Work Text:
He was far too sober for this.
Not through any fault of his own. Capitol parties are always bursting at the seams with alcohol for people to indulge in. Haymitch had drank before arriving and had managed to down a few shots once he arrived, but he found that almost every time he went to the drinks table, Effie would appear by his side in a whirl of pink and glitter, and steer him away to meet another potential sponsor.
He wasn’t sure why she bothered because A. he was determined to get drunk no matter what she did, and in fact was already feeling the effects of what he’d taken, and B. all the money in the world couldn’t save the kid he was supposed to protect in that arena.
Kid. Singular. Because the skinny 13 year old boy, Everett, who was all nerves and no daring, and who reminded him so much of his little doves from District 6, had already died. Right away in the bloodbath. Taken down by the District 4 boy. Haymitch had tried to prepare himself for it, had known that at least one of his tributes wouldn’t be coming back, but it still hurt. It was just another person who he’d been supposed to protect that he’d let down. Louella, Lou Lou, Ampert, Wellie, Sid, Everett. He’d have to start writing a list.
He should be focusing his efforts on his other charge, 15 year old Dorcas, who on Day 3 of the games was still alive, but anyone with eyes and half a brain could see she wasn’t going to make it. She hadn’t found a water source and her food supply was low. The last Haymitch saw of her before leaving for this party was her passed out on the floor of the arena, lips cracked with dehydration and skin eerily pale. Unsheltered. Unprotected. Undefended. Completely vulnerable to any attacks from the other tributes, and clearly too weak to fight back or even run away. Haymitch could sweet talk and schmooze up with snobby Capitolites all he wanted, but he couldn’t bend the truth – Dorcas was as good as dead. And if there was one thing Capitolites hated it was betting on a lost cause.
Even if he miraculously managed to scrounge up enough money to send her some water, her odds were slim to none. Haymitch could practically hear Wyatt’s assessing tone in his ear, repeating the words he’d said last year concerning Louella: she barely factored into the rankings anyway. Dorcas was from the Merchant section of District 12, and it was obvious. She’d never had to struggle much in life – she didn’t know what it was to survive, to yield a weapon of any kind, to fight. She was a kind girl, her eyes always betraying whatever big emotion was going on inside of her. She reminded him of Asterid – someone who was meant to heal, not hurt – and Haymitch wondered if they knew each other. Probably. District 12 was a pretty small place after all. Everyone knew everyone. Which meant the whole town would be grieving for the children that never came back that year, and the whole town would know exactly who to blame for it.
His first year of mentoring and already he was doing terribly.
“That last one went rather well I think!” Effie chirped brightly in his ear, clinging to his arm as they strolled through the crowd of partygoers. Since last year, she’d somehow upped the ante in terms of her fashion. Her hair looked like cupcake icing, raspberry pink and glimmering in the dim purple light. Her dress was a deep fuschia and satin bows dotted her puffy chiffon skirt. The dark red gloss on her lips contrasted her unblemished white skin, and her eyelids were painted heavily with rosy eyeshadow and liner, making her big blue eyes the focal point of her face.
They’d just come from talking to yet another potential sponsor. Haymitch wasn’t sure if Effie was just trying to be optimistic, or if she was truly that oblivious, but it absolutely did not go well.
“You really think that?” he asked, carefully gauging her reaction for any hint of deception.
She looked at him, eyes sparkling happily, dazzling smile completely without strain.
“Yes, Haymitch, of course! He really liked talking to you, I could tell. I’m very perceptive with these things.”
Maybe the man did enjoy the conversation, but it wasn’t what Effie made it out to be. He had definitely seemed engaged with Haymitch, but whenever a possible sponsorship or money was brought up, he’d quickly change the subject, becoming suddenly and uncomfortably invasive.
Wow, that suit is just gorgeous. So well fitted to you – like a second skin. Personally, I think the material is a little thick though, best get something thinner for the Summer!
You know, enhancements are all the rage at the moment. I’ve even gotten stuff done myself. You should try it! Of course, you’ve already had your hair coloured blond, but why stop there? There’s always more that can be done!
