Chapter Text
𖤓𖤓𖤓𖤓
The grass in the meadow was still damp with morning dew, each blade glittering like shattered diamonds under the slow-rising sun. But there, Haymitch Abernathy sat on a familiar, weather-smoothed log, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth.
This had become his ritual, a pilgrimage to the edge of the world he knew. For a few months after the war ended, he had groped blindly for something resembling peace, and against all odds, in this quiet corner of District 12, he had found shards of it. They were sharp and fragile, but they were real. Sometimes, now, the smiles he offered to Peeta’s bread or Katniss’s annoyed rolled eyes were genuine things. Not just the twisted grimaces of a cynic he once used to displays.
Now, in his calloused hands, he held a small, crinkling paper bag. Peeta had made it for him a few days ago, presenting it with a look of cautious hope that was far too wise for a boy his age. Inside them were... gumdrops. A mix of vibrant, cheerful colors—the kind Lenore Dove had loved, the kind that spoke of a sweetness untouched by the world—and a handful of stark, blood-red ones. The ones that had killed her.
Strangely, it had been Haymitch’s own request. A form of self-administered therapy, or perhaps, a penance. In his mind, accepting candy from a boy he trusted implicitly, a boy whose goodness was a tangible force, was a way to rewire a lifetime of terror. The fact that Peeta had agreed, without flinching, without pity, but with a quiet, understanding resolve, told Haymitch that the boy saw it for what it was: a step towards exorcising a ghost of guilt that had been haunting his life.
In all the previous bags, the blood-red gumdrops had remained untouched. A silent and poisonous accusation at the bottom of the sack. They would always find their way back to Peeta and Katniss, who would consume them with a practicality that bordered on the sacred, absorbing the symbol of his fear and transforming it into something mundane, something safe.
But today felt different. The spring air was a little warmer, the memory of Lenore Dove’s smile a little less like a shard of glass in his heart and a little more like a preserved, precious artifact. Perhaps it was the simple, brutal calculus of his failing liver—a timer he had set himself decades ago, now ticking its final, frantic beats. Or perhaps, a more frightening thought, it was the first, tentative victory of the life he had won. Of the life he had clung to with drunken, bloody-minded stubbornness for 26 years over the ghosts of his youth.
With a breath that was half a prayer and half a curse, Haymitch picked up a blood-red gumdrop. It was slick between his fingers. He held it for a long moment, watching the sun catch its gelatinous surface.
This is it, My Love. The moment of truth. Or stupidity. You always said there was a thin line between the two where I was concerned.
He popped it into his mouth.
The crunch was deafening in the morning quiet. Then, the sweetness exploded, a cloying, overwhelming wave of sugar that flooded his senses. It was nothing like poison. It was just... candy.
Then, a profound, simple, and utterly disarming relief washed over him, so potent it left him dizzy. He chewed slowly, deliberately, letting the flavor coat his tongue, a taste completely divorced from the memory of death.
Peeta makes this for me, My Love.
He thought, the words forming in his mind with a clarity that startled him. He wasn't just talking to a ghost anymore; he was reporting to her. Updating her on the life he was, against all odds, still living.
He gazed at the sun, now clearing the tall pines, its light warm on his face.
It tasted sweet.
He smiled, a real, unguarded smile that felt strange on his face. He took another red one, chewing it with less trepidation.
Hope your last one tasted as sweet as this one.
For years, the memory of that moment had been a loop of horror: Lenore Dove’s trusting eyes, her easy laugh, the way she’d taken the candy from his hand without a second thought. He had worn the blame like a second skin, a hair shirt that kept him raw and bleeding. But now, chewing this harmless, sweet concoction, another layer revealed itself.
That it wasn't just about his naivete or the Capitol’s cruelty. Rather, it was a testament to their love. She had eaten it because she trusted him, loved him, as he would have, without question, if their positions were reversed. The act itself was pure, and it was the world that had corrupted it.
How's heaven, My Love?
