Chapter Text
“Happy birthday, Haymitch.” The words stirred Haymitch from his dreamless sleep. His headache as he squinted up at the three figures standing over his bed, beams of sunlight near blinding him as it streamed through the uncovered window.
“Sid?” he croaked.
“No dear.” The voice said softly. He groaned. That sickly sweet voice could only mean one thing. His vision focused on Effie Trinket, District Twelve’s ever loyal escort, flanked by two peace keepers, one on each side.
“Already?” Haymitch moaned.
“It’s the same time every year, Haymitch. After all this time, I would have hoped you’d be a little more prepared.”
“You can keep hoping. I’m sitting this one out.” He rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to will himself back to sleep. Suddenly, two pairs of hands took a firm grasp of his shoulders and pulled him from the covers.
“Alright, alright. I’m awake.” He protested. The men planted him upright on the ground. He tried to shake them off. With a wave of her hand, Effie shooed them to the side.
“Haymitch, I appreciate that this is a difficult time of year for you.” Effie began.
“Sure you do.” He snorted.
“But rules are rules. As a former victor and an…experienced mentor, you have a duty to present your district in the best light. Don’t you want the viewers to get a good impression?”
“What for?”
“For the good of the tributes.”
The tributes. Poor kids. They would be forced to act from the second their names were pulled to the moment they were struck down. Everything and everyone else were set dressing. Poor districts, like twelve, were already at a massive disadvantage. Grubby and underfed, with only two victors in seventy three years. Whichever children were reaped would be fighting an uphill battle. The least Haymitch could do was pretend to be a decent mentor in front of cameras.
“Okay, I’ll play along.” he sighed.
“That’s more like it.” Effie grinned and clapped her hands. The Peacekeepers once again sprung to life. This time they took a loose grip of his arms and started to steer him towards the bathroom.
“This is very unnecessary.” Haymitch huffed.
“It’s just procedure, Mr Abernathy.” One of the Peacekeepers grunted.
Procedure. Haymitch knew far too much about that. He had hoped that being a compliant little victor would have earned the right to stop being treated like a criminal. Was this how they treated all the mentors or was he still marked as different? Troublesome little rascal. If it was happening to everyone, nobody was willing to discuss it.
They shoved him into the bathroom. One remained behind him, while the other drew Haymitch a bath. They stood in silence. Peacekeepers didn’t deserve the comfort of small talk.
“Wash.” the one by the porcelain tub ordered.
“You gonna stand there and watch, pretty boy?” Haymitch winked as he started to unbutton the scruffy shirt he’d fallen asleep in. The man looked over to his colleague, who answered with nothing more than a shrug.
“We’ll be right outside.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Haymitch waited for the pair to march out before stripping down.
Even after twenty four years, he couldn’t get used to the feeling of cold, smooth porcelinan on his bare skin. The hot water on demand and overly scented Capitol provided products forever felt alien. He yearned for a metal tub in front of the fire, for hard yellow soap in lukewarm water. He yearned for before.
Who would he be now if he hadn’t stepped out of line? If Woodbine Chance hadn’t run. Lucky bastard. Such a quick death. Ma and Sid would be alive. Maybe he’d find a way she could retire. More likely, Sid would find a way she could retire. He was always the smart one. Sid would probably be married with kids, working a decent above ground job.
Then, of course, there was Lenore Dove.
What would she be doing if his rebellion hadn’t killed her? He’d like to say married to him. No kids, neither of them wanted to subject them to the hunger of the district or the terror of the games, but they’d have their geese. Really though, he couldn’t say if that young love would have lasted. A girl like her could do a lot better than a boy like him. She deserved a good life, a long life, far more than he could ever give her. Everyone in his life did. And what did they get instead? Painful deaths. All because he wanted to paint his own poster.
Fists banging against wood pulled him back from his daydreaming. Stupid inpatient Peacekeepers.
“Yeah, I’m here. Still alive.” Haymitch called.
“One hour until the ceremony, Mr Abernathy.” One announced.
“I know. I’ve been doing this before you could talk. Would you please leave me alone?”
“If we wait outside the front door, can we trust you won’t try anything?”
“Like what, running away? Big, strong Peacekeepers can’t chase down a forty year old man?”
“Mr Abernathy-”
“Yes, you can trust me. Come on, have I ever let you down?”
There was a pause, then a long sigh.
“Very well, Mr Abernathy, but if you’re not out on time-”
“You’ll drag me out. I know.”
Footsteps stomped away, slamming the door behind them. They’d stood statue-still outside no doubt, basking at the idea they were a key part of the event. The Capitol always sent the new recruits to ‘look after him’. Probably because it was an easy job, but there was always a chance it was one of Snow’s little messages.
“We don’t feel the need to send you anyone experienced. You’re too weak to be a threat.”
He stepped out of the bath and dried himself off. Crisp, clean clothes had been laid out on the bed. He pressed his lips together, fighting a reluctant smile. One of Effie’s little touches. Once dressed, he reached for a bottle that he’d buried in the wardrobe.
One swig, just to calm his nerves. It burnt in his chest as it slipped down. The liquid did nothing. His heart was racing faster with every minute that passed. Another swig. Less than one hour until he was back on that stage, staring out at scared innocent faces. Another swig. Less than one hour until two terrified children were forced to put on a brave face in front of the cameras, as they waved goodbye to their home, almost certainly forever.
Another swig.
Three hours until he was back on that train.
Another.
Almost a day before the Capitol was bearing down on him.
Another.
One week until he sent those babies to their deaths.
He chugged half the bottle. The world started to develop a soft fuzzy sense. It all felt so distant. Perhaps if he kept going, he could convince himself none of it was real. He should drink to someone. That’s what people did, wasn’t it? Drink to the dead. He had so many to choose from. There was his father and his little sisters. Sid, Ma, Lenore Dove. Lou-Ella, struck down too early. Wyatt, who died with more honour than anyone expected him to. LouLou, whose name he’d never know. Maysilee, whose face he could never escape. There was his poor Newcomer’s Alliance. The images of Wellie’s decapitated corpse and Ampert’s stripped clean skeleton were scarred into his mind. Then, of course, there were all the tributes. He’d accompanied them all on their final trips. He was complicit in their murders. Haymitch remembered every one of their names and, no matter how hard he tried to forget, still replayed each of their deaths.
He sunk the rest of the bottle.
Another year, another sunrise he failed to stop.
Show time.