Oh, I’m sure finding love isn’t a problem that you have. You must have people back home lining up in the streets just to be near you. And who can blame them? Girls love a rascal! You got a girl back home?
It was clear as day that the man had no interest at all in sponsoring Dorcas. Even Haymitch in his intoxicated state could see it. But he supposes Effie just doesn’t see the world the same way he does. He could’ve easily shut her down and explained all of this, but it felt so harsh. Like kicking a puppy. So he kept his mouth shut, focus already shifting across the room to where he knew the drinks were.
“Ooh, there’s Juno Phipps!” Effie gasps, hand clutching her ruby studded necklace, “I’d better go catch her – she loves a good underdog! Stay right here… Miss Phipps! Miss Phipps…!”
Lost cause, Haymitch wanted to call out and correct her as she trotted off, but she wouldn’t have heard him anyway – her head lost in the soft, cotton-candy clouds of whatever magical world she was living in. Besides, now was his chance: with Effie thoroughly distracted, he could finally catch up on some drinking.
He made a beeline for the drinks table. As he pushed through the swarm of people, stray hands would brush up against him – one caressing his arm, another gripping his waist, a third reaching for his chest. Even the people who weren’t as bold as to touch him still drank him in with their eyes, a gleeful hunger in their gaze that made Haymitch unsettled. Everyone wanted a piece of him, like he was just another delicious dessert they could all sink their teeth into. His stomach squirmed, but he tried his best to ignore it, concentrating instead on his goal.
Just a few more shots and I won’t be able to remember any of this anyway.
The refreshments table was just as elaborate and decadent as the rest of the party. The food sat in little armies of hors d’oeuvres: tiny sausages with bacon wrapped in a bow around them; skewers that held colourful, juicy fruits that Haymitch didn’t recognise; crackers topped with a creamy white spread and little black bubbles. But the food wasn’t what Haymitch was interested in. Instead, his eyes landed on the drinks: large bottles of neon liquids, the bubbles in them racing to the top and popping as they reached the surface; a large fountain flowing with a citrus-y smelling substance; and lines of shot glasses with flames dancing over the top of them delicately. They looked like his best bet. Braving the possibility of having his face burnt off, Haymitch grabbed one and downed it. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all. Just left a somewhat pleasant tingling sensation around his lips. The liquid itself did burn as it went down, but it was a burn Haymitch was very well acquainted with by now. He felt it move down his throat and fill his chest with light.
He grabbed another one. Downed it. Shut his eyes to relish the sensation. When he did, he could almost drown out the world around him: leave it all behind and retreat into his body. He didn’t have to think, or remember, or be faced with ghosts and memories at every turn. He could just exist – numbly, yes – but numb was better than what he felt sober.
“It’s not real fire.”
Haymitch glanced over his shoulder, maybe a little too quickly because it made his head spin (shit, those shots work quickly), and saw Beetee standing next to him. The sight of the older man hit Haymitch so hard he thought it might knock him off of his feet. Even though it had only been a year, he looked like he'd aged significantly – wrinkles mapping his face, grey hairs starting to show on his head, a deep sorrow in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Haymitch cleared his throat, stumbling backwards on wobbly legs.
“No?” Haymitch asked.
“No. They’re artificial flames, a mere illusion of fire. It’s quite remarkable, really. Though, right now the effect can only be produced on a small scale like this. But who knows? Maybe one day it’ll develop into something… bigger.”
Haymitch hummed to feign interest, but really his mind was on anything but fake fire.
He hadn’t seen Beetee since before the games last year. The last time they’d spoken, Beetee had been a father. Although, Haymitch knew that Beetee’s wife had been pregnant, so unless something went wrong with that… he was tempted to ask but he almost couldn’t bear the answer.
And honestly, was it even his place to ask? They didn’t know each other that well, really. The only thing that had bonded them was a far fetched plan of rebellion and a desire to protect Ampert. Now, Haymitch’s rebellious streak had been beaten out of him by life, and Ampert was gone. The things they’d found common ground on had crumbled to dust. They shouldn’t have much to talk about, but at the same time there was so much Haymitch wanted to say.
