Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haymitch looks out across the meadow, heart aching to see his girl. She's there in the tall grass, surrounded by her geese, and shouting back at her uncles. He feels like his heart might burst at the sight of her, and he takes off running. She sees him in an instant and a smile spreads wide across her pretty face.

"Haymitch!" she cries, running into his arms. Haymitch picks her up and swirls her around until they're both dizzy, tears of relief pricking at the corners of his eyes.

"I'm so happy to see you, Lenore Dove," he cries into her shoulder. She holds him tight, and he forces away images of losing her. He presses close, moving his head until he can hear her heartbeat in his ear. It soothes away some of the ache from his homecoming. He never wants to let her go.

A goose— an older one that has decided it hates Haymitch— nips at the back of his thigh. Haymitch startles and just barely resists swatting it away. Lenore Dove laughs and oh, what a lovely sound it is, and pulls him to sit on her boulder. They have to untangle themselves to sit, and that's when Lenore Dove spots something tucked away in the grass.

"Oh, Haymitch," she sighs in awe, picking up a small sack. It's familiar, and Haymitch doesn't bother to fight away his grin. Lenore Dove looks into the bag and pulls out a red, sweet gumdrop. "Another bag? You're so sweet."

There's a moment of confusion as Haymitch processes her words. Another? Without much thought, his hand comes up to her wrist. She's just about put the gumdrop in her mouth but pauses at the touch.

"Haymitch?"

"Another bag? What other bag?" he asks. Speaking the words out loud seems to solidify his fear, turning the blood in his veins to ice.

Lenore Dove's face pinches together in confusion. The gumdrop remains forgotten between her fingers. "The bag that Sid gave me, on Reaping day."

Enjoy your homecoming, Snow had said. Ma and Sid were already gone, having paid the price for Haymitch's actions. The reality of his punishment dawns on him and his diet of milk and bread almost comes up his throat. He quickly smacks the bag out of Lenore Dove's hands and swipes the one from her hand.

"Don't—" he says in a panic. "Don't eat those."

"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice a mirror of his.

Haymitch realizes, staring across at his fearful girl, that he cannot remain by her side. Not when Snow has so clearly marked her for death. He stands, drawing his hands into himself as if afraid to touch her. And, in a way, he is— his hands have already seen death and continue to spread it to whatever he touches.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. It's barely audible and he repeats himself. "I'm so sorry, Lenore Dove."

She stands and reaches out for him. He lets her for this final time, letting her hands cup his cheeks and provide a last comfort. Lenore Dove looks on the verge of tears, and Haymitch knows he's already crying. The proximity of her death is too close for him to bear.

"You have to go," he rasps. He forces the words through his tight throat. "You have to leave Twelve."

Fear turns back into confusion, and then twists into bewilderment. "Leave? Where will we go?"

"Not us," Haymitch corrects, even if its killing him. "You. You and your uncles— you have to leave Twelve, it's not safe here for you."

She begins to shake her head, defying his request even if his desperation is written clear on his face. He repeats himself, over and over, until he hears Clerk Carmine calling from behind him. Lenore Dove tightens her grip on him, urging him to stay close. It's as if she already knows what Haymitch will do. Haymitch does manage to break away from her and turn to Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber.

"You have to take Lenore Dove away from Twelve," he says without hesitation. Whatever Clerk Carmine was about to say dies on his lips. "Please. It's not safe for her here. Snow— he'll kill her. He almost has, please."

As if to prove his words as true, a goose honks loudly. They turn and see one perched over the discarded bag of gumdrops. Lenore Dove cries out and goes to aid her, the goose's feathery body convulsing and spasming. Blood begins to spray from the creature's mouth before she collapses in a heap into Lenore Dove's arms.

Haymitch returns his attention to Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber. "Please! He's already tried to poison her, he already got Ma and Sid. You can't stay in Twelve, please believe me."

He watches as an array of emotions cross across the men's faces. Tam Amber's expression settles into something hard, carved out of stone, and he places his hands on Haymitch's shoulders. His voice is low when he speaks. "Relax, Haymitch. We know what happened to your home was an accident. We'll be alright."

"No, you don't understand—" Haymitch begins to plead. Tam Amber cuts him off with a shh and a shake of the shoulders.

"Haymitch," he says sharply. He waits until Haymitch looks him in the eye. "Do you trust us?"

That gets Haymitch to pause. They don't have a particularly close relationship— there's no real reason for Haymitch to trust them other than the fact they're related to his girlfriend. The way Tam Amber speaks, however, and the way he's holding Haymitch's gaze… The Covey are performers. They know how to play games and act for the camera. Luckily for them, Haymitch has had plenty of practice playing the game too.

"Please," he repeats, shaking his head. He lifts his hands to grasp onto Tam Amber's wrists, and squeezes twice. He can only hope the man gets the message. "Take her and run— I don't know where, but just not here. It's not safe."

Lenore Dove returns to his side. Her hands are a welcome weight on his skin. Haymitch turns to her, stepping away from Tam Amber, and puts on a pleading show with her.

"I can't protect you," he cries. The grief and sorrow are real, pushing against his chest like thorns. "I can't save you if you stay in Twelve with me. I'm sorry."

Haymitch would love to hear his love speak again— beg him to stay, convince him she'll stay safe, anything— but he knows he would crumble. He takes her face into his hands and presses one last kiss to her lips, effectively silencing her. He knows she'll swear him in the following days for this. How dare you, Haymitch Abernathy, she'll say, for taking my goodbye away from me.

He pulls away and pushes her towards her uncles, surprising her into another pause. He's thankful to Clerk Carmine now, for grabbing her and keeping her close as Haymitch begins to run across the meadow.

"Haymitch!" she calls after him. She continues to call his name, pleading for him to come back. Her voice becomes shrill and despairing, and Haymitch was right, His heart breaks in two, and he leaves half of it with Lenore Dove in the meadow.

✧✧✧✧

Haymitch hears from Burdock the next day that the Baird house was found empty that morning. Peacekeepers had gone for a "routine inspection" (though no such thing exists), and found the home abandoned. Haymitch thanks anything he can think of that Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine heeded his words, and prays to Lenore Dove's stars that she will be kept safe.

He tries to drive Burdock and Blair away as well. They refuse to listen despite his attempts to convince them. Nothing he says is effective, and the pair continue to deliver him news from Twelve or various supplies he needs to stay alive. Burdock even goes as far to visit Hattie for him, bringing him a bottle of white liquor. Asterid sends him with sleep syrup as well, and Haymitch alternates which he drinks for the day.

Days turn into weeks, and the immediate worry that the Bairds will be found dulls into a quiet background noise. He doubts that, if they were located, that he'd be kept in the dark about it for so long. Snow wants to hurt them to punish him, and he can't feel pain if he doesn't know about it. Weeks bleed into months, and it's not until Haymitch is summoned to the Capitol that the fear of Lenore Dove's discovery returns to haunt him.

✧✧✧✧

The Heavensbee Manor is just as grand as he remembers it. He feels small against it, even though he's become accustomed to his own large house. The Manor outshines any of Victor Village's homes by far, and Haymitch feels sick stepping across the threshold. He's met by Plutarch Heavensbee himself and greeted with a dazzling smile.

"Welcome back, Haymitch," Plutarch grins. His arms are spread wide, welcoming Haymitch into his home. He wraps an arm around Haymitch's shoulders and leads him further in. The arm remains around Haymitch until they reach a finely decorated living room. "Please, have a seat."

Haymitch sits on one end of an absurdly large, ridiculously plush couch. It sinks under his weight. Plutarch sits far too close to him.

"Why am I here?" he asks. He'd rather skip the niceties and jump right into the meat of it.

Plutarch continues to smile at him as if they're simply having a nice chat. "You're here on an invite, Haymitch. Relax— there's no Hunger Games involved this time. Unless you count your merit as a Victor, but that's really the only relation."

Haymitch narrows his eyes at the man. Thankfully, Plutarch continues without much prompting.

"I'm going to a party tonight," he says warmly. "I've invited you here to accompany me. This will be your first party after the Victory Tour, if I'm right?"

Haymitch nods stiffly, wondering if he'll be dressed up and locked away in a birdcage again.

"Wonderful," Plutarch smiles, either not noticing Haymitch's discomfort or choosing to ignore it altogether. "I've already picked out something for you to wear."

"Is that it?" Haymitch asks. "I'm just here… for a party?"

"Well, it is your first proper party," Plutarch says as if it's any explanation. "There will be plenty of Capitol citizens there that will be pleased to see you. While it won't be your party, I'm sure you'll be a jewel. People have missed seeing your face!"

Haymitch can't help but feel that Plutarch's manner of speaking is different than before. He glances around but sees nobody lurking in corners. He looks back at Plutarch with an expression he hopes gets his concern across. Plutarch's sharp eyes bore into his, and he winks with another brilliant smile. Always smiling, as if he's on camera.

"Why don't you go ahead and get changed?" Plutarch suggests with a pat to Haymitch's knee. "I'll have someone come by to help you get ready, but we're in a bit of a rush. No time for chatting."

And there it is, Haymitch thinks as Plutarch leads him to a guest bedroom. He still doesn't trust the man, per se, but he knows that Plutarch is more than happy to speak freely. If he's so buttoned-up in his own home, Haymitch wonders if he's done something to get into Snow's bad books.

The outfit laid out for him is in a rich shade of purple. It's a three-piece suit like the one he wore to the interviews with Flickerman. The jacket and pants are the same shade of purple, soft and smooth to the touch, embroidered with fine golden thread. The undershirt is a lighter shade of lilac, with a chain connecting the lapels together. It looks rather gaudy, but Plutarch insists this is what he wears. Haymitch does as asked, changing into the suit with only some struggle. It's awkward to figure out how to reattach the lapel's chains, but he's just figured it out when Plutarch knocks on the door. When Haymitch opens it, Plutarch is standing there with Proserpina. She's all smiles and giddy energy, and practically knocks Haymitch over with her makeup bag when she flings herself at him.

"There he is!" she coos, wrapping him up in a hug. "My beautiful Victor!" She pulls away to look at him properly. "Thanks to you, I was able to graduate with honors. Me! Oh, Haymitch, you were such a delight to work with."

She gives him a kiss on the cheek, her magenta lipstick leaving a smear on his skin, before leading him to the vanity chair. Plutarch trails along behind them, fidgeting with a box in his hands. Haymitch tries to keep up with Proserpina's energy as much as possible, but his confusion and dread for the night are making him lag behind. He's still not certain that he won't learn of Lenore Dove's doom tonight.

His stylist sprays something into his hair and works it through his hair. When she's happy with how his hair is laid, the curls revived and springy, she moves on to makeup. She fusses over the state of his skin, rubbing something into his face that leaves him feeling a bit oily. It's as she's applying a light dusting of something sparkly on the high points of his face that Haymitch realizes Plutarch is still standing nearby.

"What's that?" he asks, looking at the flat box in his hands.

"This is for you," Plutarch says slowly. Something in his tone sets Haymitch's nerves one step to the right. Not enough to make him nervous, but enough to make him suspicious.

Plutarch steps closer to the vanity and opens the box for Haymitch to see inside. The box is lined with a plush velvet, with a sparkling necklace sitting in the center. The chain is thick— over an inch wide— and made of a woven golden metal. There's a jewel in the middle of it, oval and a rich honey-gold that refracts the light beautifully. It's easily the most expensive piece of jewelry Haymitch has ever seen up close, let alone be gifted.

"I can't possibly wear that," he finds himself saying. It sounds harsh, so he adds, "It's too nice."

"Yes, well." Plutarch clears his throat awkwardly. "It's only fitting for a Victor gifted to the Heavensbees. I must prove I… deserve you, after all."

Proserpina has to bite back a giggle. Haymitch can't say he feels like giggling— instead, he feels his face flush with something between humiliation and indignance.

"I'm not wearing that," he reasserts. Impulsively, he adds, "It looks like a collar."

"That's a bit of the point," Plutarch confesses. He doesn't look particularly proud to do so, despite his next words. "Not just anyone gets gifted a Victor directly from President Snow. It's an honor for the both of us."

The mention of Snow sends a cold thrill down Haymitch's spine. Snow hasn't been brought up once since he's arrived at the Manor, despite Haymitch wondering what his role in Haymitch's presence has been. Now he knows— he's been gifted to Plutarch, whatever that means.

"…What do you mean, 'gifted?'" he asks, unsure if he actually wants the answer.

Plutarch sets the necklace down in front of him. He takes a moment to adjust the jewel on the cushion, and Haymitch knows he's stalling for time.

"How many rumors have you heard about a Victor's fate after they win the Games?"

Haymitch thinks for a moment. "Not much. Nobody's around to spread rumors."

"And you didn't hear any from your time in the Capitol?"

He thinks back to Drusilla's comment towards Maysilee, and the suspicion slowly turns into dread. "Drusilla said that she couldn't wait to see Maysilee win. But… it wasn't a compliment. It sounded like a threat."

Plutarch nods thoughtfully. He finishes fussing over the necklace and turns to Haymitch more fully. "Victors, when they are well-liked by the Capitol, are sometimes gifted to a particular citizen. In our case, President Snow gifted you to me for my contribution to the 50th Hunger Games."

When Haymitch does not have a comment, he continues.

"I, as your… escort," he pauses around this word, uncertain, "get to determine how I utilize your presence. In public, Victors are paraded around at parties, dressed up and shown off, and occasionally appear in a advertisement or two." Plutarch waves dismissively. "I don't have much desire to do anything like that. Unless my funds begin to rely on selling something, you won't have to appear on camera again. Not from me, at least."

"Oh, I loved seeing Porter's cameos for the Vickers Group," Proserpina gushed. "They did remarkable work on her spine reconstruction. I hear she was gifted to them, as thanks."

Haymitch chews on the description of his new role for a few moments. "So… I just have to go to this party and look pretty?"

Plutarch hesitates again, this time adjusting the collar of his shirt as if it's too tight. "For tonight, yes. That's the plan."

The golden yellow jewel beckons him from the vanity. He eyes it with no small amount of disdain. "And you want me to wear a collar?"

He gets a half-hearted shrug. "The others might not know to keep their hands off. If you don't want to wear it, I suggest staying by my side all night. You don't have to, of course— I won't punish you for exploring. You might just dislike the consequences."

Haymitch frowns at the man. He's not a fan of whatever Plutarch is trying to imply, but he's less of a fan of being trapped all night. While it wouldn't be in a fancy birdcage, being forced to follow one person around makes him feel too much like a leashed puppy. Especially if that person is as flamboyant as Plutarch— Haymitch fully expects the man to put on a show of Haymitch's presence.

"I might take my chances," he mutters. A look passes across Plutarch's face almost too quickly for Haymitch to catch. It's gone before Haymitch can truly decipher it.

"Very well," Plutarch says warmly. He picks the box up and tucks it into an inner pocket on his suit jacket. He pats it with a smile to Haymitch, as if saying It's here when you change your mind. Haymitch doesn't acknowledge the gesture, instead focusing on Proserpina finishing up his makeup for the night.

✧✧✧✧

The party is hosted at a mansion larger than Heavensbee Manor, which is saying a lot. It's so expansive that Haymitch can't properly see where the yard ends. He and Plutarch are driven to the front entrance where they're led to a spacious ballroom. Lights sparkle overhead and polite chatter can be heard from all angles. Haymitch can practically taste the food with how rich the scents are in the air.

"Plutarch!" a woman greets them. She approaches them, adjusting the monstrously huge feather boa around her shoulders. She kisses Plutarch on the cheeks and speaks to him without acknowledging Haymitch. "I'm so glad you could make it. You know, my grandmother used to be friends with your uncle! She would have loved to host you in our home."

"Yes, I seem to recall," Plutarch smiles. "He used to tell us that she could host a very extravagant party. Told us the pastries and drinks were to die for."

This gets a laugh out of the woman. The chortle seems far too fake for Haymitch, but it's not long before she finally turns her attention on him. She pretends to just now notice him, gasping and clasping a hand on his shoulder. Her long nails bite into him through the fabric of his suit.

"And you!" she croons. "Look how handsome you are! We've been missing your face around here."

She goes to pat his cheek when Plutarch says, "Yes, I'm very honored to have him. President Snow seemed to believe he was an appropriate reward for my directing work on the Games."

There must be something else about being gifted, Haymitch thinks, because her hand freezes before she touches him again. He thinks he watches the woman blush (though it's hard to tell under her makeup and purple rouge) and hesitate. She doesn't withdraw her hand quite yet, and it stays hovering in Haymitch's periphery.

"How darling," she says. There's a heavy undercurrent of jealousy in her tone. "And you debuted him at my party? I'm absolutely honored. Tell me, will you be sharing him?"

The question sends an unexpected zip of terror through Haymitch, despite it being fairly innocent. Was his presence not considered sharing? Would he have to try on other garish outfits picked out by Capitol citizens, or be forced to wear ugly jewelry? Oh, he hoped not.

"Not tonight," Plutarch says. He chuckles and Haymitch can't help but jolt when his hand finds Haymitch's back. It settles just above his pant line, wrapping around his hip. "You know us Heavensbees. We're rather covetous."

The woman's face turns into a sneer for a moment before she replaces it with a smile. She looks at Haymitch and merely pats his cheek, despite him feeling like she had wanted to do more.

"Well, then, I will see you later," she tells him. "Maybe Plutarch will change his mind sometime soon, hm? Wouldn't that be a treat?"

Haymitch feels like she's not asking for his opinion, so he just gives her his best smile and hopes it's enough. It seems to please her, and she blows him a kiss before excusing herself to welcome more guests. Haymitch doesn't realize tense he'd gotten through the whole ordeal until his shoulders relax after she's gone. Plutarch's hand remains on his hip, though, and he fights the urge to bat it away.

"Is that what I should expect all night? To be talked to like a pet?" he asks through the corner of his mouth.

Plutarch gives him a fake chuckle and leans in. His breath is hot on Haymitch's ear when he speaks. "According to tradition, you are a pet. They treated you like cattle during the games, and now you've been promoted."

"Doesn't feel like a promotion," he bites back. Despite the growing irritation under his skin, Haymitch smiles at passing partygoers.

"The Capitol sees it as such," Plutarch says. "Just get through the night. I know you can do it."

Haymitch almost calls him out for talking to him like a pet or a child, but Plutarch pulls away before he can. He squints his eyes at the man through his smile, hoping that Plutarch can pick up on his disdain. The hand on his hip squeezes— message received.

There's a small flurry of color and glitter as a small group flocks in front of them. Haymitch is suddenly overwhelmed by greetings and introductions, as a few partygoers try to get close to him and Plutarch. Plutarch fends them off with polite small talk and generous laughter. He keeps Haymitch close to his side with his arm around him. The longer his hand remains on Haymitch's hip, the more Haymitch wishes he had a hatchet to cut it off. He doesn't miss the way the other Capitolites eye Plutarch's hand with envy. One man even comments on it, woefully wishing that he could get his hands on "that precious silk suit."

Haymitch decides he's had enough. He can see a table full of pitchers and glasses, and peels himself away from Plutarch. The man gives him a heavy look.

"I'll be back," Haymitch excuses. He nods his head towards the drink table. "I'm just thirsty."

This seems to get a small round of giggles from the partygoers. He doesn't wait to be officially dismissed by Plutarch before turning heel and making a beeline for the drinks. Plutarch said that he wouldn't be punished for leaving his side, anyway. There's no reason that Haymitch can't walk away from him.

The table is surrounded by other citizens when Haymitch gets there, but there's a small section that's unoccupied. He rounds the table and selects a glass goblet full of a shimmery, translucent pink liquid. It tastes like strawberries, cream, and alcohol, and Haymitch all but gulps it down. It's strong enough to sting the back of his throat when it goes down but sweet enough to take the edge off.

"Do you fancy the sweet ones?" someone asks as Haymitch picks up a second goblet. He turns and sees two men watching him. One of them, dressed head to toe in dark green snake scales, seems to be the one who asked the question.

"Uh," Haymitch hesitates. Is he allowed to drink alcohol here? Surely he won't get in trouble for it. He pulls his lips into a rakish grin. "Can't say I care to distinguish all that much. White liquor has it's moments, just like the sweet drinks. We just don't get the sweet stuff in Twelve often."

His answer must do well enough to ease their curiosity, because both men come closer. The one in snake scales pushes a golden chalice to Haymitch's lips.

"Try this," the man says. "See if you like mine."

Unease settles in his gut, but Haymitch takes a sip. It's a sour drink that puckers his face, much to the delight of the two men. Haymitch has just about gotten the lemony taste off his tongue when the other man— dressed in velvet and sequins— presents his glass for Haymitch to drink from.

"What about mine?" he asks, tilting the cup back before Haymitch can answer. He expects the brown liquid to be bitter like dark liquor, but it's bitter like coffee and chocolate instead. There must be cream in it and it sticks to the roof of Haymitch's mouth.

"Better," he manages to say once he's swallowed. The scale-clad man pouts as the sequined one laughs, and Haymitch doesn't miss how they both begin to crowd him against the table.

"That's not fair," Scales whines. "You always go for the basic drinks. It's not my fault I have a more refined taste."

"Your taste includes anything that tastes like battery acid," Sequin teases. He's close enough to put a hand on Haymitch's arm now. Haymitch subconsciously backs up, the back of his thighs bumping against the table. Sequin turns to him. "If you like mine, you can have the rest of it. Here, darling."

Haymitch doesn't have time before Sequin's hand comes to rest on the back of his head, his long fingers weaving into curls. The glass is back at his mouth and Haymitch is forced to swallow before he chokes. His hand flies to Sequin's arm and tries to push him back, but the man is determined to force-feed Haymitch the rest of his drink.

"You do not play fair," Scales scowls from Haymitch's side. He turns to the rest of the drinks, leaning in close enough to bump shoulders as he reaches for a cup. Haymitch has just enough time to recover his breath from the coffee cocktail before Scales is pushing a long flute at him. "Try this one. It's sweet like yours, and more dynamic than his simple drink."

Haymitch tries to turn his head to politely decline, but Scales won't allow it. His hand cups Haymitch's jaw and turns him back. With that, and Sequin's hand still on the back of his head, Haymitch is forced to swallow down another drink. He has a harder time tasting this one, the cream from Sequin's drink still cloying in his mouth. It's definitely sweet, and he might be able to catch a hint of mint in it. He's coughing by the time the two men let him breathe.

"What do you think, darling?" one of them purrs.

"Which one is more to your taste? Mine? Please say mine, I might die otherwise."

"Don't be so dramatic. Let the boy breathe."

There are hands on him again. The hand on the back of his head remains, but he feels others begin to pet along his flank and chest. His head spins— more from the turn of events than the alcohol— and he tries to wiggle his way out.

"Well, I could hardly say it's a contest," he tries to laugh. "There's a drink fit for every occasion, don't you think?"

When his eyes clear, he realizes that he's been effectively crowded against the table. He's practically sitting on it, with a man on either side of him. If he wants to escape, he'd have to shove one of them aside. He can't imagine that's within the confines of good behavior.

"What a diplomatic answer," Sequin says. His face is very close to Haymitch's now, enough that Haymitch can smell the coffee liquor on his breath. "Quite smart for a rascal."

"What can I say? I know how to please," Haymitch says with a shrug. He tries to skirt around Sequin, but the hand on his neck keeps him solidly in place.

"Oh, do you?" Scales nearly squeals with delight. He must have truly enjoyed Haymitch's answer, and 'rewards' him by sliding a hand across the front of his waist. "You darling boy, you know just how to play with us, don't you?"

Scales' hand gets dangerously close to Haymitch's genitals, and it alights a new panic in him. Haymitch tries to straighten up, arch away from the hand, squirm his way out of their grasps. It gets him nowhere except further on the drink table with Sequin's leg between his thighs. The two men laugh and call him sweet little pet names, only interrupted by a harsh cough from behind them.

"Gentlemen," Plutarch says. He's wearing a smile on his face, but it does not reach his eyes. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I do want to remind you that Haymitch won the Games less than a year ago. On his 16th birthday."

The two men have the audacity to look embarrassed as they untangle themselves from Haymitch's person. Now, Haymitch's head begins to spin from the alcohol. He has to grasp the drink table behind him to avoid swaying.

"And, even if he was of public age," Plutarch continues, "I've had the honor of bringing him tonight. I do hope that, next time, you come to me first."

Sequin and Scales begin to apologize profusely, picking up on the rather obvious threat. Haymitch might not know what the threat entails, but it's enough to send the two scampering back into the party with their tails between their legs. Haymitch takes a moment to catch his breath now that there's not a body invading his space. Plutarch steps closer to fix his hair and suit lapels. He doesn't stand close enough to feel invasive, though, and Haymitch is thankful for that.

"Are you sure you don't want the collar?" Plutarch asks under his breath. He finishes fixing Haymitch up and looks him in the eye. His face is calm, neutral, but his eyes carry a softness to them that Haymitch takes as concern.

"…That won't happen again if I'm wearing it?"

"No," Plutarch reassures him. "They'll at least ask who you belong to first. Just direct them towards me, and I'll handle it. Or, you can still just stay close to me."