He thought, the question feeling less like a lament and more like a genuine inquiry.
I hope the sun there shines as bright as the one that shines here, that rises without the shadow of those Reapings.
He then selected a colorful one, a vibrant yellow, and ate it. The flavor was lemon, sharp and clean. As he stood, his joints complaining, but his lips smiled wider, feeling a lightness he hadn't known in decades.
I tried to stop my drinking a bit now. Peeta and Katniss are both pestering me on that. And strangely, these gumdrops help a bit.
It was a paltry substitution, sugar for alcohol, but it was a change. A choice. He was making choices for his future, not just numbing his past.
He carefully folded the top of the paper bag and placed it at the base of a nearby birch tree, a silent offering.
I left these ones here for you, My Love. If they reach you, please enjoy them. This time, I make sure all of them are safe.
Then, he turned and began the walk back to the Victor's Village. Partly because the sun had reached its zenith, marking the time, but mostly because Peeta had invited him to lunch—a celebration of a day without a Reaping—and Katniss would have beaten his being if he was late for an event Peeta had planned. The thought made him smile. These two strange, damaged, magnificent kids he’d met barely three years ago had carved a place in his life so deep they felt like family. The children he may never have had, but also the children he would, and had, moved heaven and earth to keep safe.
He reached the wrought-iron gate of the Victor's Village just as Katniss was approaching from the woods, a large, plump hen dangling from her hand. Her steps were sure and silent, the Hunter-Girl forever present in the woman she was becoming.
"Hey, Old Man." she greeted, a genuine, if slightly mocking, smile gracing her lips. "Seemed you come home early today."
Haymitch barked a laugh right away. He knew the barb was her version of affection, and he knew the unspoken threat behind it. A missed lunch with Peeta would result in a merciless pounding on his door and an insufferably long uncharted conversation designed solely to avenge any slight against the baker. "Oh hello, sweetheart. Of course I am, Peeta's making us Lunch, don't he?"
"Ah, guess you learnt your lesson," Katniss said, falling into step beside him.
Haymitch chuckled. "My door hasn't recovered from your last banging." He reached past her, opening the door to the house she shared with Peeta—a home that was always warm, always smelling the warmth of love. He gestured with a flourish then. "The lady first, sweetheart."
Katniss let out a loud, unburdened laugh as she strode past him, heading straight for the kitchen. Haymitch followed, lingering in the doorway to watch the familiar scene unfold. Katniss deposited the hen on the counter, then immediately turned and wrapped her arms around Peeta, who was stirring a pot on the stove, planting a firm kiss on his cheek. Peeta, without missing a beat in his stirring, leaned into the touch.
Haymitch watched them, a peculiar ache in his chest that wasn't entirely painful. It was the ache of witnessing something pure, something he had helped, in his own broken way, to protect.
"You stink of the forest," Peeta commented, his voice warm with amusement.
"What is that even supposed to mean?" Katniss retorted, pulling away but keeping a hand on his arm.
"It means why don't you take a bath before our lunch?" Peeta clarified, finally setting down his spoon to look at her properly.
"You just want to make an excuse to call me stinky, aren't you?" The two of them laughed, a private, easy sound that filled the kitchen. With a final roll of her eyes, Katniss headed upstairs.
"Such a good day in Peenis's house," Haymitch announced, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table.
Peeta groaned, but he was laughing. "Can you not do that?"
"Do what?" Haymitch asked, all false innocence.
"Peenis?" Peeta said, the word sounding absurd in his reasonable tone. "Surely there is a more appropriate name for me and Katniss."
Haymitch shrugged, relishing the minor annoyance he could still provoke. "Peeta and Katniss seems a bit long for me, but okay..." He paused, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "How about Katpee?"
This earned him a full-bellied laugh from Peeta. "You better stop or else, I will throw my flour on you, Paps." The name had been Peeta's gift to him last month, a token, the boy had said, to honor him as the father figure in his life—one who, unlike the one fate gave him, hadn't given him up for the Games.