“How is your first year as a mentor going?” Beetee asks, tone softening slightly.
“Oh, you know. Just swell,” Haymitch sarcastically replied. It came out a lot sharper than he’d meant. He clenched his jaw, trying to smooth out his edges, “Twelve has never had a mentor before, at least not from our own district. There’s never been anyone to point at when asked why we keep losing both tributes year after year. Now there’s me. So that’s great,” Haymitch swallowed, shaking his head, “sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“It’s alright,” Beetee assured him, “It must be a lot of pressure on you.”
Haymitch nodded. Took another shot. Felt his muscles relax as the alcohol scorched his insides. Beetee’s eyes stayed trained on his movements as he did so.
“I was sorry to hear about your family, Haymitch. And your girlfriend.”
Haymitch had to choke down the vomit that surged up his throat at Beetee’s sentence. He’d known that news of his loved ones demise wasn’t a secret – right before his victory tour Effie had credited Lenore Dove’s untimely departure to appendicitis, so clearly Snow had made sure a certain version of the story had been spread. But it still startled him to know that the worst moments of his life were so horribly public.
“Yeah,” Haymitch uttered, voice hoarse, “just… unlucky, I guess. Freak accidents.”
The lie slipped from his lips easily. What was the point in telling the truth? Snow had weaved a tragic tapestry of a house fire and a medical emergency and had hung it up for all of Panem to gawk at and gossip about. That false history was what Haymitch would have to stick with. The reality of what had happened would only put Beetee – and anyone else that knew it – in more danger. And he couldn’t do that.
Beetee nodded in understanding, and Haymitch supposed if anyone could ever understand, it would be Beetee.
“I know what that’s like. That’s how I felt when Ampert got reaped last year. I just kept thinking, what were the odds of that? For his name to be drawn out of everyone's? But sometimes these things just happen. Like you said – it’s just unlucky.”
Haymitch’s gaze snapped up at that. He and Beetee both knew that Ampert’s being reaped was anything but an unfortunate happenstance. It was calculated. A strategic move meant to punish Beetee for his acts against the Capitol. Beetee had told Haymitch as much himself. So why change the story now? Unless he was trying to tell Haymitch something, something he couldn’t say freely in a large crowd of people. That, like with Ampert, Beetee knew that Haymitch’s loved one’s deaths weren’t accidents. That they were murdered.
But Haymitch was drunk. He might just be misinterpreting things, and if he tried to clarify what Beetee meant it could get them both in trouble. So he focused on what he knew to be real.
“I’m sorry about Ampert,” he said. He cringed at how small it sounded, the words not enough to encapsulate his sentiment. “He was… he was a really great kid.”
“He was,” Beetee smiled, the expression heavy, born of heartbreak and grief, “thank you for looking out for him.”
Haymitch couldn’t help but let out a scoff at that.
“What?” Beetee asked, seeming genuinely perplexed at Haymitch’s reaction.
Haymitch shook his head, sending dizziness ricocheting through his skull.
“I tried looking out for him. I really did, but I failed. I couldn’t…” his voice broke suddenly, “I couldn’t save him. You shouldn’t be thanking me.”
If Haymitch hadn’t been so drunk he might’ve been mortified at the way he was acting in front of Beetee, but as it stood, he couldn’t bring himself to care. All he could think about now was Ampert. His fast way of speaking, like his brain was moving too quickly for his mouth to keep up; his earnest confidence and hope in his plan to outnumber the careers; his big brown eyes, looking up at Haymitch with such unfiltered trust.
So much for forgetting. He needed more to drink.
“I didn’t need you to save him. Nobody could’ve done that. But I wanted you to protect him as best as you could, and that’s what you did,” Beetee said, his hand landing steadily on Haymitch’s shoulder, “he died doing something important, and he died with someone he considered a friend. For that I am eternally grateful.”
Haymitch felt himself lean into Beetee’s touch. It was so unlike when the Capitolites touched him – all greedy and selfish and entitled. It just… was. Like an anchor stopping the tides from stealing a ship. Haymitch wasn’t sure of the last time he felt safe being touched by someone.