Haymitch wants nothing more than to leave the main ballroom and find a quiet, secluded corner. Surely this humongous palace has a place he can hide.

"I'll take the collar," he says before he can second guess himself. Plutarch gives him a beat to see if he'll change is mind, and proceeds to take the box out of his pocket.

Haymitch feels the blush return to his cheeks and hopes that the partygoers are too entranced by the atmosphere to notice what's happening between them. He briefly wonders if Plutarch will let him put the collar on by himself when he realizes, of course not— the point of it is ownership, possession. A dog would not put on his own collar. Haymitch turns and keeps his eyes down as the collar is pulled against his skin. It's tight enough to stay in the middle of his throat, above his shirt and on clear display. He can hear the small tink of the clasp. Plutarch's hands find his shoulders and give him a short squeeze.

"There. I'll stay in this room if you need me."

Haymitch acknowledges him with a nod before all but running away. Shame and alcohol keep his face hot and he keeps his head down, ducking between swaying bodies and trying to find a dark corner. He eventually makes his way outside to an expansive garden. Not many people are out here. He feels a little better after throwing up in a peony bush, and he's able to hide between a rosebush and a towering willow tree until the early hours of the morning.

Haymitch finds Plutarch in the main hall sometime after midnight. Plutarch seems happy to see him, but Haymitch is surprised that he's not as ostentatious with showing Haymitch off. He seems hesitant to touch him now, and whenever his hand does find Haymitch, it's light and unobtrusive. Haymitch can't find it in himself to mind much— maybe Plutarch saw how uncomfortable he was with Sequin and Scales, and finally decided to respect his personhood. Even as he thinks it, it sounds unlikely.

The two aren't at the party far past midnight, and soon enough they're stepping back into Heavensbee Manor. Haymitch almost immediately undoes the top buttons of his suit and goes to unclasp the collar from his neck. Plutarch pulls out the box and allows Haymitch to remove the collar himself. He drops it unceremoniously in the box, and watches as Plutarch busies himself by righting it. It's clear he's balking again.

"What is it now?" Haymitch asks bluntly.

Plutarch doesn't answer him right away. He gestures for Haymitch to follow him before leading them to the guest room that Haymitch got dressed in. There's a drawer in the vanity where Plutarch stashes the collar box before he finally turns back to Haymitch.

"Snow made an appearance," he says. Haymitch visibly stiffens, frozen into silence. "He asked me how things were going with you." There's a heavy pause, and Haymitch feels as if he's dangling over a cliff's edge waiting for him to continue. "He's very interested in the development of this arrangement. I was hoping to take my time with you, but he heavily insinuated that I… take the next step."

Many things fill Haymitch's head at once. The first is that Plutarch is talking about their "arrangement" as if it's a relationship, whatnot with "taking things slow" and "next steps." The next is that Snow has eyes on him again, and that alone is enough to fill his body with dread. Third, he worries about this "next step." He furrows his brow at Plutarch.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asks. He feels a bit too bold, and wonders how much of the alcohol is still blurring his mind.

"It means that, in my role as your owner, I'm allowed certain liberties," Plutarch explains. His voice, at large, remains neutral. Be it their previous interactions or how every line in Plutarch's body is stiff, Haymitch feels as if he's impatient or frustrated. "Such as… the age of public domain does not apply to us."

"And what does that mean?"

Plutarch shifts awkwardly where he stands. He won't meet Haymitch's eyes, even if he smiles and pretends everything is normal.

"It means that, unlike your friends at the drink table, I am allowed to touch you," Plutarch says. There's a pink tink to his face as he continues. "Many Victors, in the private world, are used to satisfy sexual needs."

There's a ringing in Haymitch's ear as he processes this information. Plutarch finally looks at him, but it's not to make a connection as much as it is to observe Haymitch's reaction. He's not quite sure what face he's pulling— he feels numb and cold all over his body.

"Absolutely not," is what he says. His tongue moves against his will. "Absolutely not! Are you crazy?"

"Haymitch, please, don't be so dramatic," Plutarch says with all the air of a Capitol citizen. That's all he is, after all— a Capitol citizen, looking down on the Districts and the Hunger Games as little more than entertainment. How could Haymitch get fooled into thinking Plutarch could be an ally of his? Only in the back of his mind does he remember that the Manor may be bugged.

"You aren't actually considering it, are you?" he asks, voice low and dangerous.

"I was going to wait until you were 18," Plutarch says, and Haymitch doesn't know if he's lying or not. "But, Snow doesn't seem concerned about your age. If the President isn't concerned, then I shouldn't be."

Rage heats Haymitch's face, and he wants to start shouting and throwing things. He opens his mouth to start, when Plutarch steps forward and surprises him by placing a hand on his cheek. It's soft and uncalloused, so unlike the hands he's known all his life. All the hands in Twelve are calloused with years of hard work or cracked from the dry air.

"I knew this wasn't going to be easy on you," Plutarch says gently. Haymitch has to strain to hear his words, and he thinks that's the only reason he doesn't shake the hand off his face. "I know losing Lenore Dove is hard on you, I promise. Being with someone else while she's missing is no small feat."

The mention of Lenore Dove, his love, sends a shock of grief through him. It mingles with the fury and indignance and humiliation of the night until it starts wetting his eyes. He blinks it all away before it can spill.

"Unfortunately," Plutarch says, and suddenly he's making a connection to Haymitch again. "The Capitol doesn't think it's worth the cost to send a search party after her. But, if you'd like, it's fully possible. We have Peacemakers and muttations that can track anybody down. The Capitol could find her."

The implication turns any remaining anger to dust, leaving Haymitch with only the despair and humiliation. Plutarch knows just what buttons to push and just how to get his message across. Refuse this and we will find Lenore Dove. Snow can still hurt her. Haymitch's hands are in tight fists at his sides. They tremble with the emotion that Haymitch refuses to let show.

"No," he chokes out. "No. If she wants to come back, she will."

Plutarch nods as if he understands, and Haymitch wonders if he does. He wonders if the threat of Snow watching their movements was not here, what this conversation would be like. Would Plutarch be more open with his rebellious leanings, like before? Would he commiserate with Haymitch, scorning the actions of the Capitol and their unfairness? Or would they still be in this situation, Plutarch's hands moving to unbutton Haymitch's shirt?

"I won't kiss you," Plutarch tells him in a low whisper. "I won't cross that line."

Haymitch meets his eyes and knows Plutarch means it. He can't know what this is to Plutarch, but he wants to trust that Plutarch will leave some memories of Lenore Dove alone. Swallowing thickly, he nods in thanks.

The cold air of the bedroom makes the skin on his chest prickle with goosebumps as Plutarch continues to undress him. As the jacket is slid down his shoulders, Plutarch leans in and whispers in his ear.

"I could give you certain attentions. I'm not going to hurt you, but I could try to make it feel… better. Would you prefer that?"

The idea of Plutarch's hands on him sends another wave of nausea through him. He can't even fathom the idea of receiving pleasure through this ordeal, let alone agreeing to it. He wants to shake his head, but feels frozen solid. Haymitch won't ask or agree to the pleasure, but what if happens anyway? He remembers times where he and Burdock or Blair would be wrestling, bodies tangled up and rough with each other, only for them to realize they're sporting erections. That was in a clothed, platonic context— how will his body react when the context is so intimate?

He must hesitate long enough for Plutarch to ask another question. "Would you prefer I make the decisions for you?"

It's an offer of mercy. Haymitch has no control in this situation, and they both know this. By offering to make choices for Haymitch, Plutarch is offering him plausible deniability. Haymitch can play the part of a doll, inactive and uncooperative, presenting no autonomy in the matter. It will let Haymitch separate himself from the whole thing.

He nods stiffly. Plutarch is close enough that he can feel the stubble on his cheek, and feel his returning nod. His hands return to Haymitch's body and tug up the bottom of his shirt from where it's tucked into his pants.

"The body is an odd thing," Plutarch starts conversationally as he peels away the last of Haymitch's defenses. "Beautiful and temperamental. Sometimes it reacts in ways the mind does not want it to, does things that the mind does not agree to."

He pauses, hands ghosting over Haymitch's underwear, and waits until Haymitch meets his eyes. They bore into him as Plutarch asks, "Do you understand?"

Haymitch nods, but wonders if he does understand. Something about it— about the body betraying the mind— has Plutarch setting aside a whole moment for it. Is he aware of Haymitch's worries? That Haymitch fears that his body will like the attention it receives tonight? Or… maybe Plutarch isn't a willing pawn in this, either. He's been tense all night and isn't as proud as he typically behaves.

Haymitch doesn't have much more time to ponder this before Plutarch tells him to lie on the bed. His legs feel awkward under him, as if he's a fawn learning to walk. He's glad the bed is as close as it is, or he fears he would collapse to the floor. The mattress is soft and bends easily under his weight. He doesn't know how Plutarch wants him, so he sits facing the man. His skin prickles and he's acutely aware of how naked and bare he is.

Plutarch undresses unceremoniously, neatly setting their clothes on the chaise at the end of the bed. Haymitch can't look at him after he's undressed. A horrible thought crosses his mind— this tableau spread across screen monitors as Snow watches them.

He doesn't have to fake the shiver that wracks his body. "I— I'm cold," he lies.

Plutarch pauses at the end of the bed, but nods before having Haymitch stand. He pulls back the covers of the bed, and directs Haymitch underneath. It feels too crowded under there once Plutarch joins him, even though he's not touching Haymitch yet.

"Is that better?" Plutarch asks. His hand finally finds Haymitch's bare chest, pressing firmly even as Haymitch flinches. Plutarch doesn't get a response to his question.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears as Haymitch waits. Plutarch pets his chest for a few moments, stroking the skin and hair there. Heat dances under his touch, but it's not the same heat that Haymitch felt whenever Lenore Dove touched him. Her heat was soft, sensual, and so intoxicating it drove him mad. This touch is vile, swirling with a sick uneasiness that Haymitch wants to crawl away from.

The hand leaves him and grabs a pillow. "Turn around and put this under your hips," Plutarch tells him. Goosebumps spread across his skin— not from cold, this time— as Haymitch obeys. He shudders when Plutarch moves over him, even though Plutarch moves the covers to shield them from any prying eyes.

"Easy," Plutarch tries to gently reassure him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Haymitch wants him to get it over with already. He pushes his face against the mattress and so desperately wants to sink into it, disappear and never return. He tries to ignore what Plutarch is doing to him, separate himself from this turn of events.

Plutarch speaks to him through it. His goal is not to hurt Haymitch— but he talks to Haymitch, coaching him on how to act as if he is hurting Haymitch. Plutarch's hands scratch his skin when something particularly painful is meant to happen, and encourages flinching and shuddering as they mime what Snow wants. Even if Plutarch isn't raping Haymitch the way Snow wants, they still have to pretend.

"Good," Plutarch says a bit louder. It's still low and intimate between them, but should be loud enough to pick up on any nearby microphone. "Good boy."

Haymitch doesn't have to fake how much squirming he does. It's hard to stay still when his entire body is begging him to run away. It's suffocating to be pressed into the mattress like this. Haymitch feels exposed and raw, even with the covers shielding them from any outside eyes. The air between them quickly grows hot and damp.

At some point, Haymitch is brokenly sobbing into the sheets and Plutarch just lets him. He allows Haymitch to writhe and arch away and try to push his hands away— all for the show, all to convince Snow that this is real, that Haymitch is suffering the way he wants him to. Haymitch is suffering. He's thankful he's already left a part of himself with Lenore Dove, for fear that whatever rightfully belongs to her would now be tainted and ruined.

Time drags on agonizingly slow until Plutarch lifts himself off of Haymitch. He goes to speak, or maybe reach out to pull Haymitch closer to him, but Haymitch is throwing the sheets off of him before he has the chance. Haymitch moves quickly, pulling his trousers on and grabbing the undershirt before storming out of the room.

The bedroom door slams shut, and Haymitch finds another dark corner to spend the night in.

✧✧✧✧

Haymitch is held hostage at the Heavensbee Manor for almost a week. While Plutarch tries to convince him that Haymitch can leave, explore the Capitol or go to town with him, Haymitch refuses to refer to it any other way. It certainly feels like detainment, even if Plutarch hasn't assaulted him again. He still touches— hands on Haymitch's body, fingers running through his hair, even a kiss to Haymitch's shoulder, something to give any possible cameras a show— but at night, he simply lays with Haymitch. They're in bed now, sitting against the headboard on opposite sides of the mattress.

"My uncle, Hilarius," Plutarch is telling him, "was one of the first ever Mentors to the Hunger Games. He was just a bit older than you. Back then, when they were testing out the mentorship position, they had used students from the Capitol academy."

Haymitch patiently listens as Plutarch recounts the stories he heard in childhood. He elaborates on anything that might be entertaining, and glosses over anything traumatic. Haymitch couldn't care less about Plutarch's family line, but as long as Plutarch was talking, they wouldn't have to pretend for Snow.

Yesterday, Plutarch had cornered him in the bathroom. He playfully forced Haymitch to join him in the shower— a spacious thing that could easily fit four people— and talked to him while the water was running. It was easier for Plutarch to be candid, talking directly into Haymitch's ear under the camouflage of the shower.

"I don't have a choice either," he'd said. "I know it's not the same as your position, but I wanted you to know that. You made a name for yourself, and the Capitol loves you. If it weren't me, you'd be signed up to take private appointments with anyone who could pay."

The information had not been pleasant to receive, to say the least. Haymitch thinks he finally understands why Drusilla's comment to Maysilee seemed like a threat. Against his will, he imagines Maysilee Donner in a similar situation. It ends poorly for everyone involved. Maysilee, too proud to bow to Snow and submit her intimacy, would lose her shit on whoever was unfortunate to receive her. Whether it was a verbal dressing down or physical violence, Maysilee's punishment would be to lose everyone she's ever loved. Her sister, her parents, maybe even Asterid. The candy shop would be burned to the ground, Haymitch imagines. He's not very talkative the rest of the day, after learning this.

At least Plutarch lets him have the night in peace. He heavily encourages Haymitch to sleep in the same room as him, but he won't force Haymitch under the covers again. Figuratively and literally— he doesn't initiate anything sexual and gives Haymitch a separate blanket to sleep with. Haymitch has been sleeping over the original covers while Plutarch sleeps under them. It's the vaguest definition of protection and distance, but it's enough peace of mind that Haymitch can fall asleep. It's not very restful sleep, but it's something.

"We have another party tomorrow," Plutarch informs him as he turns off the lights. He settles under the covers as Haymitch lays across them.

"What joy," Haymitch deadpans. "Will I be donning the collar again?"

Plutarch chuckles a bit. It's earnest and warm. "If you'd like. It won't be nearly as crowded as the Creed's party, and word of your debut will have spread."

Haymitch hums and pulls his blanket up to his chin. He doesn't give his answer yet, and Plutarch doesn't expect one. The man says goodnight and turns his back to Haymitch to sleep. Haymitch watches him for a while before he's able to attempt sleep himself.

✧✧✧✧

Haymitch is dressed in a similar suit, though now the color is a muted lavender. It still allows the collar's yellow gem to pop where it sits on his throat. Small gems of a similar collar are dotted around the cuffs of the suit jacket and along the seams of the pants. Haymitch, for all his knowledge of fashion, feels that this color suits him more than the dark purple did. His hair stands out more, but he can hear Maysilee tell him that it doesn't wash his face out.

Capitol citizens must agree, as they compliment his attire more. He doesn't miss how a few eyes turn to the collar and faces seem to deflate. But, he's thankful to note, that most of these partygoers don't seem too affected by it. There's a comment here and there, but either they're good at hiding their disappointment or they weren't planning on sinking their claws into him. Of course, he's still touched. Plutarch keeps a hand on his arm or waist, and they both ignore how stiff Haymitch is under the touch. Other citizens will touch his arm, or his hair, or some part of his outfit, but those touches are sparse and fleeting— and, Haymitch notes with some relief, are not unique to him. Everyone seems so handsy in the Capitol, touching hair and outfits and skin. He wonders if everyone feels just as suffocated as he does.

When Effie comes up to them, Haymitch is rather surprised to see her. Plutarch had shared a rumor that she's been assigned the escort role for District Twelve, but Haymitch wasn't expecting to see her until the next Hunger Games.

"Well, don't you look rather dashing?" she says as she comes toward them. She's the only one who's greeted Haymitch first. She turns to Plutarch next. "And you, too, of course. It's always a pleasure to see you."

Plutarch goes through the pleasantries with her before her eyes find Haymitch's throat. He tenses and feels a new flush of embarrassment.

"What a lovely color," she says. It doesn't carry the jaunty appreciation her compliments usually hold, but Haymitch doesn't catch any disappointment or jealousy in her tone. She blinks a few times and seems to gather herself back up. "I'm happy to see you're in good hands. I've been worried about you, you know."

This takes Haymitch by surprise. "You were?"

"Of course!" Effie cries softly. Her hand finds his shoulder. "I heard about your family, and your girl. I am so sorry, Haymitch."

For once, he doesn't feel the need to cringe away from the touch of a Capitol citizen. It's still odd and he's a bit overstimulated, but he doesn't feel like a piece of meat. Effie's hand is foreign, but it's easier to force himself to find comfort in it. He places his own hand over hers.

"Thanks," he says as clearly as he can muster.

She gives him a terse smile, one reserved for grieving widows and broken orphans, and squeezes his shoulder. The sting of his homecoming is still there, diluted as it is from the alcohol he's consumed tonight. He presses it down and secures it somewhere away from his mind. Somewhere safe.

Something else catches Effie's eyes, and suddenly her hands are lifting to his face. She mutters a quick, "Oh— let me—" before she's rubbing a finger gently under the corner of his eye. She fusses over his makeup, Plutarch patiently watching from beside him. Proserpina had attempted to put eyeliner on him, and he's wondering if it's smeared or got out of line. Haymitch flinches a bit when Effie's nail presses at his eyelid, but stays still enough for her to finish.

"There," she says with finality, withdrawing her hands. "Perfect."

Haymitch tries to smile at her and thinks he manages something a little more genuine. He never quite cared for the stylist team, but someone touching up his makeup is far more welcome than the alternatives. Plutarch thanks her out of formality. They pick up an easy conversation between the three of them— Plutarch has more genuine moments of his own brand of rebelliousness, Effie's niceness barely supersedes her citizen attitude, and Haymitch gets to joke and forget about everything for a while.

✧✧✧✧

Chapter Text

Haymitch will be called to the Capitol every once in a while, though it's much more rare than he thought it would be. Plutarch leaves him alone for the months leading up to the Hunger Games, and Haymitch is thankful for that— it's hard enough that he's being forced to mentor children he went to school with. When he received the news that he'll be District Twelve's only mentor, he went and bought triple the amount of white liquor. He doesn't plan on drinking throughout the mentoring process; he can't imagine abandoning the tributes like that. However, there's nothing stopping him from drinking himself senseless for the month leading up to the 51st Hunger Games.

He's barely with it when the Reaping commences. He's been positioned on stage where, in all the years he's been alive, there has only been empty space. In the higher Districts like One, Two, and Four, this section of the stage is filled with past Victors, ready to lead their newest tributes to their deaths. For Twelve, Haymitch is the first ever Victor to sit on this stage. He's introduced by the new Mayor— a sullen woman whose monotone voice grates on his ears. She introduces their newest escort next, who is none other than Effie Trinket. Haymitch thinks Effie is the one who woke him up this morning, but he honestly can't recall with any clarity.

Effie's voice wavers ever-so-slightly with nerves as she begins her rehearsed speech. It evens out as she goes— or at least, Haymitch thinks it does. His brain slowly ebbs into a soft hum as it goes on, his mind floating far away from his body. He doesn't return until the names are called, forced back into his body with a rude shock.

The first name is an older girl that Haymitch recognizes from a few years below him— Ashton Stock. She's from the Seam, and watches him carefully as she climbs the stage on wobbly knees. No doubt she's hoping that he can direct her to victory. He doesn't know if he'll be able to confess that his victory was all a fluke.

The boy is worse. Haymitch knows him by name— Albert Grover— a young, sickly child in Sid's class. The other children call him Albie. He's a year older than Sid, but due to being sick for nearly an entire year, he was held back in school. His limbs are skinny and jut out at the joints, poorly concealed under his shirt. Being from the merchant class will give him no advantage in the Games.

Haymitch has to force himself not to finish off what's in his flask before boarding the train. He's loathe to return to the Capitol and endure the Games, but something in his chest pulls him onto the train. He can't leave these kids to their fate alone. Haymitch remembers the comfort that Mags brought him, and although he knows he will be an awful replacement, he can only hope that his presence will be somewhat soothing.

Effie tries to make small talk on the train while they wait for his tributes to finish their goodbyes. Haymitch struggles to keep up, missing chunks of her words every few minutes. He thinks she's just complaining about how dirty District Twelve is. Nothing that he needs to concern himself with.

Despite being somewhat sober, the next few days blur together. Haymitch tries his best to guide his tributes as he goes, fighting off the sinking knowledge that they will be dead in a few weeks. He stumbles with everything, barely able to prepare them for various events more than an hour in advance. The training arena doesn't go that well, either— he misses Ashton's cues that she's clever with an axe, and pushes her too hard into the survival skills. His boy is surprisingly adept at knot-tying, but Haymitch thinks he misses an opportunity to get Albie into an alliance with a sympathetic tribute from Ten. It's all too much, and Haymitch is all but separated from the other Victors for the majority of the training week. He yearns to see Mags, or even Wiress or Beetee, but he's locked on the District Twelve floor unless there's an event.

When he finally gets to see the other Victors, it's the opening Games. He's just sent his tributes off on the hovercraft and is escorted to the Gamemaker Headquarters to monitor their sponsorships. He doesn't need to see the screen provided to him to know that their donations are slim. Haymitch has just clicked it off when he hears a small sound to his side. He turns and sees Mags, smiling gently at him from her wheelchair.

"Mags," he says quietly. She reaches out and places a hand on his, and Haymitch has to fight off the swell of overwhelmed tears that rises. He holds her hand in both of his, and the two sit in silence as the other mentors bustle around them. After a few long minutes of silence, he feels steady enough to speak. "Is it always this hard?"

Mags' face twists up, but her smile remains. She opens her mouth to speak— all that comes out is a hoarse squeak. Haymitch startles, only settling when she raises her hand to reassure him that she's alright. Can she no longer speak? What has the Capitol done to her? Haymitch aches with guilt.

Mags brings her hand up to his cheek, and Haymitch knows what she's trying to impart. Now that he knows the hurt, the pain of mentoring children on how to die, he can recognize it in her eyes. He wonders how much of this pain was there when she was mentoring him. Her fingers push a lock of hair behind his ear.

I'm sorry, Haymitch, her eyes say. About your family. About Lenore Dove. About being a Victor, and what that entails. I'm so sorry.

Haymitch has to focus on his breathing to avoid crying. Mags may be safe, but he doesn't want to give the cameras his pain. He can feel them on him now— vultures trained on his pain, his grief, his first year of being a mentor. He doesn't want to give them a show.

When the announcement comes that the Games are about to begin, Mags kisses his cheek and returns to her station. Haymitch settles into his seat and takes a hearty swig from his provided drink. He's thankful for the burn as the countdown begins.

Haymitch didn't expect it to be so hard to watch a new Games. It's never been easy as a spectator, but now he has to contend with memories. How his heart races as the seconds tick by, how he jolts in place as the gong sounds, how tense his body is as the bloodbath starts. His eyes flit across the screen, desperately tracking his kids. His boy heeds his advice and takes off for the forest, but his girl must have spotted the axe placed close to her pedestal. Ashton rushes for it and grabs the handle— but it must be stuck in the ground, because it does not budge. He wants to shout at her to leave it and run, watching helplessly as she struggles to pull it free of the earth. The cameras are sure to keep her on screen as a sword cleaves into her shoulder.

The alcohol does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. Haymitch has to look away, blinking away the image of his girl with a blade embedded in her. With it comes images of Silka with an axe in her skull, Maysilee with her throat torn, Wellie with her body several feet away, Ampert's clean bones, Loulou's face dripping with blood, Louella's lifeless body in his arms. He's lost in the memories for long enough that the bloodbath is over when he comes to.

Any sponsor gifts that his girl had now belong to his boy. Albie did not excel in his interview, so he's had no sponsorships. Thankfully for him, Ashton had scored well enough to receive a few gifts, and Haymitch plans on sending them to Albie once he's settled in.

As he waits, his girl's demise keeps replaying in his mind. Caesar Flickerman comments on how Ashton must have overplayed her strength, to not even be able to unwedge an axe from the ground. Haymitch has a sinking suspicion that it was not his girl's fault. It was too close to her, too far away from the Cornucopia— where the other weapons were spread— to be a coincidence. What are the chances that the Capitol is still punishing him, only now through his own tributes?

It's only a few hours past noon when his boy returns to the screen. The feed has been looping between tributes as they find their ways through the tall, grassy fields or swamplands of the arena. Albie is in the swamps now, hopping between rocks or logs as he tries to avoid the bog. Flickerman points out that there is another tribute nearby— the boy from Five, Fleming— and that they're set to run into another.