Haymitch joined in the laughter. "Scary. You could've killed me with those sacks of flour." The reference to Peeta's first Games was effortless, a shared scar they could now sometimes joke about. The sweet, warm boy just laughed, the darkness of the memory no longer holding him hostage.
Haymitch stood and began rifling through the kitchen cabinets right then. "Given this occasion is special, did you, like, prepare booze for me? Booze is special to me." It was a test, a half-hearted reach for an old crutch.
Peeta paused his plating and turned to look at Haymitch, his expression turning serious. "I thought you stopped?"
"Hmm, I thought so," Haymitch said noncommittally, his back to the boy.
"Wait, what?" Peeta's voice was gentle but firm.
"Well, I've been drinking for 26 years, boy. Give me a break, okay." Haymitch continued his futile search, knowing Katniss would have been thorough.
Peeta now completely stopped his work, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms, a small, knowing smile on his face. "You can search all you want, Paps, but Katniss has already taken care of that."
Haymitch's head snapped around right away in a funny way that made Peeta amusedly laughs a bit. "Did she hide it upstairs?"
Peeta shrugged as respond. "Do not ask me, I too, do not know." He turned back to the stove, but the amusement was clear in his shoulders.
"You're lying, aren't you?" Haymitch accused, coming to stand near the table.
"No, I don't," Peeta said calmly, bringing the final platter of food to the table. It was a feast—roasted vegetables, a small loaf of braided bread, the hen Katniss had brought the other day, and the new hen is now cleaned and ready for the oven later for next meal.
Haymitch followed him like a shadow. "Do not lie to me, son."
Peeta laughed, finally facing him. "Look, I truly don't know, Paps. If you want, really want, just ask Katniss. I believe she would give you some, you know, just for you to not truly relapse."
Haymitch shrugged, a childish pout forming on his lips. "Yeah, she would, and then give me a one-hour lecture on how to live a better life."
"That she will do," Peeta agreed. He walked to a different cabinet and pulled out the large jar of gumdrops he kept in stock. "Okay, now where is the rest of your gumdrops? I'll make sure they don't go to waste. Katniss and I will eat them."
Haymitch sank back into his chair, facing Peeta. "I ate them."
"Oh, all?" Peeta asked, surprised, putting the jar back and taking the seat beside Haymitch to wait for Katniss.
"Not all," Haymitch clarified, his voice low. "I ate three. Two red and one of the others. Then left the rest in the meadow for Lenore Dove."
There was a beat of stunned silence. "Wow," Peeta breathed, his eyes wide. "You truly ate those, Paps?"
Haymitch nodded slowly, unable to meet the boy's earnest gaze. "I couldn't let your hard work get wasted all the time, no?"
A wide, beaming smile spread across Peeta's face. "Great. I am very proud of you."
"Don't," Haymitch grumbled, shifting uncomfortably.
"Don't what?"
"Don't talk like that. You talk to me like I talk to my geese. It's a weird feeling."
Peeta laughed hard, the sound rich and joyful. "I didn't mean it like that." Haymitch just shrugged, a faint smile touching his own lips. "Well, how is it?" Peeta asked, his voice softening.
"How is what, Boy?" Haymitch asked, deliberately obtuse.
"Your feelings, Paps."
"What about my feelings?"
"Seriously?" Peeta's look was one of deep patience.
Haymitch sighed, the defenses crumbling. The kitchen was safe. And he knew, he always knew, that Peeta was a safe ground. "Well, I still feel a lot of sadness. She is My Love, always been."
"And?" Peeta prompted gently.
"I feel a bit better, I guess," Haymitch conceded, the admission feeling like a physical weight being lifted.
"Which part of better?"
"The kind that made me feel at peace... knowing my promise is fulfilled... and that she too is in peace... there."
"Great," Peeta said, his voice warm. "Is there else?"
Haymitch took a long time to answer, his gaze fixed on a knot in the wooden table. He traced it with a rough finger. "Perhaps, even... a new start."