But then an uneasiness hit him, waves rocking a boat. It crawled up from his gut and made its way into his throat. He gritted his teeth against it, the feeling all too familiar to him. Because it didn’t matter how safe he felt with Beetee – how good it felt to possibly have someone to call a friend again. Nothing would ever change the fact that Haymitch was destined to be alone. Since his rebirth as a Victor, his life, the very air around him, has become toxic. And it’s those closest to him that have suffered for it. Haymitch is poison. If he loves someone, they die. So it doesn’t matter how much being alone suffocates him, because it’s either that or put more innocent people at the mercy of President Snow. He steps away from Beetee’s grasp, swaying as he does so.
“I should go,” he says, already dreading having to face the shark-like Capitolites again, but at least now he was a good level of drunk.
“Okay. If you ever need someone to talk to–”
“Thank you, Beetee, but it’s alright. I’m handling things perfectly fine by myself,” he took another shot glass, raising it to Beetee in a sardonic ‘cheers’ before swallowing it all at once.
“I’m sure you are. But you don’t have to be. Going it alone can work, but there are benefits to having friends around you.”
“None of my friends in the arena benefitted from aligning themselves with me. They just wound up dead.”
Beetee’s eyes narrowed in thought. Haymitch could almost see the wires in his brain sparking. He was sure Beetee knew what he was trying to say – don’t get close to me, unless you want a big red target on your back.
“Victors do not die though, Haymitch. We are survivors,” Beetee threw a quick glance around them both before leaning in closer to Haymitch. He spoke barely above a whisper and Haymitch had to strain to hear his next words, “Us Victors are some of the few people on this earth you don’t have to be afraid about getting close to. You can’t endanger us any further than the Capitol has already. It’s completely safe.”
Beete pulls him into a hug, making Haymitch suck in a surprised breath. After a moment of stunned hesitation, he tentatively returns the embrace, all the while digesting this new information. He hadn’t thought of it before. It was always the Victors family’s that were punished, not the Victors themselves – they were far too precious to the Capitol, too beloved, and much better alive so they could be used as permanent reminders of the games. They weren’t so easily dispensable as a random citizen of Panem. Haymitch hadn’t considered them potential friends before, but now…
“Miss Trinket,” Beetee releases Haymitch from the shelter of his arms, and Haymitch feels the absence of it immediately, “I was just catching up with–”
“Haymitch,” Effie grabs him by the shoulders and forces him to face her. Through the haze of alcohol, Haymitch can see her annoyed expression – eyebrows knitted together, lips pouted, cheeks nearly as red as her lipstick. It looks almost funny – such a contrast to her happy pink outfit, “have you been drinking?”
“Me? Drinking?” Haymitch puts an affronted hand on his chest, “I don’t drink, you should know that.”
Effie rolls her eyes, though there's a touch of pity there.
“Right. Well, Juno Phipps is waiting to meet you, so we’d best be going,” she flashes a winning smile at Beetee whilst tugging at Haymitch to follow her, “lovely to properly make your acquaintance, Beetee.”
“Goodbye Miss Trinket. Haymitch.”
Before Haymitch can open his mouth to return the goodbye, Effie has pulled him back into the fray of partygoers.
“Honestly, Haymitch, I do my best to help you and give you connections, and then you go and run off! You can’t keep doing it, you know, it’s just not right,” Effie’s voice has gone high and pitchy with indignation.
“I don’t want to talk to Juno Phipps.”
“Nonsense, of course you do. She could sponsor your tribute.”
“I don’t want to,” Haymitch repeated. He was aware of how whiny and childish he sounded but he couldn’t help it. One of the downsides of drinking was that his emotions became harder to keep behind the gates. His defences came down and his walls crumbled, and suddenly his brain was under siege, and his heart guided his actions. And right now, his heart just wanted to be alone.
Effie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.
“I know. I know you don’t want to, but… you just have to power through!” She nodded fervently, as if she was trying to convince herself along with Haymitch, “a positive attitude can get anything done! So, put on a smile, and come with me!”