Haymitch watches with bated breath as the two close the distance. His boy has just found a large, knotted tree that he's inspecting closer— Haymitch mentally begs him to climb it to safety, away from the approaching tribute.

Instead, he watches as a brown log by his boy's feet blinks. A large creature— with scales that look like bark, eyes on the top of its head, and a jaw as long as Haymitch's arm— lifts out of the water. His boy is distracted, testing out footholds, as four more rise from the swamp water.

"Turn around," Haymitch pleads out loud.

It's not the gentle, quiet sloshing of water that alerts his boy. It's the snap of a nearby branch as the District Five boy comes into view. Albie's head snaps to attention as the jaws of a mutt snap around his skinny leg. His scream is loud and echoes in Haymitch's ears. Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut, privy only to the sounds of the onslaught. His boy continues to scream— crying out for help from Fleming— as the violent splashing of water erupts through the speakers. It goes on for so long that Haymitch is sure his boy is dead, only to hear more pained whimpers and spluttering coughs.

By the time the splashing has quieted and a cannon fires, Flickerman is narrating Five's escape— the boy has climbed a nearby tree, and is watching as the mutts disappear back under the water.

"Not so much as a glance his way," Flickerman comments. "They must not be very good of hearing."

Haymitch knows better. If District Five's boy were to touch back down on the swamp's surface, right now, he would be left alone. Those mutts did not pose any danger to a tribute other than his boy. There was little doubt that the axe was placed as a trap for his girl, but now he knows his tributes were targeted. He cannot find another logical explanation, and bad odds do not cover it.

He spends the rest of the night at the bottom of a bottle, heart aching for his tributes, and dreading the years to come.

✧✧✧✧

When he's called to the Capitol that winter, he expects there to be a reason. The train ride there is full of wondering what kind of parties Plutarch will drag him to. He wonders if there are any festivals in the Capitol he hasn't heard of, or if the Heavensbees have their own traditions for this bleak time of year. Anything could happen in the Capitol, especially with Plutarch involved.

He certainly doesn't expect to be greeted by a look of surprise. Plutarch opens the door for him to step inside, and very quickly asks Haymitch what he's doing in the city.

"You didn't call for me?" Haymitch asks him. The cold lingers and slowly bleeds into dread.

"I didn't," Plutarch says. "I'm more than happy to host you during your stay. Did you receive a letter?"

"No," Haymitch shakes his head. He wraps his coat a little tighter around him. "The Peacekeepers put me on a train. Said I was expected at the Capitol."

Plutarch hums in thought, and leads Haymitch into a small room off the front entrance. There's a stack of mail that he pokes through, opening a few and briefly skimming the contents. After checking, he shakes his head.

"I don't have any invitations or instructions." He looks at Haymitch and frowns. "I'm sorry, Haymitch, I have no idea why you're here. But— I don't recall hearing anything about any misdoings or bad deeds you've done. I can't imagine you're here to be punished for something."

"And they haven't found Lenore Dove?" Haymitch asks.

"Not that I've heard. I've been keeping a good ear out for your girl," Plutarch says. He speaks openly now, and Haymitch wonders if he's no longer worried about being spied on. "I have a network of fairly reliable sources, and I haven't heard a whisper of her. You've been on your best behavior— to an extent."

Plutarch's hand rests on Haymitch's shoulder in a friendly gesture, and Haymitch realizes he hasn't touched anyone since leaving the Capitol the last time. Burdock and Blair only get to speak to him through his door, now that Haymitch has taken to locking them out. There's no one for him to embrace or hold back in Twelve. Nobody would be safe.

Plutarch offers Haymitch a drink and a bit of food, and they get to talking. He confirms that there aren't any surveillance bugs in his home, or that they at least aren't being monitored. Apparently he knows another citizen who was not quiet about her disdain of the President while staying at the Manor. After raving about how she would be "much more fit to be a leader than Snow," nothing happened to her. She remains comfortable in her own home, only spouting her rhetoric in private places. Haymitch wants to ask if Plutarch brought her to his home on purpose, to use her as bait, but he can't find himself to voice it.

About an hour later, there is a knock on the door. Plutarch answers it— which, Haymitch realizes, is odd. Why does he not have an Avox do that for him?— and finds a strange stylist team. They push in past him and beeline for Haymitch, thrusting a soft package into his arms.

"There you are!" the lead woman sighs, as if she's searched every home in the Capitol for him. "We mustn't waste time."

Haymitch is rushed into stripping out of the clothes he wore from Twelve. The clothes they brought with them— a deep, rich maroon jumpsuit with a solid gold belt— is left aside for now. It's simple but strangely extravagant, even if Haymitch can't quite put words to how. When he touches his fingertips to the fabric, it's soft and smooth like silk.

Plutarch remains nearby as the team of three groom Haymitch, and Haymitch finds himself thankful for it. He's only been made up by Proserpina and Vitus. This team is clearly more experienced and work with a sharp efficiency that makes Haymitch's head spin. He didn't know how disorienting it could be to have three sets of hands working on him at once. One set is devoted to cleaning his skin and removing his body hair before rubbing him down with a shimmery, fragrant oil. Another one works at freshening up his hair, even going as far as giving him a quick trim. The third set works on moisturizing his face and dabbing light traces of makeup on him. Haymitch likes her the least— she forces his eyes open for a brown mascara and cleans his teeth with something that tastes disgusting. He thinks it's only the presence of Plutarch that keeps him from flashing back to the first time he was groomed in the Capitol. This team won't even speak to him or answer any of his questions.

By the time he's allowed to dress, there's two Peacekeepers at the door waiting to escort him out of the Manor. Plutarch sees them first and greets them with all the jovial hospitality of a party host.

"Ah, I was wondering who was taking Haymitch's time," he says with a clap. "I'm glad to know he'll be enjoying President Snow's company tonight."

It's as much a tipoff to Haymitch as it is Plutarch's typical ass-kissing. Haymitch feels the urge to run from the room, despite knowing that it won't get him anything but reprimanded. He finds Plutarch's eyes instead, and hopes Plutarch will do something to ease his mind.

Plutarch's aid doesn't come straight away. He waits patiently until the stylists are finished spritzing him with perfume and tidying his clothes. Once they step aside, he swoops in.

"Before you leave— your necklace?" he asks directly to Haymitch. He doesn't ask the stylists or the Peacekeepers for their opinions before he's whisking Haymitch down the hall towards his room. Haymitch is still figuring out where he falls when it comes to the Capitol hierarchy— is he above the rank of Peacekeepers, now that he's a Victor? Or, since he's District, will he always be below them?— but trusts that Plutarch's own pull is enough to save him from punishment.

The door clicks shut behind them before Plutarch speaks again.

"Well, I suppose we should have both seen that coming," he muses. He goes to the drawer where Haymitch's collar is kept.

"What does he want?" Haymitch asks. He hesitates by the door before following Plutarch further into the room, just in case one of Snow's staff decides to eavesdrop.

"I'm not sure," Plutarch admits. He takes his time with the jewelry, going as far to cleaning it off with a small cloth. "He doesn't usually get his hands dirty with Victors, though. If I had to wager a guess, you're there to be threatened or shown off."

Both possibilities send Haymitch's stomach turning in on itself. "Should I be worried?"

"Of course. One should always be on alert when meeting with the President." Plutarch meets his eyes with a tense, false smile. "Best you can do now is endure it. You've survived him before. Just play his game and finish the night out."

Haymitch's skin is cold and clammy when Plutarch fastens the collar to him. The yellow stone remains standing out against the maroon jumpsuit, and Haymitch realizes the highlight they've put on him reflects gold under the light.

"I look ridiculous," he mutters to the mirror.

"You look like Snow wants you to," Plutarch reminds him. "Do you want me to stay up until you're back?"

The offer has Haymitch turning to look at him. The man seems earnest and, if Haymitch stretches it a bit, worried. Haymitch considers it for a bit before he nods. Even if he won't be seeking Plutarch out for any comfort, he's not fond of walking through the Manor alone.

Before long, the Peacekeepers are ushering him into a sleek vehicle. He tries to keep his nerves in check as they drive, hands stuffed under his legs to avoid them trembling. His mind keeps offering ways that this night could go horribly wrong. He has nothing left for Snow to take, at least not to this scale— if he wanted to kill Burdock or Blair, he could have done so remotely. Did Snow find Lenore Dove? Will she be waiting for him by Snow's side, broken and restrained? The thought sends a wave of nausea and he almost has the car pull over.

His thoughts are no less quiet when he's escorted into Snow's home. It's just as massive as he remembers and it feels like they're walking for hours before he finally lays eyes on Snow. He's brought before the President in a dining hall. When the Peacekeepers leave, they're the only two in the room. Haymitch greets Snow with a small nod and glances at the table. It's full of food, anything from savory to sweet, but there's only two plate sets.

"Come," is all Snow says. He gestures to one of the settings. "Sit."

Haymitch watches Snow like a hawk as they sit. No… not like a hawk. That would imply that Haymitch could be the predator in this situation, that Haymitch has some power over Snow. More appropriately, Haymitch watches Snow like a rabbit watching a fox. Careful, analytical, waiting for an opening for him to bolt. Snow, on the other hand, watches him like the fox.

"Welcome to my home," he says after they're settled. "I hope you don't mind if I enjoy your company tonight."

His words are practically oozing with hidden meaning, and Haymitch doesn't know where to begin picking it apart. Just get through the night, he reminds himself.

"I don't think I'm allowed to mind anything," he replies dryly. He's met with a smile.

"Of course you are. You're human, you are bound to have thoughts on anything. You're just limited to what you can do in accordance to those thoughts."

"And what am I allowed to do here?" Haymitch asks.

Snow's smile widens, and he gestures down to the feast in front of them. "Dine with me."

Snow makes no effort to fill his own plate with food. Haymitch has a moment where he wonders if that's even something Snow does for himself, or if he has an Avox fill it for him. There are no Avoxes around, though, so he hopes that Snow doesn't expect Haymitch to do it. It's not until Snow pointedly looks at Haymitch's plate that he even considers taking food for his own plate.

Haymitch looks at the variety in front of him. He can see and smell at least three types of meat, dishes piled high with vegetables and dressing, and any kind of fruit he could imagine. Everything looks decadent and too vibrant, and all Haymitch can think of is the arena and poisoned shellfish. He glances up at Snow, only to see Snow's gaze tracking his movement.

He looks across the banquet again and spots a pile of bread rolls. They're lightly seeded and buttered, but otherwise exactly like the ones he was given after the Games. The thought of eating them makes him sick, but he's too afraid to take any other chances. He reaches and grabs two rolls for his plate. Off to the side are three glasses— they are filled with a dark red wine, water, and milk. Haymitch bypasses the wine and water and grabs the milk. Making eye contact with Snow, he slowly takes a sip.

Moments pass tortuously slow as Haymitch waits for the stomach pains. They do not come, and he chances a bite of his roll. Snow does not move until he has swallowed it. Restless energy fights his limbs to move, but Haymitch remains still while waiting for the poison to kick in. When it does not, Snow finally moves to gather his own dinner.

"How are you enjoying your Victorhood?" Snow asks conversationally.

Let the games begin, Haymitch thinks to himself. "I'm surviving."

"Yes, that is what got you here in the first place." Snow glances at him with a bit more heat than before, but does not comment further. "Elaborate."

Haymitch stalls by swallowing another bite of bread, trying to find something safe to say. "I preferred working, truth be told. I liked having a task to do each day. I… I miss school."

"Do you miss the work? Or do you simply miss the companionship?" Snow asks him. It's too pointed to be anything but a reference to Haymitch's self-invoked isolation.

"Both," Haymitch answers honestly. He lies when he says, "It's hard being friends with anyone anymore. There's nobody that understands."

Snow settles back into his seat with a full plate of food. It's piled with meats, cheeses, and produce, but no bread. He sips at the wine in his own glass, watching Haymitch carefully over the rim.

"Many Victors are able to start families after the Games," Snow argues. The white hair on his upper lip is lightly stained from the wine.

Haymitch knows he's looking for a reaction. He struggles not to think of Ampert and Beetee. He swallows around the growing lump in his throat and drops his gaze. If Snow wants a reaction, Haymitch can give it to him— he's lost his pride long ago.

"I don't think I deserve to," he answers. It's not wholly a lie, but it's awful to admit. "I lost that right in the arena. Maybe even before then."

He doesn't hear Snow respond, but he can't force himself to look up yet. He pulls apart a roll with his fingers, watching the steam rise from the middle. His fingernails pick at a few seeds to flick off. Minutes pass in silence and Haymitch cannot relax.

"You might consider eating," Snow eventually says. "You will need your energy."

Haymitch isn't sure what he's implying, but it's enough to prompt him to slipping more bread between his lips. His stomach is roiling with nausea and the bread only does so much to settle it. At some point, Haymitch sips at the wine— when there is no blood being coughed up, he slowly drinks the rest.

The meal, overall, is eaten in silence. Snow seems comfortable in it, just as imposing as always. He basks in the power he holds over Haymitch even when no words are shared between them. Haymitch simply does his best not to squirm in his seat. He does not eat much, but continuously chews on something while Snow finishes his meal. Eventually, Snow puts his silverware down and stands from the table.

Haymitch stands as well, hoping that this will be all Snow wanted from tonight. His hopes are dashed when Snow wordlessly gestures for him to follow. Left without a choice, Haymitch does.

✧✧✧✧

Haymitch keeps his head down as he follows Snow through the hallways. It's cold within his home, and Haymitch supposes it's rather fitting. The jumpsuit does very little to keep him warm.

The room Snow stops at is a large bedroom. It's not dissimilar to Plutarch's room for him, scarcely decorated and bare of much life. There's a bed, a couch, two dressers, and what might be an ensuite bathroom, but not much else. The paintings are of nothing in particular and any decorations are like the others Haymitch has seen in the halls. It's a guest room, and Haymitch hopes he won't be held hostage here as well.

Once the lights are turned on, something on the bed catches Haymitch's eyes. It's a dress, and it takes Haymitch several long moments to recognize the rainbow ruffles. The memory is a blur, filtered through a drug haze, but there it is— the memory of a song and a tribute long forgotten. Snow's Covey girl.

His eyes flash to Snow, only to find him watching intently. Goosebumps raise across his arms. Haymitch won't ask what the dress is, but he doesn't know how else to acknowledge it. He chooses to wait for Snow's instructions.

When it's clear that Haymitch won't initiate anything, Snow offers a simple order. "Change into it."

Haymitch hesitates before walking over to the bed. His whole body is tense, strung up like a snare ready to snap. His hands tremble minutely as they trace a ruffle. Will this even fit him? He's not a particularly large man, but the girl from the television seemed much smaller than him. He doubt it matters. This is likely meant to humiliate him, and an ill-fitting dress of a dead girl would do just that.

He goes to undo the buttons on the front of the jumpsuit but pauses. He glances at Snow to find him still watching.

"Um," is all he can say.

Snow smiles at him with all the amusement of a sadist. "Go on," he gently urges, as if coaxing a child to take a toy. "There is no need to be shy."

Heat rises to Haymitch's cheeks as he undoes his buttons as quickly as possible. He reminds himself that nudity is nothing to the Capitol— he's undressed in front of stylist teams before, and he's fairly certain he's seen outfits that are more skin than cloth. The winter air bites at his skin as it's bared, and he tells himself that's the reason he's so willing to pull the dress on.

To his surprise, the dress fits him very well, and Haymitch realizes it might have been tailor-made for him. It's snug around his waist, flowing around his arms and hips. His chest feels frightfully bare with how low the neckline dips. The skirt swishes around and tickles his ankles. Haymitch won't meet Snow's gaze once it's on.

"There," Snow says. "What a pretty little songbird."

Disgust threatens to make Haymitch ruin the dress and floor. His cheeks burn hot and his hands clench at his sides, but he does not say anything. He doesn't know what he's being punished for specifically— if there is any one thing— but he knows he just needs to endure it. It's not until Snow's next order that his resolve breaks.

"Lay on the bed."

Fear mixes with anger and Haymitch spits out, "No."

Snow seems unbothered by his outburst. His smug smirk stirs the messy emotions in Haymitch's gut.

"I don't know what kind of game this is," he bites out, "but it's fucking sick. You have enough power over me, don't you? Why do this? What satisfaction do you get over me dressing like your dead Covey girl?"

Haymitch is silenced when a sharp slap stings the skin on his face. His cheek burns with shame, anger, and a forming bruise from Snow's palm. Gasping, Haymitch struggles to fight back the reactionary tears that form in his eyes.

Snow continues without addressing his own outburst, his voice calm and smooth as always. "If you'd like, I can find another songbird to wear this dress. Although, I must warn, it may very well result in another dead Covey girl."

Message received. Haymitch grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. He forces his pride into a box to hide away— he'd much rather go through whatever is next than force Lenore Dove to experience the same.

His movements are jagged and stiff as he climbs onto the mattress. As with Plutarch, he finds himself at a loss of where to position himself. He decides the middle of the bed is as good a place as any, and flops on his back. He doesn't bother being seductive or graceful. That's not the point of this.

He can't hide his flinch when Snow's cold hand brushes across his bare ankle. Any remaining hope he had that Snow would just look and not touch is swept away.

"I thought you didn't like to get your hands dirty," he mutters.

He's surprised by Snow's dark chuckle. "Boy, my hands have been dirty long before you were even a thought in your mother's mind."

Dread and revulsion are heavy in his chest, and Haymitch stares up at the canopy to distract himself. It hardly works as Snow's hand disappears under the ruffled skirt, bunching it up as he goes. The smooth slide of hands across his shaven legs is a foreign feeling. Haymitch wonders if it's Snow's personal preference for his toys to be hairless, or if it's simply a Capitol default.

The skirt is riding high up his thighs, Snow's hands kneading the muscle there, before Snow makes a small sound. "Oh, that's right. I nearly forgot."

His hands suddenly leave Haymitch as he retrieves something from a drawer. Snow turns to Haymitch and beckons him to take it. It looks like a large syringe of sorts, with a rubbery bulb in one end. He's uncertain what Snow wants him to do with it.

"Well? Does Heavensbee not have you use this?" Snow asks. There's a hint of danger in his tone to let Haymitch know the mind games are still on.

He doesn't say yes or no. "Just… haven't used one by myself before."

"Then you know what it's for," Snow says, not giving anything away. He makes a large gesture towards the bathroom, and Haymitch all but leaps at the opportunity to get away from him.

Haymitch may not be very experienced in the role he's being forced into, but he has some ideas. Once, Lenore Dove was able to find a flimsy, papery booklet that contained more pictures than words. She gushed over the fashion choices of the old world and shared what knowledge she had about their playthings. One thing she would tell them about— more for the shock value than anything— was a douche. She'd explain how it worked just to see the boys get flustered or the girls get the ick. Haymitch supposes that's what this thing is. He's no idiot, he knows Snow is not going to use the friction from his thighs to get off— this is all but proof of that. His mind bumps up against that thought and grinds to a halt, not letting him get much further than that. He has just enough brain left to figure out how to use the douche and clean off.

His limbs are numb when he opens the door to the bedroom again. Snow is patiently waiting for him, though Haymitch wonders how much of that is misleading. Snow may be willing to wait, but Haymitch knows he will not tolerate being denied outright.

The journey to the bed is harder than he thought it would be. Snow is still dressed, pristine and put-together, while Haymitch forces himself back across the mattress. He decided to leave his undergarments in the bathroom, and Snow notes this with mild appreciation as he hikes the skirt back up Haymitch's thighs.

"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Snow asks. His voice is low and almost husky, and it grates on Haymitch's ears. He doesn't answer.

Snow seems content to run his hands along Haymitch's body for a long while. Up and down the smooth skin of his thighs, ghosting along his bare hips, over the dress to paw at his chest. It feels like oil is left wherever he touches, seeping into Haymitch's skin and rotting him from the inside. He forces himself to remain still, to let Snow enjoy this as long as he wants.

Haymitch's skin has heated up to the point of being flushed by the time Snow pulls away. The drawer off to the side of the bed is still open, and Snow pulls a small vial out. Haymitch sees Snow offer it to him out of the corner of his eye.

He must pause long enough for Snow to press him. "Does Heavensbee prepare you himself?"

So there aren't any cameras, is all Haymitch can think. He forces a nod— just in case— but takes the bottle. If he can avoid Snow's hands on him for even a few minutes, he'll take it. Even if he's at a loss of what to do. He fidgets before rising to his knees, cheeks flushing in misplaced embarrassment.

"Prop yourself on the frame," Snow instructs him. He nods to the headboard and Haymitch obeys.

He uses one arm to hold himself up. He grips the headboard with that hand, knuckles turning white under the pressure. The dress is awkward to ruck up, and he feels so terribly exposed when he's bared to the room again. It's hard to breathe as he does what Snow wants— every sensation is foreign and new and awful. Every fiber of his body is telling him to stop, and it's taking all of his willpower to keep going.

Snow doesn't let him get very far along before he grabs Haymitch by the wrist and pulls his hand away. He feels oddly slick and open as he straightens up. He's not sure how Snow will want him, and he nervously waits for further instruction.

"On your back, now," Snow tells him. His voice is deceptively gentle, talking to Haymitch softly like they're lovers. It makes Haymitch's skin crawl, but he does as asked.

He could almost laugh when Snow has him lay with a pillow under his hips. Is this how it usually goes with two men? Or is this a luxury of the Capitol? Haymitch wouldn't know either, having only been with Lenore Dove in District Twelve. The absurdity is not comforting, nor is the pillow underneath him. Haymitch feels all too vulnerable. He knows that's the point, so he merely grits his teeth.

A giddy sort of fear rushes through Haymitch as Snow moves closer, the sound of a zipper all the undressing Snow does. Haymitch feels he has to look— that he must see what is about to hurt him. It's a horrible mix of underwhelming and repulsing. He sucks in a startled breath and flushes, attempting to turn his head away. Snow tuts, and a hand pinches at Haymitch's thigh.

"Look at me," Snow orders. Haymitch struggles with this command, eyes flitting to Snow's face and away in quick order as Snow settles between his legs. His heart stutters in his ribcage. "Look at me."

Haymitch knows he must obey when Snow repeats himself. He clenches his fists around the dress's ruffles and forces his eyes to meet Snow's. The collar still attached around his throat feels like it's anchoring him to the mattress.

"Do not look away from me," Snow tells him sternly. "I want to watch you."

And Haymitch has no choice but to remain obedient. He looks up at Snow as the man ruins him, scooping out everything that makes him Haymitch and replacing it with something poisonous. Snow seems very pleased with himself as he watches Haymitch unravel underneath him. Haymitch tries to beg, to apologize— anything to make this more bearable. His pleas are ignored.

Haymitch's body is not kind to him. His insides twist in a betrayal of sensation, and he wants to run. He recalls what Plutarch had told him on their first night. The body is an odd thing, he'd said. Sometimes it reacts in ways the mind does not want it to, does things that the mind does not agree to. He wonders if this is what Plutarch had meant, and he can't hold back his tears.

Snow bites his shoulder when he's done, hard enough for his teeth to pierce skin. The sounds he makes in Haymitch's ear implants itself into Haymitch's skull, and he knows the sound will haunt him for a long time.

When Snow finally rolls off of him, Haymitch makes a break for his clothes. He's pulled the dress off and is about to use it to wipe away the stickiness from his body when he's stopped by Snow.

"Do not clean yourself," Snow tells him. Haymitch glares at him through watery eyelashes. "You will take yourself to Heavensbee and tell him to stop tending to your needs. You are there to satisfy him, not the other way around. If he's worried about penetrating you, then use your District wits to convince him otherwise."

Haymitch thought that the debasement of the night had reached a peak, but he knows it's foolish to undermine Snow. He forces the tears away from his eyes and scowls. Not to be deterred or disobeyed, Snow steps back into Haymitch's space. A hand comes to rest on Haymitch's cheek. It doesn't grab— it simply narrows Haymitch's peripheral vision until all he can see is Snow.

"If you cannot tend to his needs," Snow warns in a low voice. "Then I will find someone else more equipped to handle you."

The threat sends goosebumps across Haymitch's skin, chilling his bones. He wants to spit in Snow's face or bite his hand. He wants to scream and burn this entire palace into rubble. He wants to drag Snow's corpse through all the Districts until he's nothing but dusty bones.

He only nods his head once in obedience.

"Good," Snow praises. "I'm glad we have reached an understanding."

✧✧✧✧

Haymitch doesn't look at the Peacekeepers who escort him back to Heavensbee Manor. He can't, not when his pants are slick with Snow's semen. The front door practically slams once he's inside, but he can't make himself care. Plutarch finds him storming through the halls and trying to find something to drink.

"Haymitch?"

"Where's the liquor?"

Plutarch blinks in surprise before leading Haymitch to the nearest room with alcohol. He presents a few different colorful bottles to him. Haymitch selects the closest one and begins to drink directly from the decanter. It's strong and just what he's looking for.

"Haymitch," Plutarch repeats. "What happened?"