"A new start?" Peeta asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Yeah, maybe like... you know... I am actually living my life now?" The words felt foreign and dangerous on his tongue.
"That is very great, Paps," Peeta said, his voice full of quiet conviction.
The question that had haunted Haymitch for weeks, the one that had kept him awake at night, tumbled out in a raw whisper. "Do you think I deserve that? To be truly happy, now?" Then, even quieter, the real fear surfaced. "I don't want to erase her memory, boy. I don't want to forget her."
Peeta understood the layers in that question. He had been a silent, observant student of human suffering, and he knew Haymitch better than almost anyone. He knew the other people in Haymitch's orbit, too. He leaned forward, his voice calm and sure.
"Starting anew is not always forgetting, but rather, cherishing what once was gone," Peeta said, the words sounding like something he might paint on a canvas. "The human heart is grander than you might think, Paps. It is perhaps as infinite as your obsession with drinking. After all, you are such a stubborn man."
Haymitch let out a choked chuckle, the sound thick with emotion.
Peeta joined him, then stood, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Well, now all preparation is done, I might as well fetch Katniss so we can eat."
Haymitch just nodded, his mind reeling.
"Don't eat without us, Paps!" Peeta warned as he headed upstairs.
Left alone in the quiet kitchen, Haymitch let the words wash over him. Cherishing, not forgetting. A heart as infinite as his obsession. Could it be true? Could he truly carve out a new space in that scarred, shrunken organ of his without dislodging the love that had defined it for so long? He stared at his hands, the hands that had killed, held a bottle, and now, finally, held a piece of candy meant for a ghost. The question hung in the air, more terrifying than any Games arena.
The lunch was a boisterous, warm affair. Katniss descended, smelling of soap and pine, and they ate and talked and laughed. Haymitch’s laughter felt lighter these days, as did theirs. He looked at them—the Mockingjay and her Baker boy—and knew he wouldn't change a single, fractured, beautiful part of their found family.
Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and gold, Haymitch found himself in his own quiet house. He sat in his worn armchair, sipping from the small, rationed bottle of liquor Katniss had permitted. The silence was a familiar companion, but tonight it felt different—less like a void and more like a canvas.
His thoughts, unbidden, drifted to Effie Trinket. His last letter, a scrawled, messy thing sent two weeks ago, had gone unanswered. He shrugged, a practiced gesture of feigned indifference. Effie Trinket was ridiculous, he'd known that from the moment she'd teetered into his life on Capitol-approved heels. But she had never been mean. So why the silence? Had she finally moved on, truly and completely, to a world of pastels and parties where a broken, drunken Victor from District 12 had no place?
The sound of his door opening and closing shattered his reverie. Katniss walked in, as was her habit, and made a beeline for him. She placed another small bottle on the table before him and then dropped onto the sofa opposite, tucking her feet beneath her.
"Peeta told me you asked for this," she said, nodding at the bottle. "And that you also ate the gumdrops."
Haymitch laughed, a dry, rasping sound, as he claimed the new bottle. "Is this my reward for actually eating the gumdrops?"
Katniss shrugged, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Kind of."
"Sweet," Haymitch said, cracking the seal and taking a swig. "If I'd known you'd give me extra booze, I would've eaten the gumdrops earlier."
A small, rare laugh escaped her. "Would you, though?"
Haymitch drank and shook his head, his expression turning serious. "No, I won't."
Katniss laughed louder this time, the sound echoing in the sparse room. "How are you feeling, Old Man?"
"Peeta caring for me is expected. That boy is always the sweetest," Haymitch began, deflecting. "But you, sweetheart, it is well... kind of scary weird to hear."
Katniss laughed again, louder and honestly amused. "Yeah, you even said that I wouldn't deserve him, even after a hundred lifetimes."
"And I still stand by my point," Haymitch retorted, a genuine grin spreading across his face.
"Rude," she shot back, but she was still smiling. "Anyways, seriously. How are you feeling?"