Put on a smile. Was his whole life just going to be an endless performance from now on? Filled with empty smiles and shallow conversation with people who didn’t care if he lived or died? He couldn’t. He just couldn’t live like this. Dying in the arena would’ve been a mercy compared to this existence. Or, even better, dying in that fire alongside his family. If Burdock and Blair hadn’t held him back, he could have gone with them and then none of this would be happening right now. He would be with them, safe and happy in the sweet old hereafter. Maybe Lenore Dove would’ve lived too, without Haymitch there to invoke Snow’s wrath.
A hard pang of anger thumped against Haymitch’s chest. He wanted to hit something. To rage and rage until he was left alone with nothing but rubble around him. But where had that righteous fury ever gotten him before? Nowhere. All it had done was strip everything from him bit by bit until only he was left, broken and bruised and surrounded by the dead bodies of his friends and family. The Capitol’s cage was closing in tighter around him. Soon he would be just another one of their songbirds – pretty and obedient, only singing when told, praying for an escape that would never come.
“Miss Phipps!” Effie exclaimed, gently pushing Haymitch towards the older woman, “I am very pleased to introduce Haymitch Abernathy, mentor for District 12.”
Juno Phipps looked him up and down scrutinisingly and Haymitch hated her immediately. She stood with pin straight posture, her long black hair trailing all the way down to her knees. She wore a turquoise ensemble – her skirt made entirely of peacock feathers, and her hat was, in fact, just a stuffed peacock. It reminded Haymitch of Magno’s particular brand of eccentricity – if a little toned down.
“Haymitch Abernathy,” Phipps said. Her voice was high and haughty, “A pleasure. I must say, I was a huge fan of your games. The quarter quell is always exciting, but this one just surpassed expectations entirely. I can only hope the next one is just as spectacular!”
Haymitch’s head was spinning furiously and it took him a moment to process what had just been said to him. Effie had to nudge him to prompt a response.
“I’m sure President Snow won’t let you down on that,” he ground out. Something churned in his stomach. He sucked in a breath. He had taken a lot of shots in quick succession and only now did he realise he had no idea what, exactly, he’d so readily consumed. He’d assumed it was regular white liquor – but knowing the Capitol, it could easily have been something meant to produce stronger, faster results. That would explain why his body felt like it was going into overdrive.
“Of course. He’s got a brilliant mind, that can’t be denied. But I still think last year will always be a personal favourite. I mean, the mutts! Just brilliant!”
The candy-pink birds. The squirrels. Maysilee choking on her own blood. Ampert’s small skeleton, stripped clean of flesh. Haymitch felt queasy.
“Yes, brilliant, but maybe we should focus on these games? I was hoping I could get your support for my tribute Dorcas–”
“Though the mutts were nothing compared to the competitors. Forty eight of them! Can you imagine? That Silka was a piece of work, I mean, I thought you were a goner! She practically filleted you, I don’t know how you held yourself together that long, it looked like your guts were about to spill out–”
Haymitch vomited, the contents of his stomach emptying onto Phipps’ dress. Suddenly it wasn’t really turquoise anymore. More of a dark blue.
Gasps went up from all around them as people craned their necks to see what had happened. Guffaws and squeals of delight echoed around the room, along with others who loudly expressed their disgust, holding their noses, gagging and fanning themselves dramatically.
Phipps was the loudest of them all. She screamed as if she had just been stabbed, wailing like a banshee. Her face creased and contorted with fury as she jabbed an accusing finger at Haymitch.
“How dare you! This was custom made, you delinquent! Get away from me! District scum! I’ll make you pay for this, just you wait…!”
She kept screaming at him, but Haymitch zoned out. He couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. District scum. An insult that he’d previously resented now felt like a badge of honour. He wasn’t the Capitol’s pet – a part of him would always belong to District 12 and they all knew it.
He spat at her feet, sending her into another fit of rage. Some onlookers jumped in to hold her back as she clawed at the air. Haymitch only laughed.
“Okay, time to go,” he heard Effie say in his ear, flustered and panicked but still desperately trying to remain composed.