Haymitch waits until the tears in his eyes are from the burn in his throat. He catches his breath before casting a withering glare towards Plutarch.

"There's no cameras in here," he tells him, confirming their suspicions. "But Snow knows you're not fucking me."

He wants to smack the blush that colors Plutarch's cheeks right off his face. The man takes a second to clear his throat. "How do you know? Did he say something?"

Haymitch can't meet his eyes. "Take a fucking guess." When Plutarch doesn't make any comment, Haymitch roughly pulls the collar of the jumpsuit to display the bite Snow left him with. All he gets is a small sigh and tension filling the air between them.

"Doesn't get his hands dirty, huh?" Haymitch scoffs. He takes another large swig, waiting impatiently for the haze to hit him.

"It's not… It's not exactly common, no. I don't know why he'd suddenly go against the norm with you," Plutarch stammers. The sight of Snow's scorn seems to be what finally flusters him. "I— I'm sorry, Haymitch."

"Save it," Haymitch says. He knows he won't be able to stand any apologies now. Not with Snow's very clear instructions for him. "He said—"

Shame grips his throat tight and won't let him speak. He has to brace himself against the table, hands trembling where they grip it. The liquor in the bottle shakes with him.

"He said you have to fuck me," he bites out. "I have to make you. Or he'll… he'll give me to someone else."

He hears Plutarch swear under his breath. The energy in the room becomes nervous and desperate. Haymitch wants to hide away in a dark corner again, but he knows he can't. He'll be trapped under another body again tonight, or be stuck with someone worse in the future.

"Haymitch," Plutarch starts to say. "We can find something to—"

"Don't," he interrupts. He doesn't want to hear about alternatives that might fool Snow. He doesn't want to take that chance. "Just… don't. Let's just get it over with."

Silence falls between them, only broken by Haymitch taking another long drink. The buzz of alcohol begins to settle into his skull, and he fights to put the bottle down. He'd feel awful if he threw up on Plutarch after demanding this of him.

Plutarch doesn't speak as he takes Haymitch back to the guest bedroom. He leaves the lights off, and Haymitch is grateful for it. He doesn't want to accidentally see himself in the mirror, painted with bruises and stains. They don't say anything as they climb onto the mattress. Haymitch just wants this to be over with as fast as possible, and hopes he can dissociate enough to create some distance.

Plutarch doesn't stay, afterwards. He gathers his clothes and asks if Haymitch needs anything. Haymitch doesn't answer him, but they both know he's not asleep. Plutarch tells him where to find the nearest filtered water— and bar cabinet— and leaves the room quietly. Haymitch doesn't know if he's thankful for the solitude, and doesn't want to think about it. He cleans himself off, finds the biggest bottle of dark liquor he can find, and returns to his dark corner.

✧✧✧✧

Plutarch doesn't get much rest that night. He rises early in the morning and tries to avoid the side of the Manor where Haymitch resides. He's decided to spend the morning in the library when one of the Avox retrieves him for a guest. Plutarch follows her to the dining room where they've already taken the guest, and he isn't surprised to see Snow lounging at the table.

"Good morning, Heavensbee," the President greets with a smile.

"Good morning, President Snow. What a pleasant surprise to see you this morning," Plutarch says. He takes the seat across the table from Snow and sits. "May I arrange for breakfast?"

"That would be lovely," Snow says. "I believe we both had quite the night."

As suspected, Plutarch thinks as he nods to the Avox in the corner. She leaves to the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast, and Plutarch is left alone with Snow. Clever eyes watch each other from across the table and Plutarch tries to plan out his next moves.

"Indeed," he starts slowly, letting a shy smile form. "I have to admit, I wasn't quite expecting that turnout when he arrived at my door, but it wasn't unwelcome."

"I would hope not. That's what he's here for, after all," Snow says. Plutarch doesn't miss the dangerous undertone in his words. "He's done his duty to the Games. Now he gets the honor to serve the Capitol."

A twinge of doubt— maybe a bit of fear, too— grabs at Plutarch's attention. He smooths out the messiness of it, but leans into the covetous, obsessive nature of his family's name. It seems his ancestors' materialism will work in his favor.

"The Capitol? I thought he was a gift for me?" he asks as innocently as he can muster. "Aside from you, of course."

There is a glass of water that must have been brought to Snow before Plutarch arrived. Snow leisurely drinks from it, leaving Plutarch on the edge of an answer. Snow seems unbothered by the question.

"He is a gift," Snow eventually agrees. His eyes catch something behind Plutarch and focus on it with an odd intensity. "He will remain yours as long as he behaves. It is not easy to tame a Victor."

Plutarch turns to see Haymitch at the door, empty decanter in hand. The young man does not hide his glowering at the President. He doesn't seem intent on stopping anytime soon, but at least he's distracted when Plutarch clears his throat. Haymitch strides into the room and heads straight to the bar cabinet in the corner.

"Yes, well… he was rather tame for me last night," Plutarch comments. He pretends to be pleased with how Haymitch stiffens. Snow chuckles from across the table.

"I am glad to hear that. We had a rather extensive chat about the nature of his new role," Snow says. Plutarch meets his eye and finds a devious glint in it, and meets it with his own small smirk. He keeps it mellow, for the most part— no need to show off, merely an acknowledgement of Snow's hidden meaning.

The sound of glass clinking draws their attention back to Haymitch. He's discarded the empty bottle and has found the rest of them. He goes to grab one, a honey toned whiskey, but pauses before his hands touch it. Haymitch looks over his shoulder at Plutarch.

"May I have another bottle?" he asks. It's clear he's forcing himself— if not the tense way he speaks, then by the way his ears flush pink.

Plutarch thinks for a moment, partly for show and partly to assess Haymitch's state. He's redressed, but it's clear he's slept in the clothes he wears. They're a set that Plutarch has provided him, crumpled and slightly stained with old liquor. But Plutarch didn't see Haymitch sway or smell a particularly harsh scent on him when he walked past, and his eyes are sharp as he glares at them.

"Yes," he says after some consideration. "I suggest you make it last, though."

Haymitch must not have been expecting this answer or restriction, and does little to mask his grumbling. Plutarch turns back to Snow, eager to have the attention off of Haymitch, but is interrupted by the bar cabinet slamming shut. When Haymitch moves in a hurry to pass behind him, Plutarch stops him.

"Do not break anything," he warns. He can feel Snow's eyes on them both. "Otherwise, I'll have to find something else of yours to take."

Haymitch's eyes are burning with something hateful when they look at Plutarch. Plutarch doesn't back down, breathing slow and calm as he stares his Victor down. He wonders if Haymitch wants to look at Snow for a reaction— he doesn't, but his eyes dart close to him. Plutarch watches as heat floods to Haymitch's face as he clenches his jaw.

"Yes, sir," he grinds out. After a moment, he adds, "I'm sorry."

Plutarch drops his hand from where he stopped Haymitch's movement. He twitches where he stands, aborting a step halfway through. Plutarch wonders why for a moment before Haymitch finds his eyes again. The burning is gone and replaced with a quiet plea, and Plutarch understands. He nods curtly in dismissal, and Haymitch all but flees the dining room. He's sure to shut the door quietly behind him on his way out. What a good boy, he thinks, to wait to be dismissed. He puts on another pleased, soft smile when he turns back around to Snow.

Snow watches Plutarch for several long moments, and Plutarch wonders what he's gathering from him. The President waits until their breakfast is finally delivered— a simple meal of toasted bread, fruit preserves, and fried pork— before he speaks.

"It seems I owe you an apology, Plutarch Heavensbee," he says calmly. Plutarch waits patiently for him to chew the food in his mouth, feeling it unwise to urge him on. "I admit, I had doubts that you would be able to tame such a creature. But, it seems that my doubts were unwarranted."

Plutarch lets himself preen a bit under the praise. It's not every day that the powerful leader of a country pays you a compliment and pseudo-apology. Although Plutarch wishes it was under better circumstances, for something he could be proud of, he will take it. He knows what it will take to earn Snow's trust.

"Thank you, President Snow," he says. "I believe our previous relationship is working in my favor. He may believe he owes me for letting him visit with his mother and brother, after the Reaping." He does not mention saving Lenore Dove from the Peacekeepers.

Snow's only response is a questioning raise of his eyebrows. He doesn't seem displeased by Plutarch's answer, though.

"And, I, uh," Plutarch starts. He feigns a little embarrassment, averting his eyes for a moment and twisting his mouth into a flustered smile. "I'll admit, I'm quite fond of rascals. It gets rather boring around here." Now, he pretends to blink himself back into awareness. "Not that well-behaved pets aren't desirable, of course. I will ensure that he doesn't do anything foolish."

Snow gives him a deep hum in consideration. Between bites, he asks, "You do not mind his behavior?"

Plutarch takes a drink as he considers his answer. He will not deny this outright, as that could lead Snow to deeming him ill-suited for the task. But, approving of Haymitch's actions may cost him the approval of Snow.

"There is always room for improvement," he says slowly. "The way he behaves at parties will need to be more refined, of course." He gives Snow a curious look. "May I… ask a candid question, sir?"

Snow nods his permission.

"In my role as his… keeper, let's say, how much attention should I be giving his behavior in the Districts?" he asks, leaning into the inexperience and hoping Snow will allow it. "I'm already quite fond of his shenanigans around my home, but I recognize that it is private here. I haven't been keeping an eye on him while he's at his own home, however, and…" He forces a hesitation. "…Well, I'd hate to lose my rights to him due to my own negligence."

Plutarch watches as Snow considers his question.

"Correcting misbehavior in terms of bad manners is beneath your role," Snow says. "Victors are allowed to make fools of themselves as much as they'd like. It's only when they begin to spread dangerous rhetoric that one might need to step in."

This answer settles some of the unease in Plutarch's gut. He can coach Haymitch on how to hide any rebellious activity (though, based on their last conversation, he'll need much more convincing to join any rebel cause). He can't imagine any attempt to curb Haymitch's newfound coping habit would result in building a cohesive, cooperative relationship. As long as he doesn't have to try and get Haymitch sober, he'll take it. Plutarch nods his understanding to Snow.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to properly utilize him."

The smirk returns to Snow's face. "I'm sure you will."

✧✧✧✧

He still doesn't feel clean. He hasn't felt clean since walking into the bedroom at Snow's palace several days ago. Even though he's scrubbed his skin so raw it's still red, he doesn't feel clean. Something has burrowed under his skin and seeped toxins into his bloodstream. The only thing that dulls it is alcohol. Haymitch isn't surprised— he's hardly been sober for more than a day since his homecoming.

He's at the Hob, freshly off the train from the Capitol. He doesn't remember how many bottles he has left at his new house. He doesn't want to risk there not being any, not when his head is already beginning to ache.

Haymitch heads straight for Hattie. He may not be able to help her in the distillery anymore, but he can help her by spending his blood money on her liquor. She watches him stalk up to her and pushes his usual four bottles forward. He reaches and grabs three more.

He's busy fishing coin out of his bag when she speaks. "What's happened, Haymitch?"

The only indication that he's heard her is a flinch and a pause. No words leave his mouth as he pulls more than enough to cover the bottles, plus some. The coins clatter on her small table and ring too loudly in his ears.

"Haymitch," she repeats as he hastily organizes the bottles in his bag. "Something's got you more startled than a chicken at suppertime."

The plea for him to talk to her is left unsaid, but he hears it loud and clear. Haymitch ignores her, and pulls his bag over his shoulder. He doesn't realize that the strap pulls on his shirt collar, edging it down his shoulder. A bite mark is healing but obvious against his skin.

"Oh, Haymitch," Hattie breathes quietly. It's such a surprise that Haymitch looks up at her. Hattie's eyes are solidly on his shoulder, and he doesn't have to look to know what she sees.

His hands are shaking as they grip his shirt collar and tug it up to hide Snow's wound. He leans in over the table, getting close to her, and hisses, "Mind your own business."

He feels awful for it— and awful for the face she makes, twisted with concern and upset— and turns on his heels. His temple feels like it's being battered in and his cheeks are too warm as he pushes his way through the crowd of bodies. He tells himself they aren't touching him, aren't grabbing and groping and pulling and squeezing. Nobody's paying him any mind.

Haymitch is halfway through District Twelve when he hears his name.

"Haymitch! Slow down!" Burdock comes jogging up to him, ignoring the way Haymitch tries to outpace him.

"Go away, Burdock," Haymitch mutters over his shoulder.

"I can hear the clinking of Hattie's bottles," Burdock accuses him. "You know we can give you sleep syrup, right? It's less toxic than that stuff."

Haymitch represses the urge to argue with him. He knows it will lead to them talking and yelling and drawing attention to themselves. He knows that's what Burdock wants— anything to see him more, to put more time between now and when Haymitch locks his front door on him. Haymitch keeps his mouth shut and continues striding through town.

"You look like you've got a nail in your shoe," Burdock presses. He's keeping pace with Haymitch, and Haymitch fights to not trip him. "Talk to me, Hay."

Burdock receives a glare for his request. It's how it's been for the past year and a half. He'll attempt to get Haymitch to open up to him, Haymitch will refuse him, and it'll repeat until Burdock finally gets chased away. It's easier to follow Haymitch longer whenever he's in town (and that is largely the reason Haymitch doesn't go into town anymore).

"You'll feel better if you talk, you know," Burdock says. It's not his first time saying it. He huffs when Haymitch doesn't answer again, and reaches out to grab his arm. This isn't the first instance either— they've gotten into plenty of physical matches before.

This is, however, the first time Haymitch has flinched so hard at the contact. He rips his arm away from Burdock's touch, wheeling around on him with a red, angry face. Haymitch's hands reach up to shove Burdock away.

"Leave me alone!" Haymitch shouts. His heartbeat has gotten too fast, too panicked for his chest. "Why does everyone have to watch me? Don't you have anything better to do?!"

A furious, animal-like cry tears from his throat as he kicks at the nearest natural thing he can find. Too much energy is bubbling under his skin and he needs to take another scalding hot shower. He needs to get home— get the eyes off of him. Haymitch ducks between buildings and makes for the backways. It'll take longer, but less people will see him.

He doesn't realize Burdock wasn't behind him until he's entering his home. His thoughts are still swimming too quickly and it takes him several moments to realize Burdock is standing in his kitchen. Haymitch scoffs, pissed and loud.

"I brought you sleep syrup," Burdock says as way of explanation.

Haymitch gestures to his bag full of liquor with a tight grin. "I've got my own, thanks. Get out of my house."

"I don't want you drinking yourself to death, Haymitch," Burdock says softly. He sounds so lost that it twists up Haymitch's heart. He doesn't say anything to Burdock, and instead begins to unload his haul. The first bottle is opened and down Haymitch's throat before Burdock continues.

"I'm serious, Haymitch. It wasn't cute before, and it's not getting any better. I want you to talk to me, okay?" he urges. He steps closer to Haymitch. "I'll listen, I promise."

That's not the problem, Haymitch thinks miserably. A scene flashes across his eyes— Burdock with a noose around his neck, hanging from the tree in Haymitch's backyard. He gulps more white liquor down. He's about to open his mouth and tell Burdock to fuck off when there are hands on him again. Burdock's grabbed his forearm to twist the bottle away from his mouth, but it feels tooclosetooclosetooclose to where he can feel the ghosts of Snow and Plutarch's hands.

"Get the fuck off me!" he roars, pulling away. Burdock's hand tightens around his shirt sleeve and they wrestle. White liquor slashes up through the spout of the bottle and coats the entire kitchen in its smell.

"Don't shut me out!" Burdock yells back.

The words fall out of Haymitch's mouth before he can stop them. "Can't I have any secrets anymore? Can't I choose something, for once!"

He expects the wrestling to continue, for the shouting to ring in his ears. His face still burns with booze and fury but Burdock does not answer. His hand is still gripping Haymitch's shirt, but his eyes aren't watching Haymitch's face.

"Oh, fuck off," Haymitch nearly sobs. The air is cold on his exposed shoulder, colder around the healing cream Plutarch gave him for Snow's bite. He finally manages to get Burdock's hand off of him and rights his shirt again. He needs to start wearing tighter sweaters until the wound heals.

There is an oppressive silence that settles over the kitchen. Haymitch's legs don't cooperate and won't let him flee, so he settles on taking several more drinks from his bottle. The familiar haze and dullness of being drunk slowly starts to settle in. He can feel Burdock think and it tightens his ribs.

"Is that what I think it is?" Burdock asks, his voice dangerously slow.

All the fight has drained out of Haymitch, at least for the moment. He just wanted to hide. Why does this always have to happen? He wants to curl up into a dark corner and be forgotten to time, left to rot by himself.

Instead, he scoffs and asks, "Depends. What do you think it is?"

"Somebody bit you."

"Ohh, woo-hoo, you know what human teeth look like," he snarks. His lips pull up in a sneer. "Do you want a reward?"

Burdock's face is still and hard as stone. Haymitch has only seen him look so angry once, but… he doesn't bother to recall when. He wants everything to stay as far away from his mind as possible.

"Was it that asshole cameraman?" he asks. Haymitch pretends he can't see the way Burdock's fists tremble at his side. Maybe he can get Burdock to punch him and knock him out.

Haymitch takes a long drink. "Yes, and."

The silence is heavy and punctuated with confusion. Burdock's anger is still there, but stalled momentarily as he tries to wrap his head around everything. Haymitch wants him to leave.

"What?"

Haymitch's eyes watch Burdock's fists for a while before they find his old friend's face. He knows there are cameras around, watching and listening and spying. He can't imagine this would be enough to get Burdock killed— it's nothing rebellious or incendiary— but maybe himself.

The smile that stretches Haymitch's lips is shallow and tense. "Our dear, perfect President has a hobby of torturing and raping his Victors," he says slowly, making sure his voice is clear enough for Burdock. He watches as anger slowly seeps into horror. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Burdock doesn't get a chance to respond. Haymitch drains the bottle and his anger comes flooding back into him. Haymitch swings the empty bottle hard against the countertop, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. He doesn't move to clean it up— he drops the bottle spout and selects another one from his stash.

"Get out of my house," he mutters through gritted teeth, pushing past Burdock. His limbs are stiff and alive with rage as he takes long strides to his bedroom.

The door slams shut behind him, and the tears don't hesitate to flow down his cheeks. His throat closes up so tight he can't even swallow anything. Haymitch's knees give out and he slides to the floor. In the same movement, he doubles over and screams as loud as he can. Hands return to surround him and he screams— he screams until his face is numb and he can't feel his lungs.

He doesn't hear the knocking at his door until it tries to open. He's sitting right up against it, his body acting as a block.

"Haymitch?" Burdock calls softly from the other side. Haymitch's throat is sore and dry, and he wets it with more liquor. "Can you trade me for sleep syrup? Please?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. He's not sure if it's the heaviness of the booze or the heaviness of… everything else. He's so weighed down it's hard to speak. The idea of the sleep syrup is tempting— he wants to sleep so badly he could cry.

"Haymitch, please. I don't… I don't want you breaking another bottle," Burdock continues. Images follow of broken glass and blood. It's tempting.

"Am I not allowed to choose that, either?" Haymitch croaks. Anger and despair fight to see who will pilot Haymitch's body. "I was supposed to die in the arena, Burdock."

The other boy doesn't answer, instead pushing against the door with more force. Haymitch is shoved an inch before he pushes back, the door slamming shut.

"Go away, Burdock."

"No. I'm not leaving you alone."

Despair twists his ribcage and anger floods his cheeks. Haymitch rises with an energy he doesn't properly feel, and wrenches the door open.

"Get out!" he screams. Burdock takes a step away from the door, syrup bottle clutched in hand, but does not leave. "Fucking get out!"

"No!" Burdock shouts back. "Not when you're like this! I'm not losing you, too!"

Any reminders of Haymitch's loss try to push at the seams of his skull, but he doesn't want to let them in. He can't bear it. He swings his bottle at the door frame and it smashes open, clear alcohol splashing across him, Burdock, and the floor.

Haymitch points the jagged end of the spout at Burdock. "Get out."

Burdock eyes the makeshift weapon, but stands his ground. Haymitch wonders if he can see how his hands are shaking.

"You've seen what I can do with a blade," Haymitch growls. He takes a step forward, ignoring the too-vivid memories of blood and gore painted across a beautiful meadow.

"I'm not afraid of you," Burdock says. "I'm not afraid of you, Haymitch."

You should be, Haymitch thinks. He grits his teeth and starts to swing, the bottle end taking large, wide slashes in front of him. He only steps forward whenever Burdock steps back, but he doesn't stop. Haymitch starts to shout again, spitting words of profanity and vitriol as he chases his best friend around his empty home.

It's not until he steps too close, doesn't swing wide enough, and slashes Burdock's forearm open that they stop. Red is quick to stain Burdock's clothes and drip to the floor.

"What the hell, Haymitch?!"

Haymitch pushes past the guilt and raises the glass again. "Get out of here! Go away before they kill you, too! Fucking leave!"

His vision begins to swim with the alcohol haze, and he doesn't trust himself to swing and miss anymore. Instead, Haymitch watches as Burdock throws the bottles of sleep syrup at him and storms through the front door. Haymitch doesn't rest, too full of buzzing anger, until most of the living room furniture is pushed against doorframe. Time passes in chunks now, and he's only half aware of throwing objects around the house, screaming at Snow.

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Do you like watching this?"

"Am I behaving well enough for you?"

In the short moments of lucidity, he's still too afraid to wish Snow's death. To shout about Snow's blood across his fists, about Snow's corpse trampled by his horses, about Snow burning until there's nothing left.

He only stops making noise when he collapses on his bed, consciousness leaving him.

✧✧✧✧

Chapter Text

The years go on and their relationship changes to fit their needs. Plutarch sends for Haymitch whenever it's time for an appearance, but not often enough that Haymitch begins to miss home. It takes them the longest to settle in an agreeable routine for sex. That's what they call it— just "sex." It's hard to find a way to describe rape when neither participant is willing. In the beginning, they agreed to have sex most nights that Haymitch stayed in the Manor. Haymitch didn't want to risk any more surprise visits from Snow, but months go by with nothing and they begin to decrease sexual encounters. It dwindles from most nights to only before parties, down to very rarely. Now, before parties, all Plutarch will do is leave a few visible bruises or bites on Haymitch's skin, marking him as owned for any onlookers.

They still have sex once in a while, though the dynamic has shifted— more often than not, it is Haymitch seeking a night of companionship and pleasure. He gets very little friendly contact in District Twelve, so ridden with grief and paranoia that he refuses to let anyone get close to him. Plutarch does not deny him this, though they still do not share intimacy in the way of kissing. They have no misgivings about their arrangements— forced together by Snow, with one suffering limitations to intimacy, and simply making the best of it.

Haymitch has even eased into their public appearances, where Plutarch is much more handsy, affectionate, and rather possessive. He'll be glued by Plutarch's side for the first half of a party, laughing and conversing with Capitol citizens, his golden-jeweled collar sitting pretty on his throat. Plutarch will feed him by hand or urge Haymitch for affection, like kissing his cheek or sitting on his lap. Haymitch has long lost his pride— perhaps back when he was trapped in that birdcage, after his Games— and lets himself be preened and paraded around. He's rewarded with the second half of the party, where he's allowed to drink until he nearly blacks out.

Over the years, they've refined how Haymitch can still use his rascal persona while fitting into the expectations of Snow. He's well-behaved enough to not draw Snow's ire, but mischievous enough to play with Capitol fans. There are some fans that are quite eager to get their hands on him— Plutarch swats them away like flies, teasing them before locking Haymitch away. He always comes up with some excuse, whether it's Haymitch's visit ending or simply not wanting to share. They've both wondered, however, if there will be a time where Plutarch is unable to deny them.

✧✧✧✧

The party is glamorous and expensive. Plutarch expected nothing less from one of Snow's more intimate dinner parties. A feast stretches out across the banquet table, and the dozens of finely dressed Capitol citizens chatter among themselves. Plutarch, attending by himself, is entrenched in a conversation about the most recent Games.

"Well, I just have to say, I'm a little disappointed in this year's Victor," a woman pouts. Plutarch knows her first name is Calypso, but doesn't recall if she's a Silver or a Bell. "He's strong as an ox, sure, but… his face wasn't pleasant to look at."

A man to Plutarch's right— Elysium— cackles quite loudly. "Calypso, you can't just rank them on their faces," he teases. "When was the last time your tribute bet made you any money?"

Calypso pouts but gives it an honest think. "This year, I had given that District 2 girl donations, but my bet was on 1's boy. Last year was an absolute ruin— none of those tributes caught my eye. Before that…" She continues over the last five years, until she snaps her fingers with a grin. "Oh, yes! The 50th Quarter Quell. I had spent quite a bit of money on that boy."

Three sets of eyes find Plutarch. He nonchalantly sips his drink, quietly hoping the conversation will be picked up by someone else. He's glad that Calypso continues chattering away.

"He's quite a handsome boy, don't you think? I was told not to send him donations, since he's from Twelve, but… look where we are now!"

"Yes, where is your little rascal now?" another woman, Ursa, asks Plutarch pointedly. She leans into his left side. "I was quite hoping to see him today."

