closest to Haymitch’s and lean in to whisper into his ear.

“Peeta’s completely in love with her! He was just begging me for us to save her over him!”

Haymitch leans back. He doesn’t say anything for a minute or two, clearly deep in thought. 

“This could be good for them,” he finally decided aloud. 

Your initial reaction is to ask how much wine he had while you were gone. Then you thought about it more and realized he was right. Haymitch probably saw the initial doubt come across your face, because he leans in close enough to feel his breath on your ear. 

“Think about it. The whole point of the Games is to entertain. What could be more entertaining than star-crossed lovers?” Haymitch murmured. “You know they’ll love it.” 

“They would,” you admitted. You know all too well that sponsors are the difference between life and death. When they find out your tributes are in love, they’ll be lining up at the door for the first time since you won. Haymitch falls silent again and the two of you sit there brainstorming. 

“Then his interview’ll be his best shot to tell everyone,” Haymitch decided. “She’s got no idea, does she?” 

“None,” you confirmed. 

“Good. It’ll look more realistic when he says it,” Haymitch said. 

Then he leans back like the two of you weren’t just swapping secrets on how to exploit a sixteen year old boy’s crush on live television. At that thought, you feel a rush of guilt. To be in love with someone like that and the opposite party having no idea sounds awful. You couldn’t imagine. 

Right? 

No, you decide, you couldn’t imagine it. And even if you could, you’re not the one having it exposed live to the entire country right before you go fight to the death. 

“It’s for their own good,” Haymitch added, as if he could hear your thoughts. The way he says it isn’t like the way Effie insists the Hunger Games are for the greater good. The two of you are just trying to figure out how to get them to survive like every mentor does. And this is one of the tamer ways to do it. 

You had to give Haymitch credit for coming up with this angle. It had been his idea to ask the tributes what they wanted from the Games besides surviving. And the confession idea is twisted, but it’s genius. Two star-crossed lovers from the poorest District in Panem, fighting for their lives in a game where only one of them can go home. The Capitol will devour it. 

You think that for all the drunken foolishness Haymitch gets up to, he’s still a smart man.

*****

The worries you were having for Katniss’ portion of the interview are dispelled when she scores an eleven.
An eleven is phenomenal–even if she tanks the interview, an eleven means she’ll have sponsors no matter what. And the interview is where you have a feeling District 12 would make its mark. 

Even better, your outfit for the interviews is mercifully normal by Capitol standards. Between this and the Tribute Parade, you have decided you like Cinna. Most of the focus in your outfit is on the accessories. Earrings with little fire charms, orange and red bracelets on your wrists, and a necklace that has a gradient of jewels that brings the idea of flames. Cinna was obviously riding on the success of the coal-burning aesthetic from the Parade. 

Success that you would have a hard time believing if the evidence wasn’t right in front of you. The theater for the interviews is packed to the gills. And it felt like every other minute someone came by to comment on how amazing your tributes were and how they hope they don’t die right away like usual. The last part made your Capitol assigned smile harder to maintain. By the fourth ignorant comment, your face is back to hurting and your mood isn’t much better.  Luckily, the lights go out when the first interview gets close and you can relax slightly. Only slightly. 

The Caesar Flickerman show is overwhelming no matter which side of it you were on. The speakers are deafening because of the mentor’s proximity to the stage. The crowd can’t even drown Caesar’s voice out as they cheer when he calls for District 1.   

   The girl is wearing a completely see through dress that makes you want to vomit. The boy reminds you too much of your own interview with the way he praises the Capitol. His angle wasn’t starstruck country boy, though. It was a trained killer who was grateful for the opportunity the Capitol gave him to be here. 

The two of them are too much of a reminder of what you experienced in the Capitol. 

The rush of bad memories makes focusing on the interviews difficult. Flashes of sponsors who thought they deserved something for helping you win come to mind. Then its friends who weren’t after the way you talked about District 12. Soon, Haymitch is the one shaking your shoulder to pay attention this time. In the dim of the theater, you can see concern written on his face, so you try to mask your feelings for the rest of the interviews. Districts 2 through 10 blur by, almost unmemorable besides Cato and Clove. When the girl named Rue comes out for District 11,  the theater is completely silent. 