"Hmm," Haymitch hummed, buying time. "Better?"
"That's it?" Katniss said, ever impatient.
"You truly have zero patience, sweetheart."
"You know me too well, Old Man."
"That I do." They shared a look of deep, hard-won understanding. "I feel... happier," he admitted, the word feeling strange but right.
"Now you're just white-lying to me," Katniss challenged, her brows raised.
"Excuse me?" Haymitch acted hurt, clutching his chest. Then he sighed, giving in, knowing fully well Katniss Everdeen would not leave him alone if he didn't. "You truly want to know, don't you?"
"I told you everything these past 3 years, Old Man. My deepest sorrows and longing for Peeta. My concerns and my worries," Katniss said, her gaze steady and honest. "It's only fair you do the same."
"Pffft, I ain't recall agreeing to any of that," Haymitch grumbled.
Katniss just waited, her silence more effective than any argument.
"But if I could be truly honest with you, well," Haymitch started, then stalled.
"What's your worry?" Katniss interjected, her patience finally fraying.
"Can you let me have a moment? Geez." He took another drink from the bottle she'd brought. "At least give me time to woke this thoughts up, sweetheart."
"Okay, okay," she conceded, amused.
"I feel a bit worried that I might be betraying My Love if I move on with my life." Haymitch finally spoken a few momeng later. His eyes are dead serious as he look into Katniss's eyes.
"How so?"
"That her memories would grow faint if I, you know, forget her."
"Well, do you intend to forget her?" Katniss asked, her voice surprisingly soft, even for Haymitch's taste.
"No." He replied in a split second, as it was the truth he knows in his very bones.
"Then why do you think like that?"
"Hmm," Haymitch hummed again. He'd found himself doing that lately, as if he was learning to sing again in his own rough voice, a poor imitation of the way Lenore Dove used to. "Nothing important. Not now." He could feel her probing gaze, sensing he was hiding something deeper than his usual grief.
Right there, Katniss has sense that there is more to talk but also the way Haymitch tried to concealed it. But before she could press further, he steered the conversation away, towards the other ghost haunting his present. "Have you heard from Effie? She hasn't replied to my letter."
"Who in the right mind still sends a letter?" Katniss said, her practicality a blunt instrument. "You know she has a phone in her apartment, right?"
Haymitch nodded. "Let's just say I'm conventional."
Katniss snorted anyway. "Nonsense." Then she added, casually, "She called me and Peeta last weekend, by the way. Said she was caught up with her work."
"She's fine, though?" Haymitch tried to keep his voice neutral, but he heard the slight edge to it.
Katniss nodded, her eyes reading the lines on his face with unnerving accuracy. "Yeah, I guess so." She stood up, the conversation seemingly over for her.
But she paused at the door, turning back with a look that was all Katniss—direct, uncompromising, and fiercely loyal.
"Do you remember what you said to me months ago, Old Man? That I should consider what Peeta would do if I was the one the Capitol tortured? That I shouldn't punish him for a fault that wasn't his? That it was unfair, for him and for me?" She didn't wait for an answer. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "Do you really think Lenore Dove would've wanted you to be forever alone for the rest of your life, too?"
"I don't have much life to live on anyway, sweetheart," he deflected, the old cynicism a comfortable shield.
"Well, it's still a life nonetheless," Katniss countered. "A life of a victor, Effie said."
Haymitch chuckled, the memory surfacing. "Yeah, I remember her saying that."
"Well, rest well, Old Man," Katniss said, pulling the door open. "See you in the morning."
The world settled back into a profound quiet after the door clicked shut. The house was empty, but for the first time, the emptiness didn't feel like a sentence. Lost in his thoughts, Haymitch whispered the words back to the silence, "See you in the morning, sweetheart."
And he realized, with a jolt that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that he meant it. He genuinely wanted to see them in the morning. He wanted to see all the mornings he had left, with their better sun and their better, quieter, more peaceful condition of living. The thought was no longer a passive wish, but a quiet, determined promise he made to himself.