The ground seemed to tilt beneath him as Effie took him away. Faces blurred around him, and he couldn’t decipher the yells of displeasure from the hollers of encouragement. Puke dripped from his chin and he swiped it off using his sleeve. The taste lingered in his mouth. If only he had his toothbrush.
“I need to brush my teeth,” he told Effie.
Effie took a calming breath in before responding. She plastered that signature smile of hers across her face, but it was starting to look slightly psychotic.
“We’ll be home before you know it,” was all she said.
Effie took them both outside and managed to get the attention of a driver to take them home. Haymitch practically collapsed into the back seat while Effie climbed into the front. Probably trying to avoid any more projectile vomiting. Fair enough. It gave Haymitch space to lie down anyway. The car’s roof was made of glass, and he stared at the lights from buildings zooming past for the entirety of the drive. He wished you could see the stars in the Capitol – the light pollution painted the sky entirely black, devoid of any constellations. It was a shame. They were so pretty. Sid loved the stars.
When they arrived back at the apartment, Effie had to coach Haymitch all the way into the building and to the elevator. They headed to the top floor. The motion of the lift rocked the contents of Haymitch’s stomach again. He gagged, clasping his hand to his mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” Effie warned.
Haymitch swallowed, steadying himself. Swaying on his feet, he threw Effie a thumbs up. She did not find it amusing.
As soon as they got to their floor, Effie left the elevator, not looking back at him once.
“Effie!” Haymitch called out, tripping over his own feet to run after her. “Effie, come on-”
“Vomiting on Juno Phipps! I can’t believe it!”
Haymitch followed Effie into the living room as she started to pace back and forth in front of the TV. He collapsed onto the sofa, letting his head fall back over the cushions.
“It’s not that bad, she can buy a new dress.”
Effie whirled around to glare at him.
“That’s not the point!”
Haymitch shrugged, unsure of what else there was to be said about it. What was done was done. It wasn’t the end of the world. And honestly, that Phipps lady seemed like she needed to be hit with a bit of karma. If that came in the form of Haymitch’s vomit all over her clothes, then so be it.
With a grunt, he leaned forward, snatching the TV remote off of the glass table in front of him. He squinted at the buttons, his finger clumsy as he tried to direct it where to go.
“It’s fine, Effie. No one will think less of you because of what I did. I’ve just given them one more reason to laugh at me.”
After many tries and great effort, Haymitch finally managed to turn on the TV. He flopped back again, satisfied with his tiny victory, but his face quickly dropped at the image that greeted him from the screen.
“But I represent District 12 alongside you now,” Effie continued to complain, clearly oblivious to Haymitch’s change in mood, the bright TV screen glowing at her back, “I want to make it a District to be proud of, not laughed at. Think of Dorcas. I’m sure that if you just tried a little harder, we could get her some sponsors and–”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Effie,” Haymitch said quietly. At Effie’s confused expression, he pointed to the TV behind her. She turned around to look at it, hands flying to her mouth as she gasped at what she saw:
Dorcas Greene. Still lying on the floor of the arena, in the same position she had been when Haymitch had last seen her. Except this time, there was a long spear protruding outwards from her chest. Blood seeped from her mouth onto her chin, staining her ghostly white face. Her eyes stared blankly ahead of her, and it almost seemed like she was looking straight into the camera. Straight at Haymitch. Accusing him. Blaming him. This is all your fault. You could’ve saved me. You were supposed to save me.
Haymitch hurled the TV remote right at the screen with all the strength he had in him. Effie yelped and covered her face as it crashed into the TV and ricocheted off it with a loud SMACK. The impact of it left a lightning bolt crack in the glass, but the image stayed intact. Dorcas’ fractured frame still glowered at him, almost disapproving at his childish outburst.
The three of them sat in their collective silence for a moment. Haymitch found himself foolishly hoping that Dorcas would be the one to break it. That somehow she’d remove the spear impaling her like it was just a splinter, and laugh as she continued on her merry way. But of course, that didn’t happen. Maybe it was for the best. Haymitch wouldn’t wish being a Victor on anyone.