She could pass as ten years old for how tiny she is. Caesar does his best to play up the little strength she has and downplay her weaknesses, but you know it’s no use. The fact she’s as sweet as can be furthers your misery.. The boy is the total opposite. Thresh is huge and as deadly looking as Cato, and you know people are already clamoring to sponsor him. You wonder how you didn’t notice him before and what might happen to him if he wins when Haymitch elbows you again. 

“Hey! Get it together, she’s up,” Haymitch whispered sharply. Despite the new pain in your side, he looks genuinely concerned for you before looking to the stage. You do the same, ready to see your tributes. 

Katniss’ interview is decent until the end. She gets the audience to laugh, takes a jab at Haymitch which ends up with the two of you waving for the cameras, and talks about her score. The most memorable part is the end. You’re starting to get the feeling that Cinna is some sort of pyromaniac because again, her dress bursts into flames as she twirls around. Just like that, her interview goes from decent to noteworthy. 

The Capitol loses its mind at the dress the same way it did at the Parade. They cheer until Caesar has to shush them because her three minutes aren’t up. You have to admit, you’re almost grateful to Caesar when he asks Katniss about her sister.  He’s good at making tributes from every District look good. Or like fools, depending on what mood he’s in. Then it’s Peeta’s turn, and you’re on the edge of your seat. Even with all your coaching, there’s still a chance he could chicken out and not say it. 

“Cross your fingers,” Haymitch mumbled. He looks just as on edge as you are.

You’re even more grateful when Caesar asks the question about girls back at home for Peeta. So far, Peeta’s interview has been mostly unmemorable compared to the other boys. Then you think Caesar only asked because Peeta’s good looking. You’re brought back to the idea of tributes’ physical desirability, and the sick feeling begins to return. You can’t afford to clock out this time, so you force yourself to pay attention.

“Well, there is one girl…I’ve had a crush on her forever, but I don’t think she noticed me until the Reaping,” Peeta admits. He has the perfect amount of bashfulness that the audience loves. And draws it out just enough to get Caesar to keep asking. He’s a natural. 

“Well, tell you what. You win, you go home, and then she can’t turn you down,” Caesar said. 

“I don’t think winning’ll help me in this case,” Peeta replied. He looks to the side again, seemingly uncomfortable. 

“And why not?” Caesar asked. 

“Because she came here with me,” Peeta said. 

The effect Peeta has on the crowd is the complete opposite of Katniss. You could hear a pin drop in the theater after his confession. Again, to Caesar’s credit, he’s silent for a moment so the audience can absorb it. The cameras flash between Peeta’s sullen face, then yours and Haymitch’s. The two of you managed to look surprised. 

Then, the audience explodes again. Not cheering, but furious whispers and chattering. You’re sure every single person in this auditorium is talking about poor Peeta Mellark. 

Caesar concludes the interview and promises a recap later tonight, but you doubt anyone at this point cares about the other Districts. Haymitch was right; all the attention is on District 12’s star-crossed lovers. The two of you have to weave through a crowd begging for more details to escape the theater. It lifts your spirits slightly, the attention means that you’re sure to get sponsors and the look on Haymitch’s face as people try to ask questions is amusing. When you finally escape to the elevator, he pulls out a flask that was hidden in his jacket. He side eyes you, assumedly expecting for you to chastise him. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Not gonna lecture me?” he asked in return. 

You roll your eyes at that. He seemed to take it as permission and took a long swig. 

It’s not that you were on him about drinking. In the beginning, when you both were fresh mentors, you tried. But it was useless, and you had soon learned you can’t save everybody. Or anybody, really. 

 Plus, Haymitch seemed to be taking his promise about drinking seriously enough, waiting until the Games-related activities were over for the day to get hammered. 

“Be grateful our idea worked,” you replied. 

“ My idea,” Haymitch corrected.

“Your idea and my coaching,” you said. 

Haymitch realizes he can’t argue with that and shrugs to acknowledge it. With all the focus on District 12 in the past few days, even he had to admit that the two of you made a good team. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily that night with the Games being the next day. You’re plagued with dreams of Bloodbaths–yours, the previous years, and fresh ones your imagination creates. It’s bad enough that in the morning, you add two double shots of espresso to your coffee with copious amounts of cream and sugar. The guilt that you’re able to enjoy this while your tributes might never drink coffee again causes you to dump it down the sink halfway through. 

