Chapter Text
They had announced it after those awful candied birds had almost succeeded, almost speared through the jugular of his last true ally.
Haymitch had understood why they were sent, of course; Maysilee had ever so flippantly killed a capitolite. One of their own. The message was clear by now- show them up, be punished accordingly. Maysilee was just the next on the gamemaker’s list. Like Ampert, like Maritte, like Haymitch himself in a little while, probably.
But unlike all those times before, Haymitch wouldn't let it happen. He couldn't. There had to be a winner, and he knew at this point they would never let it be him. So he would try his damndest, at least, to make sure it was Maysilee if it was the last thing he ever did.
Which was becoming more and more likely by the hour.
Right now they're both at the edge of the arena, about to split up. It's not for good, not yet anyway, but Haymitch can almost sense the danger rising up his hackles. Maylisee is tough as nails, but alone in the arena? Any gruesome fate is possible, especially after what she’s done. He catches the reluctance in her gaze before she turns to leave, and whatever is left of his heart cracks painfully at the sight. What is suddenly clear to Haymitch now is that if he lets Maysilee go off by herself, there’s a good chance she’s not coming back.
Neither of them really wants to leave the other, that much is clear. And Haymitch refuses to give the gamemakers another opportunity to kill one of his allies again. They've already taken enough.
So mere seconds after Maysilee has turned back around to get their supplies, Haymitch strides after her- cool and composed, disguising a mounting dread.
“Maysilee, wait!” he tries to say like it's no big deal, but his words are rushed and warbled.
He grabs her wrist and she whips around almost uncharacteristically fast, eyes widening like a spooked horse. She registers his face and relaxes slightly, but her brows furrow in mild confusion.
“What is it?”
Maysilee cocks her head to the side and Haymitch is holding her hand and her gaze now, trying to tell her somehow what he knows he can't. He’s unable to get a read on how much she’s figured out, but by the look on her face it isn't much. And smart as she may be, the girl certainly isn't renowned for her subtlety. Oh, Maysilee.
“Don’t trust me to gather our supplies for one minute by myself? I think we've established that I'm the one on defense here.” She gently wiggles her hand free of his grasp and holds it to her face to inspect it, like Haymitch might have damaged her non-existent manicure.
If they weren't in hell, he might have chuckled.
“Listen, Donner,” He says effortlessly for the cameras, then lowers his head and voice.
“It’s not safe for anyone to be on their own anymore. Please, just trust me. I've seen where this goes in here too many times.”
Haymitch speaks so earnestly he hopes it will shock her into listening to him.
“We have to stick together. At least for now.”
Her shoulders tense and she looks like she wants to argue.
“Maysilee, please. One of us needs to win.” Well, her. His warrant is signed.
That, of course, is left unsaid.
Her shoulders drop and something seems to click in her brain. A fragile hope builds in Haymitch’s chest at the sight.
“Alright. But just for now,” she says, cautious and soft.
He is nearly taken aback by her compliance, but they've got no time to dwell. Offering her a grateful smile, they match strides as they head towards their little camp.
He’s bent away from her, facing the treeline and shoving the remaining food rations into a pack when he sees them first. A large flock of long-necked, sharp-beaked birds dyed a sickening and artificial pink. Smaller than Lenore Dove’s geese, but much more menacing. All strutting swiftly through the bushes, their heads flitting back and forth eerily, like they're almost real. But these aren’t normal birds, Haymitch knows. If anything, they're too calm. Too unnatural. Like the fluffy golden squirrels that stripped poor Ampert clean, these were specially designed to kill their target. And by their candied color alone, he had a guess on who these were for.
“Maysilee,” he says calmly, not looking away, standing up slowly with an arm out. Maybe if they can’t see her face, it’ll take longer for them to target her. It's worth a try, anyway.
Maysilee, who’s facing the other way folding the tarps, yet unaware of her imminent doom, yells back to him:
“Are you-”
Haymitch shushes her loudly. Turning his head back, he hopes to find her still facing the cliff.
Instead, he is met with her confused and offended face. Shit.
“Maysilee,” he says again, quickly and quietly as he can, “there are bird mutts walking towards us right now. Give me my knife, take your blowgun and walk away.” He knows it's foolish to think that she could somehow evade the mutts sent to kill her. And to try and get her to leave. He knows. But maybe it can buy her more time.
“Where-”
Her eyes widen as she looks past him at the circus colored horde, still stalking towards them. She takes a wary step forward and tosses Haymitch the knife.
“They’re for me. For the gamemaker. Like Maritte and the squirrels-”
“Which is why you need to start running now.” He cuts her off, voice stern and urgent. She needs to listen to him, just this once. “If you can get far enough away I can slow them down and you can stick them with your darts.”