Plutarch dries his lips with a napkin, ever the image of being nonplussed. He shrugs absently, pretending to fight off a grin when the others snicker. "He's back in Twelve. He's had quite a few busy weeks, after all. I like to let him rest."

Elysium sighs and puts his hand to his chest, as if he's just watched something heartwarming. "You are too kind to him, Plutarch. He's so lucky to be under your care."

The others make noises of agreement, and Plutarch politely drinks up all the praise. He'd be a fool to pretend otherwise— for them, it is an privilege to be given a Victor, something to be desired deeply. He lets himself be complimented and sweet-talked for a while, playing into it with little stories or quips about the arrangement.

"How is he doing, anyhow?" Calypso asks after a while. She swirls her drink in her hand and feigns compassion (or perhaps the compassion is real, just clouded by Capitol greed). "It was heartbreaking to hear of his family."

Plutarch pushes down any comment he has about her lack of interest in Haymitch's well-being at their last visit. She had to be reminded— twice— not to touch what was rightfully Plutarch's. Yet, she had made no mention of her concern or condolences.

"He's doing as well as he can, under the circumstances," Plutarch tells them. "He's as clever as ever, and likes to remind me with his pranks."

This gets a laugh out of the three. They beg Plutarch for stories, and he gives them over readily. Haymitch has gotten into a habit of hiding Plutarch's possessions— never stealing, mind you, just hiding— and will leave them in increasingly obscure places. Occasionally, everything in a room will be turned upside down or flipped to mirror the original layout. Once, Plutarch found a delicate porcelain egg tucked away in the far corner of his wardrobe. Books will be misplaced often, though Plutarch had to "get onto him quite sternly" not to remove them from the library proper.

"Oh, what a darling!" Elysium laughs.

"I enjoy him keeping things lively around the Manor," Plutarch smiles. "Sometimes I wonder if it's a good use of resources to fetch him, even if all I want is the company. It gets awfully lonely in that home." He says this as much for the others as for any possible camera watching them.

"Plutarch, dear," Calypso purrs, leaning across the table to drape a hand across Plutarch's. His skin tingles unpleasantly, preparing for her questions. "Please, you must answer my inquiries."

"Calypso, dear," he copies her tone, "We are at dinner. This is hardly the appropriate venue."

"You always find a way to avoid answering," she pouts. It's quite dramatic, but it has the intended effect. Elysium and Ursa's interests are piqued and they begin to bother Plutarch as well.

"This is too interesting not to follow up!"

"Whatever is the question?"

"I have been dying to know what our dear rascal is like when he's touched," Calypso stage-whispers, leaning in like she's telling a dangerous rebel secret. A catty grin is painted on her face, and she fixes Plutarch with a stare so bold that she must know what she's doing.

The other two immediately turn to Plutarch for an answer. He tries to fight them off, but the other partygoers are beginning to get curious and he'd rather limit the audience.

"Fine," he eventually acquiesces. "But— I would like to make it a game. I want to hear your guesses, and I will tell you who is right." He raises a hand to stop Calypso's complaint. "If none of you are right, then I will tell you after."

The three exchange glances before agreeing. Calypso is the first to place her guess.

"I bet he's rather adventurous," she says with a salacious grin. "You have all those books— surely it is bound to give you two some ideas. Oh! And I bet he is insatiable. You can hardly keep his hands off of you."

Plutarch waits until she's finished before nodding at the other two. He needs to go about this calmly, even though the way they fantasize about Haymitch is making his own skin crawl. (This never used to bother him before. He's known what happens to Victors for a long time. He must have gotten quite close to Haymitch, for this kind of response.)

Ursa hums and sips her wine before answering. "My initial thought is that he'd be loud. He's got a beautiful voice, after all. But then, I thought back to his Games. He was quite quiet when he was savoring something, like those chocolates he was sent. That's my guess— he's quiet."

"I think he's quite bossy," Elysium guesses with little prompting. "He knows what he likes and what he wants. Or, wait— the opposite. I've seen you order him around at parties. Is he quite submissive? Does he change off?"

Plutarch keeps them on their toes by taking a long drink. He considers lying, but his intuition is telling him it would be a remarkably bad idea. He doesn't know what these perverts will do with this information, and he'd rather not be blindsided by something unexpected.

"Of the multiple guesses, only two were close," he says. He pauses and lets them argue it out for a bit, forcing an amused grin onto his face. When they calm back down, he points to Ursa and Elysium. "He is rather quiet, and while I wouldn't say he's submissive, that's not too far off."

He'll admit, the indignant whine that Calypso lets out is worth some of the discomfort. She rolls her eyes, knowing that Plutarch purposefully left her out of the semi-correct answers. It doesn't last long before she's right back on him.

"Well, that's what he's close to. How would you describe him?"

Plutarch wants to squirm under the feral lust in their eyes. He knows it's not directed at him, but it's hard not to imagine Haymitch under their hands. He needs a second to gather himself, pretending to give it a good think.

"He's… shy."

There is a beat of silence as his description settles in. He watches their faces as they digest this tidbit, hesitating to give them more.

"Shy?" Ursa pushes. Her voice is quiet, as if she's been scandalized.

"That rascal? Are we supposed to believe that?" Elysium asks, but there's a wild grin on his lips that tells Plutarch he's very pleased with this information.

Plutarch simply shrugs. "Believe it or not, that's how I would describe him. You've asked, and that's my answer. He's shy."

"Shy how?" Calypso urges.

He does not want to answer. "He didn't touch much at first. He was quiet for a long time, and he was quite predisposed to hiding his face. He flushes this beautiful shade of rose, you see."

The three swoon over this visual, going as far as fanning their faces. He hopes they will allow him to leave it at this, but Elysium and Calypso press further.

"You said 'at first.' How is he now?"

"Surely that shyness has faded."

Plutarch busies himself with chewing slowly. He takes his time, edging them along, before finally swallowing. As if unbothered, he says, "Oh, yes. He's quite sweet, now. And no— I won't describe how. That is what I've earned for myself."

He gets another round of dramatic, scornful gasps, but it's just lewd and suggestive enough that they finally begin to entertain themselves. Plutarch can handle them fantasizing out loud as long as he's not such an active participant. He does, however, make a note to keep Haymitch close by the next them they meet at a party.

✧✧✧✧

The next party Haymitch is dragged to is at Snow's personal home. The memories, though older now, are enough to get him nervous before entering. He's been in the presidential palace plenty of times since their private meeting— at least five, for each Hunger Games. Still, he knows he won't be leaving Plutarch's side much tonight. Plutarch has allowed him to drink some liquor at the Heavensbee Manor to ease his nerves.

When they arrive, the palace is barren. There are plenty of Avox around, including the two that lead them to a large parlor room. It's a grand thing, but hardly the place of a typical Capitol party. Haymitch dampens his confusion as much as possible, but he decides he does not like the way Plutarch stiffens next to him once they enter.

There are four people already present, Snow included. Haymitch only vaguely recognizes the other three— one in particular he recognizes as a woman named Calypso. She's been itching to get her hands on him since his Games, and she's smiling at him in a way that makes him feel like a pinned butterfly.

"Welcome," Snow greets them with a smile too provocative to be innocent. "Our guests of honor."

It's been a while since Haymitch has felt the lightening strike of cold dread seep into his veins. He's grateful that Plutarch is here and can open up the conversation. Plutarch is a natural at bureaucratic nonsense and is expected to take the lead. His hand finds Haymitch's waist protectively, but Haymitch still finds himself eyed like meat at a butcher's shop.

When the man of the group— what was his name? Ulysses? Elias? Elysium?— approaches them and extends a hand to touch his hair, Haymitch has to stop himself from leaning away. The man's hand is warm when it brushes through his curls.

"Oh, they're just as soft as I've imagined," he sighs dreamily.

"President Snow?" Plutarch asks calmly. The only thing betraying his collected demeanor is how the hand on Haymitch's waist tightens momentarily.

"Yes, I best explain first," Snow says casually, as if they're discussing a work assignment. "These three have been excellent assets to the Capitol as of late. I hear they're quite fond of Haymitch, so I thought I would reward them." His tone shifts minutely, dropping just a fraction closer to dangerous. "I hoped you would show them how sweet he could be."

Haymitch must be missing a piece of the puzzle with how the three giggle. He hopes his face isn't as red as it feels as he stands there being gawked at. His mind reels with the implications, and he immediately thinks of Lenore Dove. It's been years since she's disappeared— but, if he truly believed she was no longer at risk of being found, he wouldn't be cooperating with Plutarch. Fear for his love turns his insides to ice.

"Well, I can't promise sweetness, but I can promise he'll be on his best behavior," Plutarch says. Then, with an extra bit of ass-kissing, he adds, "I'm honored to be able to serve you, sir."

Haymitch can't say the same, so he stays quiet. He thinks Snow might say something, but he's distracted as Elysium presses into his personal space.

"Don't worry your pretty little head, darling," he purrs. A finger scratches lightly at Haymitch's scalp, like he's being pet. "I like them shy."

Haymitch feels wholly underprepared to be swarmed. Plutarch remains on guard just behind him, but he's backed up into Plutarch's chest when the two women come to surround him. His mind swims with three sets of hands— three and a half, if Plutarch were included— start to trail along his clothes and exposed skin. When the woman he recognizes, Calypso, moves in to kiss him, Haymitch's mouth is covered by Plutarch's hand.

"President Snow, if I may?" Plutarch asks, leaning Haymitch's bulk back against his chest. Plutarch obediently waits until Snow nods at him to continue. "I'm hoping this is not too bold, sir. While I am more than happy to reward these fine folk, I am… wondering if I have earned the right to propose some ground rules."

Snow looks intrigued, watching over the scene from his perch on a rather regal armchair. His eyes meet Haymitch's, and Haymitch is sure he sees the animal fear coursing through his body. He looks at Haymitch like he's prey— so similar to that night— and allows Plutarch continue.

"I simply propose that I'm allowed to keep certain parts of Haymitch to myself," Plutarch says. Haymitch can hear the smile in his voice. "Particularly, his lips and… let's refer to it as his undergarment area."

Haymitch feels like he's walking a tightrope waiting for Snow to respond. It's a big ask— Plutarch is practically asking for these people to get off on only Haymitch's nonsexual parts. Asking for them to stop at molestation. Snow considers this carefully, ignoring the soft whines of protests coming from his citizens. He finally fixes Haymitch with a severe gaze.

"If he can behave, then I will allow it." The threat lands as it's meant to.

"Then I have nothing to worry about," Plutarch says with a squeeze to Haymitch's waist. His hand falls away from Haymitch's mouth, and Haymitch lets himself relax ever so slightly before the others start pushing at the newly established rules.

"Is that for kissing alone? Or anything mouth-related?" the man asks. His finger inches its way closer to Haymitch's lips, and he has to fight the urge to bite them.

"Kissing, at the very least. Though, I must warn you, I haven't been able to teach him many mouth tricks. It's been a slow process."

Haymitch can only think of two or three times he's done anything "mouth-related" to Plutarch. It wasn't awful— better than taking Plutarch by other means— but he can appreciate what Plutarch is trying to do. If he can limit their molestation to Haymitch's hands, it might leave him feeling less used by the end.

"Luckily for me, I can try him out on other equipment," the strange woman grins. Haymitch has seen her before, but can't remember her name until Elysium laughs with her, calling her Ursa. He hopes she's merely teasing him with the suggestion.

Calypso, on the other hand, seems intent on pushing the boundaries. "Is that really fair?" she pouts. It's would be comical, seeing a woman her age pout like a child, if it wasn't permission to rape Haymitch that she was whining about. "We're only asking for him for tonight. Surely you can spare him this once."

Haymitch finds his head being tilt to the side by Plutarch's hand under his chin, turning until he's looking back and up at Plutarch. The look on his face is contemplative and almost serene. Haymitch must make quite the picture, held against his chest and forced to look back at him— he can hear a thrilled little gasp from somewhere in front of him.

"What am I like?" Plutarch asks him softly. "When we touch?"

He only needs a moment to catch on. There must have been a previous conversation of sorts— that must be where these descriptors of shy and sweet must be coming from. The idea of Plutarch calling him either of those words in that context has his face warming. He ignores it, and tries to think of what Plutarch is looking for. It doesn't take long before he lands on an answer.

"Possessive."

Haymitch makes sure he says it with a slight rasp, and it has the intended effect. There are more thrilled sounds before Plutarch lets him face the three again. Ursa is fanning her face with an excited smile, and Elysium is leaning into him.

"Well, how can I fight against that?" he coos, almost directly into Haymitch's mouth. He's so close that Haymitch can smell the remnants of dinner on his breath.

"You two paint quite the lovely tableau," Calypso purrs, her hand running along Haymitch's neck. "You must let me photograph you at some point. A private edition, focusing on the lust and submission of our Quarter Quell Victor."

It's been a long time since Haymitch has felt the flush of humiliation. It burns his cheeks and results in a bigger rise out of them. They fuss over him as they drag him to the nearest seat. The furniture piece looks like it's here solely for Haymitch to be devoured on— it's plush chaise lounge without arms, and it allows each of the three access to him as they force him to lay down. Thankfully, it also keeps him open for Plutarch. When Plutarch rests a solid hand on his shoulder, Haymitch raises a hand to grasp at it. He's grateful the action just adds to the three's idea of their bond.

"Ugh, I want a Victor just like you," Calypso pouts. Does she ever stop pouting?

They each have their own comments as they make quick work of undressing him. It's overwhelming to feels hands all over him, and closing his eyes only makes his head spin faster. He resorts to looking up at the ceiling or looking back at Plutarch.

"Good," Plutarch says to him in a hushed tone. His hand finds Haymitch's hair and pets him gently. "There's my good boy."

Haymitch is practically trembling by the time he's left in his undergarments. As promised, the roaming hands avoid touching him there. They do, however, ruck up the longer sections that go down his thighs. Plutarch doesn't stop them since they stop to spread kisses and bites along his skin.

Calypso takes residence by Haymitch's face, smearing sticky lipstick kisses along his cheek, jaw, throat, and collarbone. She nips his ear and drags her tongue just under his jawline, and he wants to squirm out of his own skin. When he does squirm in reaction to Elysium's mouth on his skin, they all giggle and try to pin him down.

Breathe, he thinks to himself, gripping Plutarch's hand tightly. Plutarch squeezes him back, and Haymitch latches onto it like an anchor. It's not much, but Plutarch starts to massage or squeeze his pressure points to offer a bit of distracting pain. He gasps at one point— he's not sure what caused it, with so much going on— and one of them comments about how sweet he sounds.

"I could just eat you up," Calypso moans into his ear. She takes his hand in his and forces him to touch her. Her nails scratch along the soft skin of his inner elbow just to hear him gasp again. "Sweet little thing."

Elysium begins to bite, causing Haymitch to jolt each time. He bites hard, and Haymitch knows his skin will be mottled with bruises. The man's hands roam his torso, circling and squeezing and groping and kneading. Ursa is still between his legs, nuzzling and kissing at the inside of his thigh. She doesn't bite, but latches onto a sensitive part and begins to suck a bruise into him. When Haymitch whimpers at the sensation, Elysium stops what he's doing to help spread his legs. He kneads hard at the same spot on his other thigh.

"Look at you," Calypso is saying to him. She soon tires of his hands, and moves to assault his mouth. Haymitch swallows any dread left over in his throat as she lifts up the hem of her dress. "Open up, sweet boy."

"Not fair," he hears Ursa say. "I wanted to try his mouth first."

Calypso merely laughs at her and Ursa returns to his thighs. She picks another spot to suck a bruise into, only now Elysium is joining her endeavor. He feels like his legs are spread impossibly wide to accommodate the two of them, but they won't let him adjust or close them any.

Plutarch's hands remain the only solid, steady point of contact. He's now resting both hands on Haymitch's shoulders, keeping him steady as the three continue to overwhelm him. It also gives Haymitch something to do with his hands— the couch doesn't have enough extra fabric to ball up in his fists, and he doesn't want to touch the other three. He keeps both hands on Plutarch's, squeezing and accidentally scratching at his wrists. Everything's moving too fast for him to do much more than simply take it.

The sensations blur together. At some point Ursa begins to use his thighs to stimulate herself, moving up once Calypso is finished. He prays to all the stars he can think of that he won't throw up. He's thankful that Plutarch remains steady, Haymitch able to squeeze his hands as a distraction. He tries to urge himself out of his body and one step to the left, but there's so much being done to his body. Feeling stuck in his own body, Haymitch wills himself not to sob.

Ursa doesn't last as long as Calypso, and soon presses her weight against him with a shudder. Both women— satisfied now, Haymitch hopes— begin to shower him with affection and praise. Any words they say feel far too foul and violating.

Elysium lifts his head away where he's biting Haymitch's skin to speak to Plutarch. "Can I sit him in my lap? My hands won't touch— I just want to feel him on me."

Haymitch keeps his eyes closed, but trusts Plutarch. He doesn't know what he'd rather have, and doesn't want to decide. It's easier to not decide for himself, when it comes to this.

"That's fine," Plutarch answers. He gives Haymitch's hand a tight squeeze, and helps Haymitch to his feet. Haymitch needs to steady himself for a moment, head full of cotton and buzzing.

Haymitch shuts off instructions for his body, and lets himself be directed wherever they want. He sits on Elysium's lap, the man feeling much larger behind Haymitch than he looks. It's just as overwhelming. Haymitch feels dragged along underneath a current, until he feels a hand at his throat. He jolts hard enough to surprise them both. The hand tightens instinctually— or perhaps just to torture him— and Haymitch begins to hyperventilate. He's not sure where the panic comes from, but it's strong and nearly overtakes him. He can't escape the firm arm wrapping around his waist, keeping him pinned against Elysium.

"Easy— easy," he hears Plutarch say, and soon Plutarch is in front of them. "Relax, Haymitch."

Plutarch eases Elysium's hand away from his throat, much to Elysium's dismay. They argue for a bit, Haymitch spread across his lap all the while.

"Let me show you, then," Plutarch relents. He makes eye contact with Haymitch as he slowly raises Elysium's hand back up to his neck. Haymitch's heart has slowed a bit, and he forces himself to remain as calm as possible and Plutarch instructs Elysium where to put pressure. "Here. Just press— no need to squeeze. We don't need to damage his windpipe."

Haymitch can feel fingers press into his throat along his pulse points. It takes a few long moments for the result to kick in— he can still hear his heartbeat, but it grows distant as his head grows heavy. Elysium resumes moving as Haymitch's head drops back against his shoulder. Almost instinctually, Haymitch's hand finds Plutarch's. It's the most stable thing during this whole ordeal.

When his throat is released, Haymitch throws himself forward. Plutarch is there to catch him and move him to relative safety. The women try to get in on it, but Plutarch tells them that playtime is over. Haymitch can't hear Snow argue, and the only hands on him are Plutarch's. There is a moment of fear when he remembers Snow. His eyes flash to Snow, reclining back in his armchair. He's relaxed and looks as pleased as a snake that's just eaten dinner.

Haymitch is reassured that Snow won't be raping him tonight— this wasn't for any sort of sexual gratification for him. Haymitch can tell by the look in his eye that Snow was just curious. He wanted to know what Haymitch would do, if he'd show his belly and obey.

It almost makes it worse.

✧✧✧✧

Chapter Text

Time continues to pass, and Haymitch finds himself facing less and less trials from Snow as the calendars turn. He knows he is still being watched, but he ensures that he remains low profile. Plutarch has warned him about any rebellious activity, so all he does in public is make a drunken spectacle of himself. He does not expect to ever get off of Snow's watchlist— the most he can do is keep the attention off of him, especially when other rebels begin to take Snow's attention.

It makes Plutarch and his relationship a little smoother. Plutarch suggested, a few years ago, that Haymitch meet with various rebels under the guise of Plutarch "loaning him out." Haymitch wasn't fond of the phrasing, but could see the benefit in it. It would be difficult for Plutarch to pretend to keep such an invested interest in him without it blurring the lines of possession and affection.

At first, there aren't many rebels that Haymitch is asked to meet with— it's more information gathering, Haymitch acting as a surveillance bug for Plutarch. Especially in Twelve, where it's hard for Plutarch to visit. He's just recently been promoted out of directing Games footage in Twelve, so it's not common that he's in the area anymore.

Except for now— he's been sent on a task to film propaganda shots across Panem, and he's finally landed in Twelve. He's asked Haymitch to accompany him across the District, even though he'll be escorted by the mayor for the majority of it. Regardless , Haymitch does as asked and meets him at the train. If Plutarch can smell the alcohol on his breath, he doesn't mention it— he usually doesn't. They converse quietly as they walk, careful to not discuss anything important where it could be filmed. There is a special advantage of Plutarch's new position, since he now has access to hidden cameras around the Districts. He knows most, if not all, of the blind spots around Panem, and he's sure to utilize them to their needs.

As they approach the city square and Mayor's home (a traditionally high-surveilled area), Haymitch does his best to appear more respectable. The Districts are plenty used to dealing with his drunken stupor whenever he does leave his house, but Plutarch warns him that they may want to gather B-reel footage of Plutarch and his team. Haymitch wouldn't be surprised if Plutarch thinks it'll look better to the Capitol to have Haymitch glued to his side. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes. Even so, a small voice in the back of his head tells him to be wary of punishment.

"Just be sure to be on your best behavior," Plutarch reminds him with a sly grin. It's more for the cameras than for Haymitch. He can already hear the teasing giggles at Plutarch scolding his little rascal.

"Of course," Haymitch says, sarcasm dripping from his tone. He even bends at the hip ever-so-slightly in a bow. "I would hate to embarrass the prestigious Heavensbee name."

Plutarch laughs and his hand lands warmly on Haymitch's shoulder. It's familiar by now and doesn't bother him, at least not as much as it used to.

Their conversation is easy as they wait outside for the Mayor to come out of his home. Haymitch is thankful it's not dreary out, and the temperature doesn't make him want to claw his skin off. Plutarch's train was two hours early, and Haymitch has a feeling this Mayor— an easily flustered, disorganized man— may have been taken by surprise by their arrival. He cracks a few jokes to Plutarch, but is sure to keep his words respectful on the surface level.

At one point, Haymitch's eyes drift across the square. He's not looking for anything in particular, but the sight of an old friend catches his eye. It's been nearly eight years since he last chased Burdock from his home, injuring him in the process— but he's there across the square, watching Haymitch carefully.

…No, he's not watching Haymitch. His expressive, gray eyes are locked on Plutarch. Haymitch knows Burdock well enough to catch the underlying resentment in his glare. Those same gray eyes flash to him for a moment, and Haymitch keeps his gaze. Burdock is far enough away that there's no way to mutter a warning, so Haymitch just watches him. He thinks he can see Burdock work his jaw— an old habit whenever he was too angry for words.

He watches as Asterid approaches him, her belly swollen with a child, asking him a question and stealing his attention. He hopes the couple will leave and return to their home. Instead, they chatter for a bit before Asterid looks over at Haymitch and Plutarch. Haymitch knows her expressions less, but it's hard to miss the furrowed brows and deep frown when she looks at Plutarch.

Burdock, I swear, if you start spreading my business everywhere… He doesn't have a chance to finish the thought when Plutarch catches his attention.

"Something interesting?" he asks. Haymitch can't stop him before he turns, looking over his shoulder and finding Burdock and Asterid. "Ah… They're old friends of yours, yes?"

Haymitch knows Plutarch will notice the way Burdock's eyes burn into him. Even if Plutarch wasn't as well-versed in people as he is, it would be impossible to miss— Burdock is not subtle about his disdain. He knows the moment Plutarch recognizes that scorn, when he subtly shifts his weight closer to Haymitch. Haymitch is under no illusion it's for anything but Plutarch's own possessiveness.

"Yes," Haymitch mutters.

"I have a feeling I won't be saying hello to them any time soon," Plutarch smiles. He's clearly amused by it, much to Haymitch's distaste.

"Leave him be," Haymitch says. It's more of a plea— Plutarch won't cause trouble in the Capitol, but Haymitch knows he loves to watch drama unfold. Haymitch was the center of it when they first met, and he hopes Plutarch won't make him the center of it again. Not somewhere so public.

"Don't worry," Plutarch reassures him. He sneaks an arm around Haymitch's waist— no doubt trying to lure Burdock into reacting. "I will. We're not here for any of that. I just hope the Mayor makes his appearance before your friend decides to come over here on his own."

Haymitch wants the same. He'll have to keep Burdock in his periphery, at the very least, to dissuade him from approaching. He looks back over now and sees another familiar face with them. Blair is joining their conversation, glancing towards Haymitch and the Capitol camera crew every so often. Haymitch doesn't know how he knows, but he knows when Blair asks what Burdock's problem is. Maybe it's the way Burdock finds his eyes again, brow furrowed in a way that's more worry than anger. Haymitch finds himself shaking his head again, tight and warning. He could curse when Burdock ducks his head and says something back to Blair— he waits for Blair to turn with shock or disgust or anger painted across his face. But, to his surprise, it never happens. Blair remains neutral, if not a little confused, even as their conversation continues. Asterid— the most level-headed of the three— seems more upset than he does. She avoids Haymitch's eyes entirely now, and is the one to usher them away from the square.