You force yourself to pull it together long enough to walk Peeta to the hovercraft landing for the Games. Haymitch had insisted on going with Katniss, and after all the time training Peeta separately, it felt right to say goodbye to him. This time, you’re the only one talking. It’s silent save for the hum of the elevator and your voice. 

“Find water first. And making allies is helpful, but you don’t have to.”

Peeta just stares at you. You feel like an idiot. Obviously, he’d want to ally with Katniss. 

“Don’t go for the weapons in the Cornucopia. But try to grab at least something on the outskirts so you’re not defenseless. And don’t step off the pedestal early.”

Again, he’s silent. The doors open, and you both step onto the roof. You turn to face him and put your hands on his shoulders. 

“Look, I know everyone is talking about Katniss. ‘The Girl on Fire’ is neat, but I believe in you too, okay?” you finished. You think Peeta had better speak now or forever hold his peace, because the doors would open soon, and then you might never see him again. 

“...thank you,” Peeta said, voice wavering. Then he hugs you. You hug him tight and he’s trembling beneath you. It’s not the first time a tribute has hugged you and you’re sure it won’t be the last. Still, it makes your eyes burn and anger simmer. You think you’ve never hated the Capitol more than right now.

But there’s nothing you can do about it. Powerless, you let go of Peeta, pat his shoulder, and turn around. You can’t bring yourself to watch him get into the hovercraft. You spend the elevator ride down staring at your reflection in the mirror. How many times have you ridden in here, staring at yourself after sending a child to their death? 

It feels like hundreds, but only eighteen. Ninteen, including today. 

Maybe not. You know there’s a chance one of them could win. If everything goes right. And if they win? Then what? The life of a Victor is like being in a velvet arena.

You’re regretting dumping that coffee down the sink now. You can’t tell if the headache you have is from trying not to cry or the lack of caffeine. The brave face you put on for Peeta crumbles, and you’ve started spiraling by the time you get to the ground floor. Lost in your thoughts of what the arena holds, you don’t realize your co-mentor is getting out of the elevator next to you until he’s almost right on top of you. You look up and he looks less upset than you, but still uncomfortable. 

“You alright?” Haymitch asked. Again, it’s tinged with the same concern from last night. 

“Just doesn’t get any easier,” you mumbled. 

“Might be different,” Haymitch said. As you talk, he brushes his arm against yours. You’re sure he means it in a comforting way, but the touch left you feeling warmer than before. God, you needed some coffee. You weren’t thinking straight. 

“Hope so,” you get out. You don’t trust yourself to say anything more. 

Thankfully, Haymitch is silent for the rest of the walk. The city streets are empty this early in the morning. Anyone who is awake is likely preparing for the celebrations to come. The Capitol had all sorts of parties for the commencement of the Games, but mentors were only strictly required to attend a few of them unless told otherwise. Today was to be spent in the Game Headquarters. 

The Headquarters were a facility designed for mentors once sponsorship became a major contender in the Games. Each District’s mentor has their own private viewing room with access to live feeds different than the general audience. Besides the one everyone gets to watch, you get two additional livestreams that specifically follow the mentor District’s tributes 24/7. Along with that, several digipads to monitor the District’s sponsor-funded bank account and select what items to gift and when. Oh, and a good amount of tissues, so you don’t even have to leave the room when your tribute dies. 

They tell you it’s a state of the art facility. The rooms are sleek and futuristic, with holographic screens as tall as you are. There’s an endless supply of food and drink, rooms if you want to stay overnight, and even an exercise facility. To you, it’s just another reminder of how the Games have taken over all of your lives. 

The only good part about Headquarters is that you’re finally free from prying eyes. Even sponsors aren’t allowed inside. As horrible as being inside of it is, it’s a brief respite from the pressure to perform for the Capitol. In the District 12 room, it’s just you and Haymitch. And the Avoxes, but they’re just as much victims as you are. One of them tries to take your coat when you make it to Headquarters, but you refuse. You’ve always felt wrong about ordering them around unless you had to, and you can carry your own coat. 

Like everything else in the Games, District 12’s room is last, the furthest away from the entrance. You’re already tired physically and mentally, and to make matters worse, there’s no coffee pot in your room this year. 