She gets on one knee and begins loading the gun.
“What are you doing? Maysilee, they were sent to kill YOU. Get a head start and I'll hold them off- they won't attack me.” He has no idea if that’s true this time, but maybe she'll believe him. “Get out of here now, please!” he yells desperately, trying to get through to the girl who, famously, listens to no one. What a stupid idea.
“You think I'm just going to leave you here to fight my battle?”
She’s stuffing darts in the gun rapidly, while simultaneously staring Haymitch down. He opens up his mouth to argue but she doesn't let him.
“It's my fault they're even here. We can take them on together but I'm not backing away. If I die, I die. It's probably inevitable anyway. But fighting off a capitol creation is as good of a way to go as any.”
He meets her burning blue eyes, silently pleading with her to please, run. He can't lose another ally, another friend. He can't watch another innocent death.
“It's final, Haymitch. We’re in this together” she says, almost apologetically, and hoists herself to her feet, training the blowgun over his shoulder.
And he has no time to be angry at her, because he wheels around and suddenly he’s slashing the necks of those horrid cotton candy birds. Over and over they run, over and over he slashes. He hears darts whizzing over his head, and the squawking the birds make as they are kicked in the face or shot in the eye. Their necks are thin and easy to cut, luckily, and so he plows through the mob with a messy sort of ease. The numbers seem to be thinning and for a foolish second, Haymitch thinks that maybe, it might be over.
And then, above the almost avian screeching, he hears a distinctly human cry.
He dares to turn his head and sees Maysilee, red and screaming, face littered with nicks and hair splattered with blood. And then, her arm slashed clean open, hemorrhaging all over, onto her clothes and his and the birds, who couldn't care less. He reaches out to her but falters, and one of the beasts launches itself in his face. He slices its neck and runs over to Maysilee, who is wrestling what appears to be the last three birds off of her. He grabs them as they go at his fingers and face and neck, choking the final one by the throat and slamming it into his knife, and then into the ground. He whips his head around frantically to check for another flock, but there doesn't seem to be more mutts of any kind nearby. At least, none that he can see. So he turns his attention back to Maysilee, who is doubled over and clutching her stomach, her slashed arm painted sanguine. She opens her mouth to say something, but there's a cut across her throat and he doesn't even know if she can. And so he rushes over to her. But she collapses into his arms, unconscious, and he hears his throat hitch as he catches her limp body. This cannot be the way it ends for her.
And it isn't, for now. Thank god. Who would've ever thought he’d be crying over Maysilee Donner?
He carries her to a thick grove of trees and places her down beside a bush. With only four of them left, and one of those four being little Wellie, they should be safe over here. They have to be, because Maysilee certainly isn't in any shape to help him take on Silka. He glances over her body, at the gashes on her arm and her stomach and her throat, and gets to work. Cleaning and wrapping the wounds, he moves to wipe the blood off her face when she stirs awake. She blinks slowly, tries to mumble something incoherent, but he shushes her gently and cups her face.
“You’re alright, Maysilee. We both are” he says softly, like how he talks to Sid when he’s had a nightmare. She seems confused but too exhausted to protest as her eyes droop shut
“Just go to sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow,” he tells her, and he hopes for her sake it's true. Her stack of necklaces jingle softly as she drops back down next to him, unconscious again. She probably thinks she’s dead. He’s just hoping she's out enough for him to stitch her wounds.
And by some luck, she is. So Haymitch spends the next few hours hastily using the rest of their medical stock to close her gashes. It's dark and it's certainly not sterile, but they've no other option really. And when it's done and he lays his head against the tree afterwards, he doesn't intend to fall asleep. But it just happens, and if they're meant to die, at least they won't hear it coming.
Haymitch startles awake some hours later, to an ebbing darkness and a slight breeze and Maysilee still out cold next to him. But alive, which is a miracle in itself. A miracle that, upon Haymitch's review, seems too good to be true. Because as genuinely relieved as he is that Maysilee is still here, Haymitch can't help but wonder why. Why, from a gamemaker’s view, wouldn't they just send more mutts? Why let her live? Sure, Ampert was associated with the plot to takedown the arena, but Maysilee killed a gamemaker, and Maritte wasn't spared for the same thing. And she was a career, so it certainly wasn't that the mutts aren't strong or skilled enough. So, why then?