Something relaxes in Haymitch's shoulders as he watches the three of them walk away. It's been so long since his last conversation with Burdock, where he laid everything bare for Burdock— but, even so, he feels too vulnerable whenever he thinks of it. He doesn't want to know Burdock's thoughts on it, and watching him glare at Plutarch is too close to knowing.

He can't do anything about it now. He resolves to forget the looks on their faces at the bottom of a bottle, whenever he's allowed to return home.

✧✧✧✧

Haymitch gulps down the last of the sweet wine he's been given. The delicate glass chalice clinks softly on the table as he sets it down. His companions— a married Capitol couple that oversee the production of fashion textiles and military uniforms— finish up their own dinners.

The wife, Marquessa, folds her hands to rest her chin on. Her red lips smile at him, too-white teeth making her look more like a painting than a person. "So, Haymitch… Care to stay with us for the night?"

It's a false offer, they all know. Even if Haymitch was here for genuine reasons, he'd still be here for them to play with. As it were, he's there for the information they can trade. Plutarch has enough knowledge to know their dining room is being watched, though, so they've had to play the role of Victor and his Buyers throughout dinner.

His smile is stiff but dazzling. "I'd love nothing more," he lies. He's been out of Snow's grasp for a while, but it doesn't hurt to put on a show for him. That's all anything is for Haymitch, anymore.

Akakios, the husband, extends a hand for Haymitch to take. He does, and the couple lead him to their bedroom. This room, thankfully, is not bugged and will be safe for their conversations. There's a small lounging area that they gather at. Marquessa gracefully folds her feet under her, dropping the illusion of Capitol prestige.

They talk at length about what has been requested on both ends. Marquessa and Plutarch have previously discussed what materials are used for military uniforms— an old world fabric called Kevlar has been produced for many years for Capitol and Peacekeeper purposes. The couple has quietly been collecting scraps and selling them for an exorbitant fee to rebels, survivalists, and conspiracy theorists. Plutarch had arranged for an exchange of sorts, if they were willing to lower their prices.

Haymitch continues the barter in the privacy of the bedroom. Akakios lays out what they were asking in return— safety and asylum once the rebellion rose. Haymitch dutifully commits their demands to memory and starts to negotiate. He and Plutarch had gone over the extent of what they could offer, and Haymitch works to align everyone's desires. The discussion extends far into the night, until the moon is high in the sky and the air is cool. They've reached a fairly reasonable conclusion, and rise to wrap up the night.

"How do you want to do this?" Akakios asks, hand reaching out to softly grip Haymitch's wrist.

"A few marks usually works well," Haymitch answers. Subtly, he removes his wrist from Akakios' grip to start unbuttoning the top of his shirt. "I don't wear anything too revealing, so don't go crazy."

Despite the touch from Akakios, Marquessa is the first to approach him. She reapplies her vibrant red lipstick before pressing her lips to the side of his neck. A velvety smooth kiss is left behind, and she works to spread and smear the makeup across his skin. The side of his cheek, underneath his jaw, the back of his nape— she even smears a bit across his hands and shirt collar. It's a convincing appearance when she finally steps back, allowing her husband access. Similarly, the man kisses and leaves marks. His own lipstick is soft brown that almost matches Haymitch's skin, so he focuses more on sucking on Haymitch's neck until it bruises.

Haymitch remains still as they work, mind elsewhere. He only directs them where to mark a few times, but otherwise focuses on his next steps. It's only when his eyes absently catch their reflection in a mirror that he blinks back into present. The back of Akakios' blouse is transparent, baring the man's skin to the world in the name of fashion.

"Do you usually wear an open back?" he asks Akakios.

The man pulls back once he's done sucking a bruise into his collarbone. "Hm? Oh, yes. I'm quite fond the look."

Haymitch hums in thought, and then directs him to undress. "Take off your shirt. I'm going to scratch you."

A flush spreads across the man's cheek as his wife snickers in the corner. Haymitch avoids any harsh comments about his seeming displeasure at being marked, despite having no qualms about doing so to Haymitch's skin. Haymitch is sure to dig his nails in hard before running them down his back. He bites back a grin at Akakios' returning hiss and leaves several more scratches until he's pleased.

"There," Haymitch grins once he unwraps his arms from around the man. "That should look realistic enough."

"Are you a scratcher, darling?" Marquessa teases as she helps her husband redress. Haymitch only responds with a wink. He lets her muss up his hair as he buttons himself back up.

"Plutarch will be in touch with you by the end of the week," he says as he heads to the door. They lead him to the nearest Avox to be escorted out, and he lets them both give him a final kiss on the cheek. "Pleasure doing business with you."

✧✧✧✧

The Hob is busier than Haymitch prefers, but he's run out of liquor and in need of more. The early Sunday air is cool against his skin. Haymitch pulls his wool coat closer to him as he treks through District Twelve's square. He used to be worried that a down-on-their-luck fool would try to rob him or steal his clothes, but he now knows that it would be a death sentence. Nobody would be stupid enough to buy anything so nice off of the thief— being caught with something so expensive is too dangerous, even for the lowest of the Seam. Haymitch tells himself it's for the better. If his clothes separate him from the population of Twelve, there's less danger of him getting close to anyone. It's been a very long time since anyone has approached him for conversation, be it the class differences or the stench of alcohol.

Haymitch struggles to remember the face of the new woman in charge of the white liquor trade. Hattie had finally given up the ghost last year— she would have scoffed at how many attended her funeral, Haymitch included— and a poor soul from the mines had taken over. Her name was something like Ripper or Dipper, but she looked like any other kid from the Seam. Dry, coal-stained olive skin, greasy dark hair, and angry grey eyes. Haymitch's head hurts too much for him to differentiate any faces, so he keeps his eyes on the wares.

He passes stands of hand-me-down scraps, leftover bottles, spare needles, foraged herbs, cheap bread… it all blurs together as he focuses on finding bottles of white liquor. His shoulders bump into nearly everyone, but he doesn't pay any mind until he hears the soft coo of a startled infant. He almost snaps to attention, looking directly at the small bundle in a man's arms.

"Sorry," he mutters, looking up at the man. Haymitch pauses at the familiar face.

Burdock stares back at him. He looks just as surprised to see Haymitch, and neither man moves. Haymitch recalls the swell of Asterid's belly— she must have had the child. Of course, she has, it's right there in Burdock's arms. The pieces fall together too slowly for Haymitch, and he doesn't notice his expression softening. His eyes find the infant again, and he can't move his feet. She's the loveliest thing Haymitch has seen in so long.

"Hello, Haymitch," Burdock says. Haymitch only half-hears him, studying the small face swaddled in threadbare blankets. Her little nose is red.

"Hello," he greets back quietly. He only glances up at Burdock, shame keeping his gaze away from his old friend. "…How old is she?"

"She's seven months tomorrow," Burdock answers. He shifts his shoulders, moving so Haymitch can see her more clearly through the blankets. The light shines through the sparse patches of thread. The baby's eyes are blinking slowly, and Haymitch wonders if she's getting sleepy. When she watches him, he can see Burdock's eyes on her little face.

"She looks like you," Haymitch mutters. Everyone in the Seam looks similar, except for Asterid. The baby already has a dark patch of hair on the top of her head, the strands thin and lightly curled. "I'm sure Asterid is happy."

Burdock makes a sound that twists in Haymitch's gut. Regret pools in his cheeks— he doesn't have a right to comment on how Asterid might feel. Haymitch knows that. He gave that up years ago, when he left that scar on Burdock's arm.

He's given up so much. He's chased Burdock away, and now he has to get updates on his best friend's life when he visits the black market. If Burdock doesn't let the public know, Haymitch won't know. Hell, he doesn't even know Burdock's first child's name. He wonders if Burdock named her the Covey way, and it aches.

Would Lenore Dove have followed the Covey names? She loved her stories and fables, surely she would have found one that would suit their child. Or, maybe just her child. Could she have children, wherever she is now? The thought of Lenore Dove with children of her own sends a wave of pain and love through him, and he can't make sense of it. It's awful to think of Lenore Dove loving someone else enough to bear their children, but it's more awful to think of Lenore Dove without love at all. Loneliness gnaws at Haymitch night and day— he wouldn't ever wish that on Lenore Dove.

Then, the thought of his own children cloud his mind. He would have liked to name them the Covey way, he decides— as long as Lenore Dove agreed, he'd scour all the books she had for the right name, the right color. He realizes, then, that he would very much like to have a child. Hold a small bundle in his arms, kiss the soft skin of their head, lull them to sleep with soft words and gentle rocking. His heart yearns to watch them grow, see a little one take their first steps, hear a small voice call him Pa. His throat closes at the grief of a child who will never exist, and he can't look at Burdock's baby anymore.

Haymitch swallows tightly around the lump in his throat. He knows his eyes are glassy, so he ducks his head away from Burdock's gaze. "I'm happy for you," he says. It's genuine, truly. Burdock is glowing in fatherhood. It's a good look on him.

"Thanks," Burdock says. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Haymitch can't bear it. He nods his head in way of goodbye, and ducks back into the crowd. It's not long before Burdock is showing off his baby girl again.

Haymitch eventually finds the white liquor trader. The woman— Ripper— looks no more than 19. Her cheeks are still round with leftover baby fat and her joints are too knobby for her frame. Haymitch vaguely remembers seeing her in the crowd at the Reapings.

The Reaping.

A chill slowly crawls over Haymitch. There's only one aspect of the Hunger Games that Haymitch has not experienced yet. He does not know what it feels like to be a parent, watching from the crowd and praying that your child's name is not drawn. The realization that, in 12 years, Burdock will know this pain inspires Haymitch to clear out Ripper's stock. His thoughts swirl around his skull as he pockets the bottles and tries to get out of the Hob as quick as possible.

Maybe— just maybe— Plutarch and his plans will work in the next few years. They've come so close before, and they have so many more allies than in Haymitch's Games. Plutarch is even narrowing down on a contact in the elusive District Thirteen! There's a higher chance every year that they'll be able to stop the Hunger Games from continuing, just as Lenore Dove hoped for.

Haymitch tries to kill the hope before it grows too big. It's painful and too bright, and he knows it would absolutely crush him. He knows it's too much to hope that Burdock won't have to see his children in the Reaping, let alone the Games.

A few days later, the Everdeens find a proper baby blanket and a few changes of clothes on their front doorstep. There is no name attached, but they both know who to thank as they accept the gifts.

✧✧✧✧

The Victory Tour has finally ended, and the Districts get another 6-month reprieve from the Games. Haymitch never has a break from the memories. The closest he can get is when he drinks, and he's dangerously low on his supply. The days are warming up in Twelve, and Haymitch is able to walk through the square without his extravagant heavy coat (gifted, of course, by Plutarch). Today, a few heavy layers will do just fine.

The sky is surprisingly bright for February. Haymitch finds himself squinting in the sunlight, a headache starting to form between his eyes. The Hob isn't particularly busy today. He only bumps into a few people, but keeps his head down. Both of his tributes— two fairly well-known merchant children, Lex and Camelia— had died from the elements this year. Slow, painful deaths that would have been avoided, had Haymitch been able to secure sponsorships. At least, that's as far as District Twelve sees it. They don't see how little coverage his tributes get compared to what they show, don't see how much ass-kissing he does once sponsorships are open. His boy, Lex, had been rather impressive this year, but any interested sponsors were dragged away from him before he could secure anything. His boy had died after starving for several days. His girl suffered a very similar fate, though she'd gotten sick from eating the wrong type of berry. Years like this— where the Districts can blame the Mentors for negligence— are the roughest. Haymitch can feel the town's ire as he walks through the square, only emerging from Victor Village when he's in need.

The ache of his helplessness will be drowned out by the moonshine, and that keeps Haymitch walking through the Hob. He's able to find Ripper easily now, as the woman keeps to the same area of the warehouse. The trader is generally the quiet type, and she never denies Haymitch's good business. Even if she knew the tributes and holds the same grudge against him, Haymitch's money is hard to resist.

Haymitch puts the extra bottles in his bag and opens one with a pop of the cork. The alcohol is chilled when he swallows it. It's an odd sensation as it warms his throat, but it's a nice distraction. Haymitch keeps the bottle in hand and starts the trek back home. He's halfway out of the Hob when he hears Burdock's voice. It startles him back into his body for a moment, and Haymitch can't help but look up. Burdock is a few steps ahead of him, his bulk easy to spot. He's filled out since starting work in the mines. Over his shoulders he carries a long string of dead squirrels and rabbits, ready to trade.

At his side is a small girl. It's been a few years since Haymitch has last seen her, and the top of her head is just at Burdock's ribs. When she looks at him, Haymitch can see her dark hair in twin braids and there's blood on her forehead and a crowd cheering and horses stampeding and Louella is standing in front of him.

Haymitch's mind lurches and his gut tumbles, and he has to catch himself on the wall of the warehouse. His awareness pings back and forth— the cold air of Twelve, the bright lights of the Capitol, the smell of coal and white liquor, the cries of scared tributes. Everything is swirling together and Louella, his sweetheart, is dead in his arms and just a few feet away from him, standing next to Burdock.

His stomach empties onto the ground with a sick splash.

It's hard to catch his breath. His lungs stutter and seize until he can blink away the sights of the parade. Sound comes back to him before his vision clears, and he can hear Burdock speaking to his daughter.

"What's wrong with that man?" the small voice asks. She doesn't sound like Louella.

When Burdock answers, his voice is low and gentle. "He's very sick, Katniss. We best leave him be."

Haymitch thinks it will end there, Burdock taking his daughter by the shoulders and leading her away to trade their hunt. But he can still hear her behind him as she asks, "Could we give him some of Ma's medicine?"

That catches his attention. He's able to cling to that comment, use it as an anchor back to the present. Did she mean to insinuate giving the medicine for free, or does she mean to trade? Has she seen Haymitch trade before? Does she know he has plenty of money or things to trade? Or, does Asterid even charge for her medicine? There was a time where she would say no to trades, offering her aid for free. Nobody in the Seam would allow that, though, and would always trade her something for her services.

"If he'd take it, of course we could," Burdock says. His voice is louder, and Haymitch is sure he's speaking directly to him. "All he'd have to do is ask, and we'd help him."

Haymitch listens to their footsteps as they depart. His knees are still shaky, but he pushes away from the wall and staggers home. Without distractions, his mind is pulled in too many directions. The bottle in his hand is nearly empty by the time his front door closes, and he can't make it far before his knees give out. He falls to his knees in the Capitol, dressed in an awful miner's outfit as he stares down at his sweetheart. She's smaller now, dwarfed by Haymitch's bulk. Her blood seeps into Haymitch's carpet. His tears are real, and he can't stop them by running away with her. His ribs squeeze his lungs, and he sobs for his lost sweetheart.

He doesn't know how long it's been when there's a knock at the door. He's long since dried up, face itchy and red. The floor is hard against his aching knees, and he makes no move to answer the door. The second knock— is it the second? Or could he have missed any previous attempts?— is loud and insistent. Haymitch hears Burdock call through the door.

"Haymitch? It's me. I have some medicine for you."

It takes a few tries to lift off his floor. Haymitch realizes how sweaty his clothes are, but doesn't bother to remove them. When he cracks the door open, the sky is dark and dusky. Burdock stands there with a small bottle. The two men meet eyes and watch each other. Haymitch is afraid to look around.

"I brought something for you," Burdock says. He holds out the bottle, and Haymitch can see it's full of a light green powder. "Asterid ground up some herbs. Says it helps with nerves."

The information goes in one ear and out the other. Haymitch skin crawls with the fear that he'll see her again. Quietly, he asks, "Is she here?"

Burdock keeps the bottle extended to him, but softens. His face scrunches as he takes in Haymitch's expression, his fear. "Asterid? No, she's at home with Katniss."

He goes to continue, but stops when Haymitch shakes his head. He can feel her behind him, splayed out on his living room floor.

"Louella," he whispers. His voice is almost inaudible, but he can't repeat her name. He doesn't have to— Burdock's eyes widen, and Haymitch knows he heard him. The words spill over his lips like blood. "I saw her in the Hob today. In my home. I— I can't…"

Despite feeling like a wrung-out towel, the tears leak from Haymitch's eyes. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the images of blood and trampled girls. He's out of it enough that he can't stop the door from opening wider. Burdock shoves his way inside of Haymitch's home. Haymitch watches him stride in, and doesn't miss how Burdock's scans the rooms.

"Nobody's here, Hay," Burdock tells him. Haymitch shakes his head, his eyes catching the blood on the carpet and Burdock's little girl, twin braids plastered with blood and her skin is cold—

"Nobody's here, Haymitch," Burdock repeats. His hands find the sides of Haymitch's face, and Haymitch can't see Louella anymore. He gives Haymitch a small shake, waiting until his eyes can focus on Burdock. "Just me. Just you."

And Snow, Haymitch thinks but does not say. He can feel the callouses on Burdock's hands. His lungs hurt but he can breathe again. Haymitch does not speak, and does not know how long Burdock is there with him.

Burdock finds a piece of paper and a pencil, and begins to write instructions from Asterid. He speaks as he does, telling Haymitch how much to take and when to take it. Burdock even looks through the cabinets until he's able to make Haymitch a tea. Haymitch feels young again, mutely watching Burdock shuffle around his house. It's been so long since he's had anyone make him something to drink in the small, domestic intimacy of a home. His heart aches, and he can't drink the medicinal tea fast enough.

Nothing changes as Burdock leads Haymitch to bed. His nerves are still raw and his skin is still crawling, but Burdock doesn't leave until he's able to close his eyes. His friend waits, perched on the side of his bed, until his breathing evens out. After, Burdock rises and leaves the instructions and bottle on the table. He doubts Haymitch will remember too much of this interaction, but hopes that he'll at least keep the medicine.

Burdock does another scan of Haymitch's house. He walks quietly through the rooms, looking for any sign of blood or death. There is nothing. No sign of the dead tribute from 17 years ago, no fresh blood, no notes or photos that scream Louella.

He's careful to lock the front door before he closes it behind him. The sun has finished setting and he'll need to head home before the Peacekeepers get onto him about curfew. Burdock's thoughts are filled with old friends.

I saw her in the Hob today.

The realization is quick and gentle and awful, settling over Burdock's shoulders like a heavy quilt. He thinks back to Haymitch's sudden sickness this morning. The scene replays— Haymitch seeing him, averting his eyes and finding Katniss by his side. Haymitch freezing, expression dull and blank before he's lurching to the side, vomiting against the warehouse wall. Burdock's mind catches on the moment Haymitch sees Katniss, replaying and exaggerating the way his face flinched before falling.

Katniss is still awake when he returns home. She looks up at him from where she's helping her mother sort herbs. Long, dark hair is twisted into twin braids, and suddenly Burdock understands. Looking down at his daughter, he sees the ghost of a girl he knew so long ago.

"Did he take it?" she asks.

"Yes," he answers with a forced smile. "He did. I helped him prepare some for tonight, even."

"Good," she says plainly as she returns to her work. His little girl, so worried about the stranger in the market today. Burdock recalls how she nearly begged him to take Haymitch medicine, going behind his back to tell Asterid about the sick man. His chest is bright with the pride and it curls into an ugly mess with the grief. "Katniss, honey, it's time for bed."

Asterid watches him carefully as he puts Katniss down to sleep next to her baby sister. He makes excuses for his daughter, but knows his wife is too clever. When he returns to the kitchen, she's waiting with crossed arms.

"Did he really take it?" she asks carefully. Burdock nods, but when he does not continue, Asterid knows it was not about the medicine. "What happened?"

Burdock's throat is tight and it takes him several tries to form the words on his tongue. "Does Katniss remind you of anyone?"

He watches his wife carefully. She thinks, bright blue eyes distant as she does. Eventually she shakes her head, and Burdock wants to keep this to himself. He knows she won't let him.

"She… She looks like Louella McCoy," he whispers. Confusion pulls Asterid's face together.

"Does she? I don't remember them looking too alike."

Burdock shakes his head. "Not with all the Capitol makeup and camera angles," he explains. "Before the Games. She'd… she'd play with us all the time. She'd follow Haymitch around like a little duck. I know you didn't know her well, but…" He can't find it in himself to say it again. That his daughter, his sweet little girl, looks so much like a dead girl.

"Oh, Burdock," Asterid sighs. She crosses the kitchen to him and wraps him in her arms. "I'm sorry. I know how painful it is."

And Burdock knows she does. He remembers the distance Asterid had to put between herself and Merrilee. He remembers the pain everyone felt with Haymitch, at the funeral, called out for Maysilee. Asterid still has a hard time whenever she sees Merrilee, though it is very rare nowadays. He can only imagine Haymitch went through something similar today, and it hurts him to think of Haymitch suffering alone. Even if he's isolated himself, chased away anyone who could help, Burdock can't stay angry with him.

Months later, Haymitch sees the Everdeens in the square at the Reaping. Katniss, too little to be in the reaping, has her hair fashioned into a singular braid.

✧✧✧✧

Chapter Text

Haymitch doesn't have much left to hope for, not with all he's been through. It takes him by surprise every time. He wasn't pleased to see her volunteer for her sister— she didn't know what she was getting into, and he didn't want to have to watch her die. Her death would mean he failed Burdock, somehow. But then, that little inkling of hope turned into a torrent strong enough to get him to try again. It propelled him into old habits, smiling and schmoozing it up with old Capitol "friends." He's never abandoned his tributes, but even he could see that sometimes he could have done more. With her, he works tirelessly to be the charismatic, clever man that he used to be. Working his magic to get her something, anything, in the arena.

When she found his boy, Peeta, on the brink of death, he watched as the hope returned to her, too. He could see it in how she carried herself— how similar to Asterid she was, watching over him and tending to his wound with her meager supply of medicine. Stone-faced as she was, Haymitch could see that there was something there.

Plutarch saw it, too. He's had his eyes on her since she volunteered, Haymitch knows. Plutarch is fond of drama, emotional moments, and what is more emotional than laying down your life for a loved one? It was just the type of spunk that Plutarch was looking for in a martyr. Plutarch hadn't reached out to him until they were in the arena, but he promised Haymitch that he'd be on the lookout for her. Haymitch wonders if Plutarch could see a similar spark in him that he saw in Katniss.

Haymitch hasn't felt the brightness of hope in a very long time, not like he felt when Seneca Crane announced that there could be two Victors, as long as they were from the same District. It had Plutarch written all over it, and Haymitch knew he'd have to thank him. The announcement caused ripples over the Capitol, Districts, and arena alike. Haymitch worked double to get his tributes sponsors, seeing as they were now a team. And oh, he hoped they could win. He had to shove down so much fondness for Peeta in order to focus on Katniss' survival, and now survival for the both of them is being dangled in front of him. His hope threatened to strangle him.

When they managed to escape the last of the Careers and mutts and climb to the top of the Cornucopia, and the announcement of their Victors was not made, Haymitch knew what would happen next. He knew the Capitol— Snow— would not allow two Victors. That Crane's announcement was nothing but a ruse. Even then, his heart hoped so severely that the two would be able to survive together that he felt it would give out. He wasn't foolish enough to think that they'd kill each other, but he knew the Capitol had other ways of killing his children.

He hadn't expected them to both go for the berries. He remembers that kind of fear, even though it's been so, so long since he's felt the shock of it. It all but immobilized him, freezing him where he watched the screen in terror.

It had all turned out alright, against all the odds. Seneca Crane— that thoughtless, naive man— had allowed them both to win. Haymitch expected to hear of his death in the coming days, but he can't think of that yet. Now he has to worry about keeping these two sane through their Victory tour. Haymitch worries, briefly, about Peeta's family in Twelve. He had only given the spotlight to the Everdeens on the off-chance that Katniss would win. The Everdeens might be safe from Snow's wrath, with how the Capitol swooned over the little girl with shiny blonde hair. Any safety for the Mellarks, however, would come from Snow overlooking Peeta's role in it all, painting him as nothing more than a lovestruck teenager.

Haymitch pushes all of these worries out of his mind— or, more accurately, the alcohol does it for him. He has a game to play tonight, and for the foreseeable future. While they wait for their 18th birthdays, Haymitch would be assigned as their Handler. Evidently, it is common for young Victors to be handled by their Mentors. His case was special for a few reasons, and he tells himself not to be bitter.

He's there with them tonight at their Capitol Victory party. He's been stuffed into a fine, plum colored suit and given limited access to alcohol for the night, but he can't fault anyone for that. He wouldn't let himself become disastrously drunk, anyhow. Nervous energy courses through his veins as he enters the party with his two Victors. Colorful lights twinkle all around them, casting strange, multi-chrome shadows across their faces and elaborate, matching outfits. It's all dazzling smiles from Peeta, but Haymitch has to remind Katniss often to play the game.

"Remember, sweetheart," he drops in her ear after she scoffs at a passing comment. Haymitch doesn't even remember what it was, but it had been enough to draw her ire. "You're here as a Victor. These people are proud of you, and you should act like you are, too."