You flop down on the leather couch in the center of the room, defeated. The gong isn’t for another 30 minutes, and you close your eyes to dull the throbbing in your skull. You ignore Haymitch rifling through the minibar and try not to think about what might happen in the next hour. 

Finally, the need for caffeine wins over your desire to stay hidden. You sit up with a sigh, wondering why they couldn’t have put a damn coffee pot in here. After rubbing your eyes, they fall on Haymitch, who’s refilling his flask to as high it can go. . 

“You look like you could use some,” Haymitch commented mildly. 

“I need coffee,” you groaned. Haymitch blinks as if he’s recalling something and then goes back to pouring his drink without a word. Your headache trumps your curiosity, and you leave before you can ask him what was wrong.

You’re not in the mood to talk to old friends, so you go to the refreshment area for the coffeepot to avoid asking from room to room. You make it to watching the coffee brew when District 1’s door slides open. Cashmere appears, for once without her brother.  Like the rest of you, she’s dressed casually, and it’s strange seeing her look so normal. It seems like she’s looking for someone else–Enobaria, maybe– and you’re hoping she won’t notice when she zeroes in on you. 

“Twelve!” Cashmere calls to you. Why can’t she just use your name?

“Cashmere,” you nodded. You don’t bother with the happy personality you put on during public appearances. It was too early and everyone here knows it’s an act anyway. Cashmere approaches you regardless.

“You must be in a good mood this year. We’re all jealous of the way your girl stole the show, you know. An eleven! And that dress!” Cashmere gushed. 

There’s no escaping her since you’re stuck waiting for your coffee to finish. Cashmere was polite enough, but it was hard not to resent the Career Districts. Even if they were just trying to survive, there was always a degree of superiority with them. Especially towards District 12, the District with the least amount of winners. That and the fact that she was okay with sending her girl up there practically naked was causing your rise in annoyance. Cashmere knew what happened to Victors like that, because she was one herself. Why would she do that to her girl? 

“Yeah, well, not all of us can rely on sex appeal,” you said sharply. Then you realize what just came out of your mouth and stare at the pot again. This caffeine withdrawal was dangerous. All the things you tried to shove down kept popping out and making you do crazy things. Like starting an argument with one mentor and feeling sappy over the other.  

“Relying on that’ll keep her alive,” Cashmere said coolly. “Remind me how many Victors your District has again? Two?”

You don’t bother correcting her that there are actually three, because what is it compared to the dozens in 1? Maybe she was right. One of the stronger tributes could take out Katniss and Peeta, and then you’d be watching Glimmer or Cato or Clove take the crown.  

Luckily, the drip of the coffee stops before you can say anything else foolish. Instead, you dully wish her Happy Hunger Games and retreat to your room. You tell yourself to forget her and her comments. Your tributes were more important now. 

  There are ten anxious minutes until the Bloodbath begins. You spend the first five trying to enjoy the hot drink and pretend this isn’t happening. Haymitch seems to be doing the same with something stronger. 

When Claudius Templesmith starts the five minute countdown onscreen, you’re both forced to pay attention. They don’t show the arena until there are two minutes left, so you do your usual last minute routine of taking inventory of pre-Games sponsor credits and bets on the digipad. The sponsor number typically reads in the low hundreds, with a few loyal District 12 fans who donate regardless of the odds. 

When it’s quadruple digits, you do a double take. 

“A thousand?” you read out loud in disbelief. 

“Well, look at that. We can buy one of them some water,” Haymitch said.

“Our strategy is working ,” you insisted. 

How much money did Glimmer and Marvel get? you want to ask Cashmere.  Certainly not much more than your tributes. The sponsors were a good sign, even if Haymitch was too jaded to admit it. Or, more likely, he was trying to come off that was in case they did die in the Bloodbath. You’re sure his way of protecting himself is to not get attached to the tributes, but it seemed more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else this year. 

Claudius reminds you that there’s two and a half minutes left and you both direct your focus towards the biggest screen. This is the last thirty seconds of peace you’ll have for the coming days or weeks. You stare at the timer, bracing yourself for the reveal of whatever horrors the Gamemakers have managed to conjure up this year. The thousand credits linger in your mind as the clock counts down. At two minutes, you’ve made up your mind.

Forget the odds. This year, the Games are going to be different for District 12. They had to be,

for all four of your sakes.