He is pulled out of his thoughts as something rustles in the bushes behind him. Grabbing his knife, he slowly peeks around the tree to find but a small grullo rabbit, its slick nose twitching curiously above a wet muzzle. But Haymitch isn't convinced it's not here to kill them until it falls to the ground and convulses, now certainly dead from the poisoned stream. He sits back against the tree with a sigh. Just a few of them are left and only one is a career. If they can camp out by the forcefield, maybe they can coax Silka out and chase her to the cliff. Wellie, on the other hand, well. If she’s still alive, neither of them could kill her, and neither wanted to, he knows. So they'll have to figure something out. Maybe a joint suicide, leave her to be the winner? That's a post-Silka problem, he decides, as the false sun begins to rise against an artificial sky.
And so they're making their way back to the forcefield, but Maysilee is having a hard time keeping up. She must really be in a lot of pain, because she's not even protesting him taking her back to the edge again. Or maybe she can't? The birds did get her throat, if not too deeply. But the more concerning slash across her abdomen that is being held together only by Haymitch’s sloppy stitches is threatening to open up. And after she trips over a small divot in the grass, Haymitch refuses to see her struggle another step and guides her over to a tree, where he sits against it and she falls on her knees beside him.
Maysilee lays there, head over her folded arms in his lap, heaving and gasping for air. But they're out of supplies and Haymitch, feeling useless, can't bring himself to do anything except place a hand on the back of her head and stare off into the glimmering and untouchable distance.
The forcefield was still within reach. He could use it to his advantage somehow. Use it to kill Silka, but then what? End the games for good? End the suffering one and for all? He had to-
Something above them crackles, and a voice appears out of the ether.
“Attention tributes!”
Haymitch tilts his head up slightly and calmly at those words, a futile attempt to project the image of a cavalier rascal that doesn't really care what anyone has to say. As if he isn't silently begging for the end, if only for himself. Maysilee is unmoving, unfazed in his lap. He moves his hand over her hair in what he hopes is a comforting gesture and listens to the announcer:
“Attention!”
Maysilee turns her head but remains otherwise still.
“Seeing as these games are extra special, we've decided to reward you lucky remaining tributes with a surprise."
The voice is too perky, too clean, and dread pools in Haymitch’s stomach. A surprise from the capitol is, quite famously, never a good thing.
“As of this very moment,” the voice drawls,
What now? Snakes, a tornado, poison rain, bears, rabies, rifles. The ideas swirl in his head faster than he can even hear them.
“One male and one female tribute can be crowned as victors,”
And?
His breath quickens. Maysilee lifts her head off his lap.
“Provided they are of the same district.” The voice finishes, matter-of-factly.
Maysilee sits up so fast that Haymitch can hear her stitches tear.
They are the only two district partners left. This is too perfect to be real.
"That is all. May the odds be ever in your favor.”
What?
Haymitch can hardly believe what he’s hearing. If this was any other time in the games before now, he certainly wouldn't. But he's so tired, so delirious, so close to the end, that he does anyway, though perhaps against his better judgment.
His eyes widen and he looks down at Maysilee with dangerous, untouchable hope.
“Did you hear that? Maysilee, we can both make it home!” He knows he sounds too excited. He knows he is too excited. But this has never happened before, and it definitely won't again. This is their one shot.
Maysilee, though, looks up at him as if she wants to cry.
“I don't believe them,” she whispers, pained and rough. The cut she took to her throat definitely damaged her voice. But she has a point- what good has the capitol ever done for her? For him? For anybody but themselves?
And deep down, Haymitch knows not to believe them either. But what other choice do they have? And what if this is Plutarch's doing? What if this is their way out, as a reward for Haymitch’s attempts and sacrifices in the name of rebellion? And sure, maybe this is a trap, but if it is, he can just fall on his own sword and Maysilee can go home. Right?
“What do we have to lose?” he says to her, gently but full of conviction.
She does nothing but stare up at him, eyes shining and full of sorrow.
“C’mon. Let's just get as far as we can. And if they're lying?”
He points to her blowgun.
“You know what to do.”
A hint of a smile crosses her face.
“You know I couldn't,” she rasps, harsh and wispy, and god does she sound awful. But something in Haymitch unravels at this, just a little. He knows. It goes both ways. Always has.
“Well, then, I'll just have to do it myself.” He sighs, leaning back, and thinks he hears her laugh. Or try to.
And then she holds out her pinky, and he takes it with his own, holding firm.
No matter the ending, they are in this together.
They search around for Wellie the best they can, but are greeted with her head and her body in two very different places. What was left of the poor child is a bone-thin frame and it was clear she stood no chance at making it out. But at least she can't be harmed any further, Haymitch tells himself, and he feels a tear fall onto his cheek. Maysilee isn't looking much better and has to pull him away from the scene before they both break down. Leaving Wellie to be the winner somehow- if a bit of a reach- was probably the most ethical course of action, but up until this moment it made their choices harder. With just Silka left, the possibility of their win feels agonizingly close. And yet, still too good to be even remotely true.