"I should be proud I killed people?" she asks under her breath. Haymitch can practically feel her famous flame radiating off of her. Pride and disgruntlement fight for first place in his mind.

"I don't care, and they don't care. Just act like it's an honor to be here, if anything. Pretend it's all just some big dress-up party."

She makes another comment about the bloodiness of it all, and Haymitch just pinches the inside of her arm. This girl was so difficult. He can't even blame her for it and that just pisses him off. He knows firsthand how hard it is to play the Capitol's game, and it feels like she's not even trying. It just means he'll have to work twice as hard to keep her alive and sane.

Both of his Victors keep eyeing his alcohol intake, clearly not trusting his judgement— and why should they? They've only seen him in the Districts, where he's allowed to be as careless as he wants. He pointedly ignores Peeta's comment that he should slow down, and keeps eye contact as he downs his next glass in one go. Haymitch is glad that his head is nice and fuzzy when he hears his name called. He's facing his Victors and hopes that a grimace of disdain isn't showing on his face before he can school it into a dazzling smile.

"Haymitch, darling!" a familiar voice calls again. When he turns, there's a woman who looks half her age approaching them. Her getup is just as gaudy as her personality. "I've been hoping to grab your attention all night."

"Penelope," he grins. He has to remind his cheeks how to make his smiles look real. "It's nice to see you."

He hears Katniss grumble behind him and hopes Peeta will keep her in check. The woman doesn't seem to notice as she turns to his Victors. Haymitch watches as Katniss fixes her face into a polite, albeit awkward smile.

"And look at these two lovelies!" she coos over them. Thankfully, she's keeping her hands to herself. "Congratulations, both of you. I'm so happy you're here."

They exchange pleasantries like they've done all night. Peeta does most of the talking while Katniss stands at his side, a stiff smile marring her made-up face. Haymitch will have to give her some acting lessons once they're back in Twelve, see if he can coach her into it. Peeta, however, is a natural at this (and Haymitch resolutely does not compare him to a younger version of himself). Haymitch almost believes he's actually interested in her work as one of the Capitol's most popular aesthetic surgeons.

After she bores of their conversation, Penelope's artificially purple eyes find Haymitch again. She pins him in place with a familiar look, and he resists the urge to just walk away. He knows Katniss would put up quite the fight if she and Peeta were left alone at this party. As always, he braces himself for the discomfort.

"Haymitch," she says slowly. For him, she does extend a hand to touch. "How many times will I have to ask before you say yes?"

Haymitch allows her to play with his hair and pat his cheeks. He can feel the teenagers watching him and wonders how— or if— he'll explain this away. "That depends," he responds. "How many times are you going to ask?"

She laughs, clearly taking his question in jest. Her hands start to lightly pull at the skin on his face now, forcibly smoothing out the wrinkles around his eyes, forehead, and mouth. His mind automatically drifts elsewhere, disconnecting from the sensations of her hands on his skin.

"My dear, you simply must let me work on you," she pleads. "You used to be so handsome, back in the day. It's such a shame you've let this happen to yourself."

Aging is one of the reasons I haven't lost my sanity yet, Haymitch thinks. Getting older has kept more hands off of him than Plutarch has, and he won't trade that for anything.

"I'll think about it," he says with a sly grin.

Penelope rolls her eyes with the grace of an impatient woman. "You always say you'll think about it, dear. I'll wear you down one of these days— or, better yet, I'll get your handler to sign off on it."

Haymitch can already think of the various ways he'd make Plutarch regret signing him up for plastic surgery. Peeta adjusts next to him and Haymitch wonders if he's tempted to step in, shield Haymitch from this onslaught. What a hero.

"Go right ahead, Miss Penelope," Haymitch returns easily. "But, I still gotta warn you— it won't look as good on a Twelve as you think it will."

He expects her to walk away and find Plutarch right away— he might be here somewhere— but instead she turns to his Victors. Haymitch watches her carefully as her eyes catalogue every wrinkle, blemish, and imperfection of the teenagers. It only takes a glance to know that Katniss' forced smile has dropped and been replaced with a displeased frown. Penelope's hands raise to their faces, but don't touch— Katniss leans away before she can, and although Peeta stays quite still for her, her long fingernails only hover. She hums in thought, moving her hands as if pantomiming what surgeries she'd like to do on them. Peeta watches Haymitch nervously, relaxing just slightly when Haymitch nods in reassurance.

After several moments, she retracts with a pleased click of her tongue. "You, my beautiful darling, will be so easy to work with," she tells Peeta. "You might even be able to get by on your own until you're about… 26, I'd say. Maybe 27 if you like the rugged look."

Peeta's response is diplomatic enough to hide his confusion— Katniss cannot say the same, when the surgeon turns to her next.

"You, darling, are quite beautiful, too, but… Perhaps Haymitch will let you see me when you're about 23."

Haymitch has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the look Katniss shoots him. He refrains until a polite goodbye is given to Penelope and she struts away, then allows himself to grin cheekily at his young ward. Oh, if looks could kill…

"That was meant as an insult," he confirms. "That's her way of saying you scowl too much. Lighten up, sweetheart."

Katniss grumbles something under her breath, but Haymitch doesn't care enough to pick it up. Peeta looks just as uncomfortable, and Haymitch can understand why. While they don't know the extent of it all yet, it's not pleasant to be talked about as if you're a doll or a meal. Haymitch knows this firsthand, and doesn't expect himself to have a good time navigating this world for them.

But… somehow, making the choices for someone else seems much easier. He's kept to the comfort in helplessness all these years, letting Plutarch make any heavy decisions for him (at least as far as the Capitol was concerned). While he didn't always like the choices Plutarch made, knowing that he wasn't allowed autonomy made swallowing it all a little easier. He can only hope Katniss and Peeta may feel the same, though he has a doubt that Katniss will be easy to handle at all. If their newfound plans don't work, and soon, then Haymitch will be forced to make very difficult choices for these two. It twists something old and forgotten in his bones, and he aches to see the success of the rebellion before these two turn 18.

A finger snaps in front of his face. He scowls, batting away Katniss' hand.

"What?"

"We asked you a question," she says. Haymitch pretends to blink away any obtrusive drunkenness. "Who's your handler?"

Damn. Haymitch did not want to have this conversation tonight— and he still won't, if he can avoid it. He gives them as nonchalant a shrug as he can manage.

"Every district citizen has a handler," he says. Their faces fall as he continues, realizing they won't be getting a proper answer tonight. "I've got one, you two have got me— and lucky you are, really, to have me." He says this, knowing that they won't see it the same. All they see is a grumpy, drunk, broken man who spends his days wallowing in his own misery. Haymitch doesn't blame them.

"And who is yours?" Peeta repeats, though his tone is softer than Katniss'. He looks around the nearby partygoers. "Are they here?"

Haymitch shrugs again, though this time with honesty. Plutarch is a busy man nowadays, and as much as he loves a good party, he might be too caught up with something else to attend. "Don't know. Haven't seen 'im yet."

"Is it not Effie?" Katniss asks, and Haymitch laughs out loud. An image of Effie has his handler sends a ticklish wave of humor through him. He could only imagine what kind of outfits she'd force him into. "What? It's not a bad question. She's always cleaning up after you and nagging you."

"Nagging she is, but no. She's not my handler. And no— I'm not going to tell you. Even if you guess it right."

He smiles lazily at their disappointment, but it's all he can tolerate tonight. Thankfully, Effie's ears must have starting itching because soon enough she's standing in front of them. She's the first one to hug the two tonight, and Haymitch can see the way even Katniss relaxes. It's a miniscule change, but it's enough that he feels safe enough to leave them with her.

"Thank goodness you're here," he says as he pats Effie on the arm. Some of the glitter from her blouse ends up on his palm. "My cup's empty. Take care of these two while I go get a refill, eh?"

He doesn't wait for Effie's catty remark before leaving. His head is starting to hurt and, honestly, he is in need of a refill. It's going to be a long night.

✧✧✧✧

The last several months have been some of the worst months of Haymitch's life. Plutarch, the bastard, hadn't even given Haymitch a heads up about changes to the Quarter Quell. It wasn't meant to be drawn from Victors. Plutarch had shared plans for the third Quarter Quell with him years ago— it was meant to be drawn from the adults of the Districts. A gruesome reminder that the Capitol's hands are always on you, no matter your age. He can't think about the announcement, of Snow smugly looking into the camera, without a rush of rage and betrayal poisoning his blood.

The lead up to the Reaping was worse. He tried very hard to withdraw again, push his Victors away. They wouldn't let him. Katniss came by almost every day, and when she didn't, Peeta would be there. Then, Peeta started insisting on training. Haymitch resisted telling him that it was no use— the Victors they'd be up against would kill him in a heartbeat. He knows, without a doubt, that if he were reaped he'd be dead. Even if not by another tribute, then by Snow. He also knows this— when Katniss comes to him, pleading with him to volunteer if Peeta is reaped, he will be unable to deny her.

Dread was ever-present in his bones until the Reaping. It doubled with each Victor he recognized, and he quickly realized that they were chosen for specific reasons. Beetee, Wiress, Finnick, Mags, Johanna… Every one of these Victors had, at some point, been a part of a rebellious act. Big or small, each of them have posed a threat to the Capitol in some way. Still, he felt his heart break when Mags' name was called. She's already given so much to the Games.

It was no surprise that his name was drawn, but he's dismayed that it was. He had no way of keeping Peeta out of the Games. Now, he can only hope that Plutarch knows what he's doing, and work as best he can to help coordinate everything. He can't lose so many of his people in one Games. He's afraid he simply won't survive it. (He'll find a way, of course. He refuses to break his promise to Lenore Dove.)

He'll have plenty of time to think about that all later. Haymitch squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to be present. Right now, he has a job to do. Pieces to put into place, seeds to plan, sparks to light. Now is no time to dread the future.

He's a Mentor again this year, which means no collar. His suit was picked out by Effie and Cinna— she insisted, wanting the golden embroidery on his suit to be cohesive with everyone's outfits. Sure enough, Katniss and Peeta both have similar visual motifs in their attire.

Unlike previous parties that Haymitch has attended with his two, Plutarch is present. There's a pit in Haymitch's stomach as the time to meet up with him draws near. He tries to focus on Peeta and Katniss, sharing all he knows about the other tributes. Katniss' gaze is analytical where Peeta's is inquisitive. Haymitch can only imagine she's looking at who poses the biggest threat, while he's finding who they can ally with.

Haymitch spots Plutarch halfway across the room, and knows it's time. He leaves his Victors with Effie and excuses himself, cutting through the crowd to reach Plutarch. He's offered a drink and a smile.

"Enjoying the party?" Plutarch asks as Haymitch gulps down the drink. Haymitch notices the cuffs of Plutarch's suit sleeves have a familiar golden motif, and wonders if Cinna had any hand in that.

"As much as I ever do," Haymitch answers dryly. He's sure to step close to Plutarch, unsurprised when Plutarch's hand finds his waist. "I'm still upset with you."

"I know," Plutarch smiles. Their voices are low enough that passerby's would have difficulty hearing them. "I hope you still trust me."

Haymitch finds his eyes. There's a dangerous twinkle in them— Plutarch relishes in holding cards that nobody knows about. Haymitch thinks it makes him feel powerful. It scares Haymitch half to death, but he finds that he does trust Plutarch. Not with everything— he's not a fool— but with this. While Plutarch cannot and will not guarantee the safety of his Victors, he can guarantee an upset in the arena. A chance for his family to survive. As Head Gamemaker this year, it will be much easier than in the past.

This is what we've been working towards.

"I do," is what he says. "But they won't."

Plutarch's gaze shifts and Haymitch knows he's watching his Victors. "I suppose you'll have to help convince them, then."

"Easier said than done," Haymitch huffs. Even Peeta does not easily trust anyone— especially so for someone as off-putting as Plutarch can be. The Capitol can easily buy into his charm, but District citizens often see through the facade. He's hoping that Cinna (and maybe Effie) can help ingratiate Plutarch to the two.

Haymitch and Plutarch cross the hall again until they're close to his Victors. Katniss has been watching them approach, and Haymitch can tell that Peeta is avoiding doing the same. He pretends he doesn't notice Katniss' hard stare as he introduces Plutarch.

"Peeta, Katniss, this is Plutarch Heavensbee. He's the Head Gamemaker this year, and an old friend," he says simply. He recognizes the fake smile Peeta plasters on his face.

"Pleasure to meet you," Peeta greets. He extends his hand to Plutarch.

"Pleasure is all mine," Plutarch responds, exchanging pleasantries. His eyes flash to Peeta's hand in his, and Haymitch wonders if he's surprised by Peeta's grip. It's one thing to see his boy's strength on screen and another to feel it firsthand. "I was very impressed with your Games. And I've heard a lot about you from Haymitch."

Katniss' gray eyes dart to Haymitch and throw silent accusations. There's no doubt that she suspects him of speaking poorly of her and Peeta. Haymitch doesn't honor her with a direct response. Plutarch, on the other hand, chuckles when he sees her face.

"Don't worry, Miss Everdeen," he says warmly. "I'm quite the fan. Nothing Haymitch could say would make me respect you any less."

It's here that Plutarch settles a familiar hand on Haymitch's waist. It's almost muscle memory by now, the both of them so used to it from the past two and a half decades. Haymitch can tell it's not the same for his Victors, however, and watches as they both become visibly uncomfortable. Katniss looks up and away to avoid staring directly, and Haymitch recognizes the momentary wide-eyed surprise across Peeta's face. If Plutarch notices, he doesn't care— his hand remains on Haymitch.

"Right," Peeta says awkwardly. He can't determine where to look, his eyes darting between Haymitch and Plutarch and Effie. Thankfully, Effie comes to Haymitch's rescue.

"Plutarch Heavensbee is one of the most gracious men you'll meet in the Capitol!" she says with a small flourish. "It's quite good to have him on your side."

Haymitch knows that Katniss and Peeta do not, under any definition of the phrase, see Plutarch as on their side. It would be nigh impossible, whatnot with him being the Head Gamemaker in their specialized death games.

"And I would love to be on your side," Plutarch continues. He withdraws from Haymitch and extends a hand to Katniss. "In fact, we could talk about it more during a dance?"

Katniss stiffens. To an untrained eye, her expression remains neutral— but Haymitch can see the disdain in her eyes, along the tension in her jaw. She looks at his hand with the hidden fire of a thousand suns. While not as facially expressive as Burdock, she's just as awful as her father at hiding her emotions. Haymitch coughs, jerking his head towards the dance floor. Reluctantly, she takes Plutarch's hand and lets herself be led away. She might not trust Plutarch, but she can trust Haymitch.

Haymitch ignores how Peeta inches closer to him until Peeta has the nerves to speak. His boy is leaned in close, voice low and private.

"Who is that man?"

"I've told you. Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker."

"To you, Haymitch," Peeta corrects with an annoyed tone. "He treats you differently than anyone else."

Something uncomfortable buzzes in his chest, but he plays it off. "How so?"

Peeta shifts his weight awkwardly. Haymitch can only imagine what's going through his head, and how Haymitch will deny everything he can come up with. Plutarch was handsy? Yes, almost everyone in the Capitol is. Too familiar? Haymitch said they were old friends. Bold, direct, weird? Head Gamemakers usually have odd personalities. Creepy? Well, Haymitch can't necessarily deny that. And Haymitch has already said that if they could guess who his handler was, he wouldn't confirm.

"Never mind," Peeta grunts, finally losing his patience. He leans away, giving Haymitch his personal space back.

Haymitch is a bit unsettled at leaving it there. While he has no desire to tell Peeta the full, true story between them, his own role in Peeta and Katniss' lives festers at the back of his skull. The familiar urgency to get this rebellion going settles in his gut.

"Honestly, kid? I hope you never have to find out."

✧✧✧✧

Truth be told, the Games were a disaster. Not as awful as they could have been— that would be if the Games completed in full— but the loss of Peeta and Johanna have been hard. Haymitch almost took over control of the hovercraft to continue looking for his boy, but a rebel gun at the base of his neck convinced him otherwise. Instead, all he could do was tend to his girl. His brilliant, hurt girl.

Haymitch took his duty to her seriously, ensuring that the rebels did not do anything to her that she would not agree to herself. It reminds him of her first Games, where he had to get loud and angry to keep the Capitol from surgically "enhancing" her. Here, he has to get loud and angry to prevent them implanting a communication device in her ear. That decision— while he can see the merits in it— is not wholly for Katniss' benefit. Haymitch's own ear itches when he recalls the dried blood always present in Loulou's ear, how she pawed at it constantly. He could not do that to his girl. Even after she attacks him, he can't.

Katniss is still deep in her drug-induced coma when Coin comes to him. He barely acknowledges the door opening to the sterile, bright white room. He keeps himself reclined by Katniss' bedside, liquor flask in hand. Coin does not speak up for several minutes, and Haymitch knows she's wanting him to look at her first. It's all he can do to avoid it until it begins to gnaw at him— he really only looks at her so he can get this conversation over with faster.

Coin stands there, her loyal colonel Boggs at her side. He looks just as uncomfortable as Haymitch feels, his face softening at the sight of Katniss. (This look— a sympathetic glance that reeks of fatherhood— is when Haymitch begins to trust him.) Coin's face remains hard as she peers down at Haymitch.

"Good morning, Haymitch," she greets calmly. When Haymitch does not offer a reply, she continues. "We've come to ask you to head to our healing bay."

Haymitch isn't an idiot. He knows where this is going— but he likes to play an idiot. So, he looks around the sterile medical room. His eyes find the IVs, the monitors, the sink, the hospital bed. "Am I not already here?" he asks.

He knows Coin sees through him. Her smile is stiff, but about as friendly as she can make it. "For yourself, Haymitch."

"I'm not injured." His throat is suddenly dry, and he takes a long drink without breaking eye contact. Coin only breaks it to stare at the flask.

"No, not exactly. But you will be sick," she says. "Is that all you have left?"

The flask in his hand is about half-full of the nepenthe Plutarch snuck to him before they fled to Thirteen. It is, indeed, the last of what Haymitch has on hand. The way she asks it has a pit slowly settle into his gut alongside the liquor.

"And if it was?"

"Then I suggest you ration it. We do not keep alcohol here in Thirteen," Coin explains. Her smile remains the same, but the glint in her eyes tells Haymitch she's enjoying this a little too much. "Our medical staff can help you come off of it without a high risk of death. But you will need to stay in our bay."

Haymitch does not anger easily when it comes to most things. His anger is secondary to most other emotions, namely fear. It's fear that sends a chill through his blood— fear that the memories will return, that he won't be able to keep his brain quiet. The cold fear turns into hot anger, and he struggles to keep it in his skin.

"I'll make more. I know how."

Coin ignores the threat in his tone. "I'll make you a deal, Haymitch. Hand over the flask now, and you can spend a bit more time with Katniss. We just ask that you're in the bay by sundown."

His eyes ask the question for him. A glare, And what if I don't?

"If not," Coin continues, "then Boggs here will have to escort you down to the bay."

The thought of Boggs' hands on him makes him want to throw up. Coin does not say what will be the consequence of making more. She doesn't have to. His hand tightens around the flask, heat simmering just under the surface of his skin. Coin is clever— she knows he'll be incredibly reluctant to give up his crutch, but more so to leave his girl alone. It's why she's finding him now, instead of discussing this with him during a meeting. Haymitch's jaw aches with how tightly he's clenching it.

The flask hits the wall with a harsh crack. His hand is already shaking, so he hides them by crossing his arms over his chest. He glares at a far wall, ignoring anything else she says, until they leave Katniss and him alone.

✧✧✧✧

"Sorry, sweetheart. Looks like I'm going under house arrest," Haymitch mutters softly. Katniss does not respond, still under the heavy blanket of drugs.

Asterid is here in the room now, and Haymitch feels alright enough to leave Katniss. Sundown was an hour ago— he doesn't know how long they'll let him avoid the bay. Hell, he doesn't know how long his aching head will let him avoid it. Sickness started seeping into his body a few hours ago. It's spread to his hands, causing them to tremble when he pats Katniss' shoulder.

"See you later, sweetheart," he says.

When he opens the door to the hallway, Boggs is walking up. He fixes Haymitch with stern look, and Haymitch knows he was coming for him. Haymitch stiffens under his gaze and the heat returns to him, curling in his gut.

"I don't need an escort," he bites out as he shoves his way past Boggs. The man hardly seems to notice, and follows behind Haymitch.

"Coin insisted," he says. "She grew concerned when you didn't arrive at the healing bay."

"Lost track of time," Haymitch lies.

When Haymitch goes down the hall to the main room of this floor— the floor that's taking care of Katniss— Boggs stops him. Haymitch might not be a weak man, but Boggs towers over him with an impressive bulk. Haymitch glares up at him with a fierceness he can't back up.

"This floor is for medical concerns," Boggs says calmly. "You're headed to the mental health healing bay."

"The fuck I am," Haymitch seethes. He doesn't mean it. He knows how he is when he detoxes, and can only imagine the mental health ward will be better suited to hold him. Especially if his doves return to him.

Boggs continues like Haymitch isn't a hostile. "It's on a lower floor. I'll escort you to make sure you get to the right place."

"I'd prefer you just draw a map." Haymitch even flashes him a cheeky smile. When it's met with nothing other than a stare, Haymitch turns. "I can find it on my own."

"You don't know what floor."

"So tell me."

"No," Boggs says simply.

Haymitch's anger flushes his skin. He whirls on Boggs, shoving into his space and spewing profanities. His mind is on autopilot, fuzzy with fury and pounding with a migraine. The words coming from his mouth are vile and accusatory, but Boggs remains unbothered. Even when Haymitch begins to push at him, seeking some form of physical reaction, Boggs is stone. The exertion becomes too much and Haymitch's limbs refuse to continue cooperating.

"Fuck you," he mutters weakly. His skin is clammy and, seemingly sudden, his stomach twists with nausea. Haymitch does not turn away when he vomits, his mess covering Boggs' front. This, at least, gets Boggs to curl his lip in disgust. Haymitch is not proud, but not ashamed as he wipes his mouth.

"Whenever you're ready," Boggs tells him.

"I can take him," a voice says. Haymitch doesn't have to look to know who it is. Any youthful softness has hardened with time, but the musical lilt is the same as ever.

His eyes find her immediately. She's dressed in a gray jumpsuit— that's her color, dove gray— identical to everyone else in Thirteen, standing behind Boggs. Her hair is short now, cut close to her scalp and silver at her temples. She's beautiful.

Lenore Dove.

Haymitch can't keep his eyes on her. He's been fooled too many times by his own mind— if this is another trick, he knows he won't survive sobriety. When he looks at Boggs, the colonel seems unaffected. Boggs stares down at him as if he did not hear the woman behind him. Haymitch's throat tightens.

"Well?" he asks. He needs to see if Boggs will acknowledge her. He needs to know she's real.

Boggs face remains stoic when he answers. "I suggest sooner rather than later."

Lenore Dove steps closer, intruding into Haymitch's periphery. He cannot keep looking at Boggs without seeing her ghost there, taunting him. She does not stand close enough to touch Boggs, but Haymitch wishes she would. If she interacted with him in some way, Haymitch might be able to determine her reality.

As it is, she does not. And Boggs does not acknowledge her in any way that matters. The desire to know turns Haymitch around, and he strides up to the door of Katniss' room. He knocks, hoarsely calling out for Asterid. When she answers the door, Haymitch watches blue eyes look between two points behind him.

"Who—" he tries, voice catching. He swallows and tries again. "Who's behind me?"

Asterid fixes him with a look that's too soft. Too understanding. Her voice is quiet when she says, "Two people. Colonel Boggs and a woman."

"Who?" he stresses. He feels so shaky he might collapse.

Asterid looks again. Haymitch watches her so closely his eyes hurt— she stares at the woman, and something takes her by surprise. He sees her eyebrows twitch, her lips tugging at the corners. What does she see?

"What's your name?" Asterid asks.

"Lenore Dove."

Blue eyes find his, but he cannot trust his own hearing. When Asterid does not repeat what she heard, he asks. "What did you hear? Tell me."

"…It's Lenore Dove, Haymitch."

It nearly causes his legs to crumble beneath him. The air catches in his lungs, hurting for a second, until the world goes numb. He nods his thanks and closes the door quietly, leaving Asterid to tend to her daughter. He turns slowly until he can look directly at her. She's there, as clear as ever, watching him back. Her eyebrows are pulled together with worry, and there are deep frown lines framing her lips. Boggs finally glances at her for just a moment. Haymitch can't feel his feet as he walks towards them.

To Boggs, he says, "You should go clean up. You smell."

To Lenore Dove, he can't say anything. He looks up at her— she's always been a bit taller than him— and waits for her to speak. She doesn't. Boggs speaks first.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Miss Baird, contact us if you have any issues."

Lenore Dove's eyes find Boggs, and her expression darkens. Any warmth in her eyes disappears. There's still respect there, a deference given to authority— but she's angry. Haymitch can see it in every beautiful line of her.

"Sir, yes, sir," she says in a dull monotone. Haymitch only has a moment to wonder where this anger has come from, before she's focused back on him. Any animosity is gone, and the softer edges of concern are back. "Come on, Haymitch. It's a long walk."