“Haymitch, I’m so sorry,” Effie spoke slowly, approaching him with caution, “you… you did your best. It’s only your first year mentoring, and you had to do it alone. You should be very proud at how far she got. There’s always next year, and I’m sure by then you’ll have learnt from your mistakes and you’ll be able to do even better.”
Upon seeing Dorcas, Haymitch had felt himself begin to hyperventilate. But at Effie’s words he stopped breathing entirely, his whole body stuttering to a stop in absolute disbelief at what she was saying.
“You think that’s why I’m angry?” he asked, fists clenching in his lap, “because I lost? Because I didn’t do as well in the competition as I had wanted to?”
Effie squirmed uncomfortably.
“Well… obviously I know you must be sad that she’s dead. As am I, but–”
“Are you?” Haymitch stood up, ignoring the way his knees nearly buckled as he did so, “I don’t think you are. None of you Capitolites are, not really. You’ll be sad for maybe a day or so and then you’ll forget all about it. Well, some of us don’t move on. Some of us don’t forget, no matter how hard we try!”
“Haymitch, stop!” Effie shrieked, backing away from him, “you’ve had too much to drink, just go to bed…”
But Haymitch was on a roll now. He didn’t care if he was being watched. He didn’t care if the Capitol heard everything he was saying and decided to torture him until he begged for forgiveness. Two kids were dead on his watch. And two more would be next year and the year after that and the year after that, and on and on until he went to his grave. Not many people understood the burden of that, but if he could get this one Capitolite to see everything for how fucked up it was, then maybe he could finally have some hope again. Could believe that people can change for the better, that Panem can change for the better – that life can change for the better. Just like Lenore Dove always dreamed.
“Effie, please just listen,” he clasped his hands together, eyes wide with desperation and voice cracking under the pressure of it. He wondered if this sight would please President Snow. A Victor, beaten down and demeaned until he became a frantic animal, begging one of his captors for understanding. “I know it’s hard for you to see things from my point of view, but some part of you has to know that this is wrong,” he points at Dorcas’ dead body for emphasis, “that is wrong. I mean, making kids fight each other to the death, it’s insane!”
“It’s tradition,” Effie corrected gently, “I know it can be hard, but the games are integral to the survival of Panem. Otherwise everyone would forget their places in the world and we’d end up with another war, it would be just like the dark days all over again. Besides, even with its… sad moments, there are so many great opportunities that come with the games!”
“Opportunities?” Haymitch spat.
“Yes! For you District people! You get the chance to experience the Capitol, to be dressed up and made beautiful. And you get the chance to change your life for the better. If you work hard enough and end up winning – like you did – the Capitol will reward you: a new house, plenty of money, trips back and forth to the Capitol. Who wouldn’t want that? Doesn’t that at least display the Capitol’s kindness?”
Haymitch laughed mirthlessly. Wow, the brainwashing with Effie truly ran deep.
“Winning is even worse than being killed, Effie. I wish I had died.”
“That’s ridiculous, how could it be worse? You worked hard, earned your victory and reaped your rewards. The Capitol has been generous to you as a Victor, President Snow has gifted you a new life full of abundance and meaning–”
“Snow killed my fucking family, Effie!”
The words had burst out, finally breaking out of the iron cage he’d kept them hidden in at the back of his mind. They danced around in the air between them now, free as a bird and impossible to lock away again.
“That is truly an abhorrent thing to say,” Effie uttered, gloved hands clutching her heart, heavily lined eyes flitting to the cameras decorating the room.
“It’s true,” Haymitch said. There was no point in taking it back now. Might as well own it. He opened his arms up as if he were about to bow, “Snow killed them all because of me.”
Something tore at Haymitch’s chest and suddenly he kicked the glass table over, watching through tears as it shattered on the ground. Unable to fight his light-headedness anymore, he fell to his knees, feeling the shards pierce through his trousers and into his skin and not caring a jot. Digging his hands into his hair – once brown, now blond, something else the Capitol took from him – he began to cry. Properly and unashamedly, without restriction or hesitation.