But they have to try, at least. So they do.
Their plan is risky and haphazard, but it's all they have. Once Maysilee is tied securely up in the branches of a tree, Haymitch ventures off to track down Silka. He doesn't stray far- she’ll have to find him eventually, and if he can manage to sneak up on her, he won't have to be gone long. The blowgun is his best bet, since Maysilee has his larger knife, and even if it doesn't kill Silka, it will likely stun her just enough to let him finish the job. But after ten or so minutes of trekking around aimlessly, Haymitch decides to turn back so Maysilee won't be alone for too long. Those mutts could come back at any moment, and she’s done for if they do. But as he’s jogging, he registers the unmistakable sound of a career's heavy and tactless footsteps fast approaching.
This is it. His chance to go home. His chance to help preserve someone’s life instead of watching it be ripped away in front of his eyes. His chance to, for once, make a friend in this horrible place and keep it.
Haymitch spins around and runs faster than he has ever known possible. Like a greyhound’s lure, baiting Silka to the edge of both the treeline and the arena. To the forcefield. She charges after him on a warpath, but he’s far enough ahead to avoid her reach for now. And as he approaches the edge, he is struck with an idea so simple it may just work.
She’s going on and on about winning and he just stares at her, incredulous and uncaring. Her eye is slashed to bits and his stomach took a shallow cut, but it could be worse. And then she raises her axe, and dropping to his knees he ducks his head to the ground. It flies above him and disappears, and for a few precarious seconds they both hang there in the balance before Silka’s axe spins back up to her faithfully, lodging itself straight into her head.
Haymitch’s eyes widen at the scene and before he even hears a cannon, he runs. Straight into the woods, crashing through branches and bushes and flowers. Straight to the tree, screaming for Maysilee to cut herself down. He pulls her to the ground and slings an arm over her and they limp as fast as they can back to the field. Even if Silka’s still alive, finishing her off will be easy. But he doesn't have to leave Maysilee unguarded for another second.
She's huffing hard and so is he, but they can't afford a break. If the capitol is serious about having two winners, the reckoning is now. They need to stick together. And just as they reach the edge of the treeline and the view of Silka’s mangled body, the canon sounds.
They stop dead in their tracks. The arena goes silent. They look at each other in anticipation, in fear, in a desperate and honest hope. No matter what happens now, Haymitch knows that for the rest of his life, may it be minutes or days or decades, that if one of them is to die, it has to be him.
He meets Maysilee’s eyes, and wonders what could be going on behind them. She flicks her head around from one side to the other, too much like those awful birds. Like she's expecting them to come back. Then, holding his gaze, she opens her mouth to speak before a voice cuts her off:
“Attention!”
Maysilee smacks a hand over her mouth, and brings another up to her neck to worry at beaded necklace between her fingers.
Haymitch’s mind begins to race. What if this was all a setup? What if this is their punishment for every stunt they've collectively pulled? Pitting loyal friends against each other for a backstabbing final showdown? They're standing there at attention, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Haymitch knows he has to act fast. How stupid of him to ever think they could have a happy ending. He lets go of Maysilee and reaches for his knife. If betrayel was what they wanted, he would give them a suicide instead. One final act of rebellion. Maysilee glances him up and down, putting the pieces together, and reaches out to grab the knife from his hands when they hear these impossible words:
“Congratulations, Haymitch Abernathy and Maysilee Donner. You are the winners of the 50th hunger games. Please stay where you are. You will be picked up shortly.”
The disbelief on both of their faces must be thoroughly amusing.
Maysilee mouths something to him, her face exhausted but painted with raw hope. He can't make out what she says exactly, but it's something to the effect of, “for real?”
She tilts her head genuinely, like she’s expecting an answer. But Haymitch can say nothing. He simply steps forward, drops his knife and wraps Maysilee in his arms. And for some reason, a part of him still expects resistance. But she buries her head in his shoulder, and they stand there for what feels like hours. Are they really going home? Together? That can't be possible. There is no way that the capitol would let them survive, even alone, after repeated defiant offenses. But based on the simple fact that the both of them are breathing, here and now, he chooses ever so foolishly to believe it- he's going home.
Home. Home to Ma and Sid, to Lenore Dove and her beautiful geese. Home to Burdock and Blair, to the woods and the coal and his bed. Home with a girl that he never thought he would even be able to stand, let alone befriend.
But now, he’s going home with someone he knows he will be bound to forever.