Indeed, it is. She informs him that it's several stories down, away from the residential areas. "It's more secluded there," she says. "Nobody will bother you, if you don't want to see them."

Humor pulls a corner of his mouth into a smile. "Seclusion's not for my benefit. It's for everyone else's. I'm an ass when I'm sober."

Lenore Dove had been walking just in front of him through a narrow hallway. At his words, she stops and turns. Pain has etched itself deep into her eyes, and Haymitch wants to take his words back if it would mean keeping her from it. He can't, so he smiles instead.

"Funny you say that," she says with no humor. "I'm a bit of an ass, too."

Haymitch can see the scowl lines on her face before she turns— deep grooves between her eyebrows and at the corner of her mouth. He wonders how often she grimaces, glares, frowns… Expressions he's seen on her before, but rarely. Something tender and somber wedges itself under his ribcage.

The walk is quiet, for the most part. Haymitch wants to speak, but his mouth is dry and his head is spinning to fast to form coherent sentences. They have to stop several times for Haymitch to catch his breath or throw up on the floor. After the third time he's had to vomit, Lenore Dove offers to get him a basket.

"Are you cleaning crew?" he asks, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. His tongue burns with the bile. She shakes her head no, a conspiratorial smile already forming. "Eh, leave it for those bastards to clean up. Not my problem."

Somewhere on the stairs— more than ten floors down— Haymitch nearly falls. The tremors in his hand have moved to his torso and he spasms where he sits on the staircase. His stomach lurches, but there's nothing to throw up. He can feel eyes on him from passing civilians, and he begins shouting at them to give him room. He's in the middle of cursing out a pair of soldiers when someone says his name.

"Haymitch? I thought you were supposed to be sobering up downstairs."

His voice reacts before his mind does. Years of rage and humiliation spill through his lips. "If you think I want to see your face right now, you're dead wrong. Get away from me."

Plutarch sighs from the platform a few feet up. Haymitch can see he's also in the standard gray fatigues, but he still carries himself like a Capitol citizen. "Oh, I see. You're sobering up here."

Haymitch goes to snarl something else at him, but Lenore Dove beats him to it.

"He said get the fuck away," she hisses. She'd been quiet, a statue at his side when he'd been insulting and spewing vitriol at everyone else. Where she'd been crouched near Haymitch before, she now stands over him protectively. When Haymitch cranes his head back to look up at her, he sees one of the expressions that have put those deep wrinkles on her face.

He knows Plutarch is smiling when he answers— that calm, analytical smile he wears whenever he's pleasantly surprised by something. "You must be Lenore Dove. It's nice to finally—"

"Leave," she interrupts. "He said get away. I know you're no fool."

A wave of nausea wracks his frame again, and Haymitch has to lower his head between his knees. He tries to keep an ear out, but all he can hear is his racing heartbeat. He doesn't know how much time has passed when he tries to rise to his feet. Knees shaky, he has to use the wall as a support. Haymitch doesn't know who's right beside him, but they reach out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't touch me," he growls, throwing the hand off of him. He can still feel the phantom of it on his shoulder and he rolls it a few times to dissipate it. Lenore Dove takes a step back, hand raised. She keeps a respectable distance as they continue descending.

✧✧✧✧

"You're not going to want to be here for this," Haymitch warns Lenore Dove. A nurse is taking his vitals and preparing him for his involuntary stay. The room he's in— as sterile as Katniss' but with considerably less furniture— is already making him claustrophobic. "It's going to be ugly."

Lenore Dove crosses her arm, leaning against the wall she's stationed at. Her body language tells him that she's not going anywhere. "I'll survive."

Haymitch believes her— but he worries that he won't survive. He's heard tales of old alcoholics who've tried to get sober, only to seize and succumb to their long-overdue deaths. His body hasn't known sobriety for more than a day for 25 years. Even now, less than half a day since his last drink, he's sweaty, trembling, vomiting, and attacking almost anyone who gets close enough. His knuckles still hurt from where he punched a soldier who'd stopped them.

He can't do much to protest before the nurse is back with reinforcements and soft restraints. The sight of the banded cuffs spur him into another fight, but all it takes is a jab of a needle and he's out like a light. When he wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, he almost wants to fight again so they'll keep him sedated the entire time. It would certainly be more comfortable for everyone involved. He tugs limply at the restraints on his hands and feet.

"Awake?" Lenore Dove's voice is soft, but it still grates on Haymitch's tender ears. He huffs at her, though not as harshly as he could have. "Good. I have water for you."

Haymitch struggles against the idea, but she's insistent. Soon, cool water is soothing his sore throat and offering some hydration. Lenore Dove has to hold the cup and put the straw in his mouth. As vulnerable as he is, Haymitch isn't feeling as feeble as he thought he would. The act even soothes something else in him, but he can't face it right now.

✧✧✧✧

He wakes screaming more often than not. By the sixth time, Lenore Dove no longer flinches. She wonders what he's trying to find, though— each time he wakes, his hands flail out and reach for something. She wouldn't be surprised if it was a weapon of sorts.

"Shh, shh," she calms. She knows he can't hear her. Haymitch is too busy screaming obscenities, thrashing in his bindings.

His throat must be so sore. It catches on several shouts, turning gravely and breaking mid-yell. But he won't accept any water or fluids that aren't through his IV. She convinced him to drink water once, telling him it was moonshine. He'd swallowed half of it before realizing and spitting it back at her.

Lenore Dove watches patiently as he tires himself out. His skin is ashen and damp almost constantly. His hair falls in limp strings around his face, and she wants to reach out and push the hair from his eyes. When he finally slumps back on the pillows, she does. Her voice is soft when she speaks to him and her hands are gentle on his forehead.

"Please," he begs with a broken voice. She doesn't think he's aware he's speaking.

She shushes him and drapes a towel wet with cool water over his forehead. His skin burns underneath her touch, and he squirms. Haymitch doesn't stop moving until his eyes are too heavy to keep open.

✧✧✧✧

It gets worse. They were told it would peak within the first three or four days. Lenore Dove ignores her duties in the Communication Center. There's no use for her anymore— she was assigned to track movements of rebellious Victors, and the only Victor she cares about is sick in a hospital bed.

Haymitch has been awake for a few hours now. Conversation is sparse and largely one-sided. Lenore Dove will talk to him through his tremors and the fever, offering a distraction. She doesn't know if it's welcome or not, but he doesn't curse at her nearly as often as the nurses. She talks to him now as she works on preparing a meal with hopes he'll eat.

"It's not too bad," she says. The red fruit she's crushing easily turns to mush in the bowl. "The diets are pretty bland, but we're fed. It gets awful boring, though. Tam Amber was able to bring some instruments with us, but we had to leave my tune box behind."

She's surprised to hear the croak of Haymitch's voice. "I know. I have it."

She looks over her shoulder. Haymitch isn't looking at her, but there's enough light in his eyes that she knows he was talking to her.

"Yeah? In that big ole house of yours?" she asks. He nods. It stirs something long and forgotten in her.

"Missed you," Haymitch offers as explanation. He doesn't say anything else, gaze fixed on the far side of the room. The words hang in the air between them like dew.

Lenore Dove doesn't know what to say. It's been so long since she's spoken kindly with anyone at length, and it feels like her tongue has atrophied. But she's finished with the mashed breakfast, so she presents it to Haymitch. "Do you want a straw, or can I feed you?" When she'd offered last time, Haymitch outright refused any food. This time, his eyes find the bowl and he considers it.

With a heavy sigh, he says, "Too thick for a straw." It's as much as she'll get out of him in way of permission. She pulls a chair up and is careful while she helps him eat. Haymitch can only stomach a few mouthfuls before he's turning away. She coaxes a few more spoonfuls, a single bite of meat, and a nutrient-dense drink before he refuses to acknowledge her anymore. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. She doesn't take it personally. The nurses just want him to eat something, so she'll consider this a success.

She's cleaning the mash out of the bowl when she addresses his earlier comment. "I missed you too, Haymitch."

She is not expecting a reply. Silence settles between them for a long stretch of time, and she's almost certain that Haymitch has fallen asleep. She's about to sit down when he speaks again.

"I'm not sorry about sending you away."

Lenore Dove looks up at him. The shock is cold in her bones. "What?"

Seam-gray eyes find hers. They are filled with dulled sorrow and grief, but not regret. "I'm not sorry for telling you to leave Twelve. I'm— I'm sorry I put us in that position, but… not for that."

The information settles over her like fresh snow. It's slow to sink in, but peaceful as it does. She takes her seat, facing Haymitch. The lucidity in Haymitch will not last, and she doesn't know how much she wants to divulge now. There's so much she wants to tell him.

"I think I can forgive you for that," she offers. It's an attempt to lighten the mood, but it doesn't work well. She dips her head away from his gaze. "I… never blamed you for that, anyway."

There is a pause. "You didn't?"

"I was an idiot back then, but I wasn't clueless. I know Snow would have killed me."

Haymitch does not argue or refute that. She knows Snow would have her death look like an accident, or use her to manipulate Haymitch into obedience. Monitoring the Victors means she knows what Snow has done to them, at least to an extent. She wouldn't wish that on Haymitch.

✧✧✧✧

Lenore Dove wakes up to the sound of heavy, labored breathing. She jolts up in her chair, afraid that Haymitch has begun to seize— the nurses had warned them that seizures may occur, and to alert them immediately if so. Instead, she sees Haymitch sitting up in bed, stiff and staring off to the side.

"Don't— spit it out," he whispers between ragged gasps. His voice is weak. "It'll kill you— spit it out."

Some of the tension in her body relaxes. Hallucinations are scary, but nothing she can't handle. Haymitch continues to mutter and plead with the vision only he can see. Lenore Dove is beginning to think of how to snap him out of it when she hears her name.

"Lenore Dove," Haymitch softly cries. "Please. Don't eat it."

She doesn't think before she leans forward, closer to his line of sight. "Haymitch?"

His head snaps around to her, eyes wide and startled— but focused. They find her immediately, and confusion crosses his face. "Lenore Dove?"

She nods, but does not reach out to touch him. "Yes, I'm here. What is it?"

Haymitch doesn't answer her directly. He shakes his head, becoming lost. He looks between her and the corner of the room. His shoulders are so stiff they're shaking, his chest rising in shuddering half-sobs.

"Which— which one of you is real?" he croaks. Lenore Dove feels a piece of her heart break.

"I'm right here," she repeats. "You're in the hospital, in Thirteen."

He hardly listens, speaking over her in a hurried, panicked tone. "No! Spit it out, Lenore Dove! It's poison!" He lurches towards the corner of the room. His hands strain against the soft restraints, the bed frame shaking with the force of it.

Lenore Dove recalls the last time she saw him. It feels like a dream, even now. Her love, torn away from her by force and before he found his way back to her. She remembers how full her heart was when she saw him in the meadow, how warm his arms were. Even heartbroken by the loss of his family, he was so much more lively than he is now. Even as he ripped those gumdrops out of her hand, yelled at her to flee Twelve, she could only feel the love in his heart.

The gumdrops, she thinks sadly. Her death was so close, almost at her lips. How often did he replay that scene? How often did she die by those poisoned sweets? Did his nightmares include her dying in his arms?

Lenore Dove takes a piece of mashed red fruit from the disposal bin. It's lukewarm and wet in her palm as she closes her fingers around it. Haymitch's cries begin to increase in volume, his voice breaking around the syllables. She circles the room until she's standing where a younger ghost of her is haunting Haymitch. With a dramatic hurling sound, she pretends to vomit into her hand. She waits until Haymitch blinks in surprise before holding her hand out, red fruit in her palm.

"Okay," she gentles him. "Okay, I spit it out. I'm not eating it."

Haymitch's eyes are wide and wet as the scene reconstructs itself. She watches as his mind clears, the tears stopping their steady flow. When he looks at her again, she knows he's seeing her— not an old ghost of her.

"I'm alive," she reassures him softly. She cannot find it in herself to smile, not even for him. The pain of seeing him like this keeps her face firm. "I'm alive, Haymitch. I'm okay."

His breathing takes longer to even out. The skin on his face is still flush and damp with fever, but at least the hallucination is over.

Or, at least, a part of it.

Lenore Dove watches him carefully as he looks around the rest of the room. Each time his eyes catch on something, focus on an image that is not there, his immediate panic is slowly replaced with complacent fear. His face smooths from terror into grief, and she knows where the deepest wrinkle lines on his face come from.

She's cleaned the fruit off her hand when he speaks. "How many people are in the room?"

She looks over at him. His eyes are tired as he watches her, and he looks like he might pass out at any moment.

"Just us two. Me and you."

It's not the answer he wants, but it's the answer he knew he was going to get. Resignation slopes his shoulders, and he slumps back against his pillow. Lenore Dove thinks he might try to sleep again, but instead he turns to her with a tearful plead.

"Please don't make me do this," he asks in a whisper.

This is not the first time Haymitch has asked this of her. It's certainly the calmest— and that almost gets Lenore Dove to agree— and she knows it won't be the last. She knew, coming into this, that he would try to get any drop of alcohol that he could. It's a painful process physically. She wished she knew how painful this would be mentally.

She shakes her head, trying to be as gentle as possible. It doesn't matter. Haymitch takes it like a bullet, a rough, dry sob ripping from his chest. He curses and cries, and she lets him.

"Can you at least—" he starts, cutting himself off with a hard hiccup. She expects the familiar pattern to follow. Another piece of her heart breaks when she hears his request. "Can you at least move her?"

"Move who, Haymitch?"

His face screws up in agony, and new tears are flowing as he looks at his lap. In the softest voice she's heard from him, he whispers, "Wellie."

Lenore Dove recognizes the name. It was a girl in the Games with him who had been in the final three. She was so little. The announcers thought Haymitch might find her first and help her, but that's not what happened. The final Career found the girl first and killed her without thought. Lenore Dove has to blink away the sight of Wellie's death, how the Career held her…

Oh.

This must be what Haymitch is seeing. He found the Career holding her head.

"Where is she?" Lenore Dove asks.

Haymitch's hand lifts towards his lap, near his knees. They're stopped by the restraints, but his fingers stroking something she cannot see.

"H-here," he whispers.

When he doesn't say more, Lenore Dove reaches over. As slowly and gently as possible, she scoops her hand under the air. Haymitch's eyes follow her hands as she lifts. She doesn't want to imagine what he must be seeing— her chest aches just watching him.

"Where should I put her?" she asks.

Haymitch looks to another corner. "The rest of her—" He can't finish, but Lenore Dove understands. She walks to the wall and looks back at him, confirming this is the right space. The space remains empty as she places Wellie's head back on her shoulders. Lenore Dove even pats the top of her head, smoothing her wild hair.

"There you go, hun," she says to the ghost child. To Haymitch, she asks, "Is that okay?"

A small smile pulls at a corner of his mouth. He nods almost desperately. "Yes— thank you. She's… She's not crying anymore."

The rest of the night has Lenore Dove moving about the room, calming the spirits haunting Haymitch. She tends to the wounds on Maysilee's throat until she can speak again. She calms and holds Ampert, a small boy calling for his father. She gets water for Sid and Ma's burning throats, and goes as far as splashing water on the wall to put out the fire around Burdock. She applies a bandage to Louella's head and rebraids her hair— and, later, picks a flower for Loulou. Lenore Dove is unsure why Louella McCoy haunts Haymitch twice when the others do not, but she will not ask. She will leave that a mystery between Haymitch and his lost sweetheart.

It goes like this, on and on, until Haymitch is able to fall asleep. It will happen twice more— Haymitch awaking to horrific visions— before the symptoms of withdrawal begin to subside. All Lenore Dove can do is accompany him.

✧✧✧✧

Weeks later, sobriety has done little to alleviate Haymitch's anger. He fumes quietly where he sits under the sun. He told Plutarch not to push Finnick into this, but neither of them listened. Now, he watches as Finnick delivers his past in a detached monotone. He's not surprised when Katniss turns to him.

"Is that what happened to you?" she asks. Her face remains stoic, but Haymitch can see the concern in her eyes. He tells himself it doesn't spear right through him.

He shakes his head. "No, not that." It's not a lie, he convinces himself. He did not suffer the same fate as the Finnicks and Johannas and Cashmeres. No, he was the example of what could happen. His ribs open, just a bit, around the tightly-coiled wound in his chest, and he tells Katniss about his family. Not much— not yet— but enough to ease that concern from her eyes.

Now is not the time to tell her about Plutarch. It would do nothing but drive a wedge between her and Thirteen, and they do not need that right now. Haymitch hasn't decided if he'll ever tell them. He's certainly not inclined to, but he knows Katniss and Peeta have already wormed their way deeper than he ever wanted.

He pushes it out of his mind. It's not a present concern.

✧✧✧✧

They're gathered to discuss what supplies the ground team will need for their raid on the Capitol. Haymitch will be hanging back— he's not in any condition to fight— and he's here to give his Victors the best chances of survival. Katniss, as clever as she is, still needs his help. It's not easy to help her, though, especially when she and Johanna still have teeth at each other's throats.

Their comments have become hostile enough that Haymitch feels the need to step in. "Okay, ease up, both of you. Katniss, let's turn that inferno into a smolder, huh? Save the heat for Snow." He turns to Johanna. "And Johanna? Ditch the attitude. You can't kill everyone in the Capitol."

Katniss isn't happy about his comment, but listens enough to fall silent. Johanna, on the other hand, scoffs loudly. She fixes Haymitch with a deadly glare. "Well, excuse me if I have a lot of people I want dead," she seethes. "Not all of us had such good owners."

A triumphant smirk spreads across her face as Haymitch's face falls. Oh, here we go, he thinks dully. He can only hope his girl— his clever, brilliant, dense girl— will completely miss the meaning of her words. Their relationship has been strained enough lately. Guilt eats at him each time he looks at her, accusations of being a liar echoing in his head.

He watches Katniss carefully as the words register. At first, he thinks he's safe from this uncomfortable, impending conversation. He chances a glance at Lenore Dove, stationed nearby and looking at him with a level of something he can't handle yet. When he looks back at Katniss, she's slack-jawed and staring at him like he's told her a bold-faced lie.

"You said—" she starts angrily.

"I know what I said," he interrupts, holding up a hand. 

Her face flushes red and he's almost afraid she'll lunge at him across the table. "You lied," she spits. "Again."

"I didn't lie," Haymitch insists. He casts a sideway glance at Johanna, just to confirm that this is what she was aiming for. She's smug in her chair, smiling at him. To Katniss, he repeats himself. "I didn't lie, sweetheart."

"Then what does she mean?" Katniss demands.

He is not drunk enough for this conversation. "Who knows? She's high on morphling."

Haymitch knows Johanna is glaring at him now, but he can't find it in himself to care. All he's focused on is not having this conversation, and getting Katniss to cool off. Johanna won't let him off that easily, not with all the anger she's gathered over the years. He's opening his mouth to shut this line of discussion down, when she jumps back in.

"Oh, you didn't know?" she asks in a superficial, sickly-sweet tone. "Your mentor didn't tell you about his benevolent master?"

"Johanna—" Finnick tries to interrupt. He looks just as uncomfortable as Haymitch feels, but Haymitch knows it's not out of compassion for him. It's likely because Haymitch argued against Plutarch using his stories as a distraction.

"Haymitch," Katniss says, eyes trained on him. Everyone's making too many sounds all at once. He's too sober for this.

"We're not talking about this," Haymitch says under the noise. His limbs are becoming numb, and his legs want to carry him out of the room.

"Tell me," Katniss nearly yells. "If it's different, then tell me. Don't let me imagine it, Haymitch."

That makes Haymitch pause. It's as much a plea as a demand. Haymitch knows how dangerous the mind can be with just-enough information. Katniss knows too much of the world now, and he knows her imagination would run wild. This is the only thing that gets him talking.

"It was different, okay, sweetheart?" he says. He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice even. "I didn't go through what they did— honestly. It was… bad, but it wasn't that kind of bad. Okay? Is that enough for you?"

Haymitch watches the information settle over Katniss. Her eyes still burn with anger and concern, but the lines of her soften. A glance at the other Victors keep them quiet— even Peeta, eyes distant as he digests this information. Haymitch feels all too exposed, skin flayed open against his will. This is just damage control. After a long pause, Katniss nods. Haymitch knows there will be questions later, but now he can prepare himself. Hopefully his Victors will give him until after the war, when he can get his hands on booze again.

The door to the conference room swings open. Haymitch wants to curse when Plutarch walks through. He doesn't have enough time to glare a silent warning at Johanna before she's saying, "Well, speak of the devil and he shall appear."

Her words and taunting send a cold spear through him, gluing him to the spot. Haymitch watches as confusion crosses Katniss' face, helpless at how out of hand this has gotten. He doesn't bother looking at Plutarch.

"Well," Plutarch laughs. It's the same calm, smug sound he makes when he's surprised and amused. "That's not a flattering thing to hear upon entering a room. What have you all been discussing?"

Katniss is looking at Plutarch as the pieces click together. She's slow on the uptake and Haymitch has time to rise from his seat before her. He even has a chance to throw a quick "Fuck you" at Johanna for this violation before Katniss is on her feet.

"You?!" she cries, all but lunging at Plutarch. Haymitch is there to intercept her, arms circling her waist and holding her back. He separates himself from his own emotions as much as he can. 

"Easy, easy!" he urges, placing himself between her and Plutarch. "Calm down!"

The fire in her eyes is stoked. She looks around Haymitch to glare at Plutarch, pointing and shouting at him. "We trusted you! You're supposed to be on our side!"

Haymitch has to continue to hold her back, Katniss now driven entirely by her anger. She lurches at Plutarch, trying to grab or scratch him around Haymitch.

"You hurt him!" she screeches, face turning red. If Haymitch doesn't get her calm now, they'll have to sedate her.

"Relax, sweetheart," he says as calmly as he can manage. With how he's holding her, he can speak directly into her ear. "Do I look hurt to you?"

The question startles her enough to distract her. Katniss pulls back, eyes wild, and glares at Haymitch. She opens her mouth but he knows she's still pissed, so he repeats himself.

"Do I look hurt to you?" he asks. He sees when the switch happens, when surprise turns to worry before molding itself into something else entirely. She starts to connect the dots. Likely running through previous interactions, how Haymitch encouraged them to listen to Plutarch. If he was hurt, he wouldn't be so open to working with the man, would he? Haymitch can only imagine the questions she's coming up with.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he reassures.

Katniss finally relaxes enough under his hands that he can let her go without risk. She jerks away reflexively, but does not attack Plutarch again. Haymitch takes a deep breath, thankful that he won't have to prick his girl with morphling again. He opens his mouth to speak, remind her of the real enemy, when a sharp slap echoes through the room. He turns and sees Plutarch with his head at an odd angle, cheek rapidly welting. Lenore Dove stands by him, arm raised from where she's slapped him.

"I've been wanting to do that since we first met," she says. She shakes out her hand with a pleasant smile. Haymitch can't ignore the giddy satisfaction the sight stirs in him.

The slap seems to be the climax of the tension. Haymitch can see that Plutarch's put the pieces together, and trusts him just enough to not further the conflict. Lenore Dove returns to her seat for further discussion, and Johanna seems pleased with the outbursts. Katniss, on the other hand, seems to be struggling to regain her footing. Haymitch is gentle when he loops an arm around her shoulders and leads her out of the conference room. He spares a glance back at his boy, but Peeta seems calm enough to remain with the others.

Haymitch leads Katniss to a quiet place he's found. Well, Katniss found it first, but Haymitch has been using it since finding her there. They duck and weave between the piping until they find a spot big enough to sit. Katniss slides to the floor while Haymitch sits on a pipe, not trusting his knees to get him back up without issue.

They are quiet for a long time. Haymitch is thankful for it. He is not ready to tell Katniss what's happened to him, especially not after her attack on Plutarch. He'd place blame on their situation, say that the rebellion is too fragile, that she's too volatile to handle it— but that's not the entire truth. A hole, open and all-consuming, has already opened in the pit of his stomach. Violation prickles at the back of his neck, and he wants to chase it away with a knife.

"Were you ever going to tell us?" Katniss asks. It may just be the two of them here, but Haymitch knows she's asking about Peeta, too.

"I'm not going to lie and tell you yes," he says slowly. "But… I can't say no, either."

When Katniss looks up at him, he can see all the questions swirling in her mind. He interrupts her with a hand, shaking his head.

"Not now," he says. It's a quiet plea— one that he hopes she hears. "I… I'll tell you one day, okay? But not today. Not before this is all over."

Katniss is unhappy with this, but she accepts. Haymitch wonders if she doubts they'll all make it out alive. She'd be smart to. War is an ugly, deadly thing. A part of him wishes he dies in the war, leaving the heavy lifting to everyone else. Finally get the rest he's wanted for so long. But it's a small part of him. The rest of him wants to see Katniss and Peeta succeed, watch them live the lives he couldn't. He wants it so much it hurts.

"I'll tell you one day," he promises. "Just make sure you live through this. Okay, sweetheart?"

✧✧✧✧