“They are all dead because of me,” he heaved between sobs, “because Snow wanted to hurt me. And now Everett is dead too. And Dorcas. And all this blood will be on my hands forever, and I’ll never wash it off, it’s just gonna keep on coming. I just want it to stop… I just want it to…”
He stopped trying to speak, knowing it was a losing battle, and gave in to the tears. A pair of arms wrapped around him and the smell of lilies and oranges enveloped him. Without meaning to, he buried his head into Effie’s stomach, feeling like a little boy trying to hide from the rest of the world. Shockingly, Effie didn’t complain about his snot and tears seeping into her outfit. She just sat, one hand rubbing soothing circles on his back and the other brushing through his hair softly. A shuddering breath escaped Haymitch and he let himself go limp in her arms.
Last year in the arena, he had been desperate to paint his own poster – to fight against the propaganda of the Capitol and tell his own story. Of course, every effort to do so was erased, replaced by smooth edits and fancy camera work that displayed only the narrative the Capitol wanted shown. But now, Haymitch wonders if this moment right here is his poster. If the two of them together – a Capitol born girl comforting and cradling a lonely, broken boy from District 12 – is the kind of thing that defies everything the Capitol coaxes people into believing. Who in their right mind would ever think that a Capitolite and someone from the Districts would be able to get along, let alone empathise with and listen to each other? It felt groundbreaking. And in the midst of his sorrow, Haymitch caught a glimpse of hope. A firefly fluttering through the dark.
“Oh, Haymitch,” Effie whispered once his crying had reduced to sniffles, “this must all be awful for you, I know, and I’m so so sorry… but… well, none of that was done to hurt you. Your family… It was a terrible accident, and what happened to you in the games must have been awful, but they’re essential. You played your part in them very bravely, but no one, especially not President Snow, did any of it to hurt you.”
There it is. The last glimmer of light snuffed out. The final twist of the knife. The damning reminder that no matter what he told her, the person he was would never overwrite the animal she had been told he was. The people from the Districts are savages. The people from the Districts are liars. The people from the Districts are so deluded that they would rather believe they were being personally targeted by the government than face the fact that everything their betters did was for the greater good.
Haymitch had been stupid enough to believe she could see him as a human. But at worst she saw him as a beast, and at best a personal project to fix – he gave her a chance to remodel him and the entirety of District 12 into a District worthy of the Capitol’s respect. What a noble pursuit. One that would surely get her all the recognition and fame she could ever want. Haymitch suddenly felt sick again. But as much as it would satisfy him to puke all over Effie’s pink bows and chiffon, he decided against it. What was the point? It wouldn’t accomplish anything.
“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered as he slowly got to his feet, voice croaky from the cries that had scraped his throat on their way out, “maybe they didn’t do it to hurt me. But what if they did? Huh? What if that’s the whole fucking point?”
He didn’t give her a chance to reply. Just staggered away into his room, slamming the door fiercely behind him.
His hands had started to shake and his stomach was still waging war against him, but the only thing he could focus on was the dull throbbing of his heart.
How could he have ever thought for a moment that Effie would understand? That he could break through the years of brainwashing and get her to see sense? That, somehow, he could get her to trust him over her government – the same government that had done nothing but make her life easier.
It hits him suddenly that no one will ever truly see him again. The gamemakers painted him out to be someone entirely out for himself – a selfish rascal, bent on winning the games, uncaring about what happened to anyone else. Anyone back home who might have seen through that narrative was now dead. Or, like Burdock and Asterid, had seen such a different side to Haymitch upon his return that his actions in the arena didn’t seem so out of character anymore. He was sure that in the years to follow, he would be branded with even more judgements from both Capitolites and District folks alike – he was useless; he was a drunk; he was so unpleasant to be around that he had ended up alone for the rest of his life. No one would ever know him – the old him – ever again. The thought stung. He’d spent so long mourning his Ma and Sid and Lenore Dove and everyone else he’d loved who he’d watched die… but it was only now that he thought to mourn himself. The boy he’d used to be. Before the Capitol took him and carved him into someone else – someone he couldn’t even bear to look at in the mirror.
Haymitch crashed into his bed, head starting to pound violently.
He was far too sober for this.