Chapter Text
"Happy birthday, Haymitch!"
The upside of having a brother born on reaping day is that he can sleep in late on his birthday. It's pretty much downhill from there.
I splash a bucket of ice cold water onto Haymitch's face and yell in his ear. This usually wakes him up. But by the way he jolts, then falls back down again, I know he hit the booze hard last night. It's already one, and with how my eyes water at the smell coming off of him, we're going to be late for the Reaping.
It's been eight years since my brother's games. Eight years since we lost Ma. In Hay's case, Lenore Dove. I still wake up to Ma's screams over the crackle of burning wood. I'm constantly reminded of her death each time I pass a coal-dusted mirror. An ugly burn scar travels from my chest up to the bottom of my ear. The red skin is tough, inflexible, and I often find myself comparing it to the squirrel jerky Burdock sneaks me. He hasn't been doing that much now—hunting—since the baby came.
Suddenly, Haymitch's eyes fly open. He coughs in sputtering retches until he ejects last night's drink. The vomit lands on his shirt and on my boots, an acrid smell reaching my nose.
Sick dribbles down his chin in rivulets. It's thin. He hasn't been eating. I toe off my shoes and toss them by the door. I can borrow a pair of Haymitch's. Bending down, I corral my disoriented brother upright. Lead him to the bathroom.
Haymitch mutters unintelligibly while I deposit him in the claw-footed bathtub, pull off his ratty shirt, and turn on the hot water.
After eight years, I've grown numb to his drinking habits. Usually I leave him to clean up after himself, but reaping day demands the best of everyone, and I'm not risking this year's tributes leaving the station without a mentor.
Haymitch hisses at the automatic hot water like it’s hurting him. Nobody in Twelve has water like this. Not even the merchants. It’d be easy to resent him for it. I don’t.
I toss a bar of soap to him and take a seat on the closed toilet. I'm already dressed for the Reaping in patched clothes handed down through half the McCoys and a pair of Tam Amber's performance pants. They're old, and have probably seen more than a few owners, but the soft denim is held together by colorful, secure stitching most likely by Lenore Dove's hand. I figure that’s why Tam Amber let them go so easily, even with my help in the forge.
My boots were a gift from Haymitch during one of his more sober stints. I only wear them on reaping day.
Haymitch gets to work scrubbing the bar along his skinny arms and growing beer gut. Somewhere in the back of his swimming mind, he must realise what day it is.
I wonder what Haymitch does all day. He drinks, but since I haven't lived with my brother since the 52nd Games, I don't know much else.
Haymitch was inconsolable the morning of the 52nd Games. He'd gone sober for the night, and spent most of the small hours of the morning drilling me on survival tactics. He sang a song, grey eyes clear for the first time in months; "First avoid the slaughter. Get weapons, look for water. Find food and where to sleep. Fire and friends can keep." I remember the song because sometimes I catch myself humming it. An ear worm, like Lenore Dove used to say.
My name was in the bowl once. The boy that year was a willowy kid from the Seam. Haymitch's relief was highlighted by the large, shaking swig he took of his flask on live TV.
"Hey, Sid…" Haymitch sighs. His voice is rough from either screaming or disuse. I can't tell which. Nobody comes near the Victor's village except from me.
"Hey, Hay," I say.
"You've grown since you last came around. Look at that stubble," my brother muses. He's abandoned the soap bar in the cloudy water.
"We saw each other at the Hob yesterday," I tell him.
"Really? Damn…" Haymitch must be really out of it if he can't remember when I tried to lead him away from the spirit stalls, already half-drunk. He's not fighting my coddling like usual, either.
I grab a towel from the rack. "Water's cold," Haymitch mutters to himself. The towel smells a little, but it's more akin to the average District 12 stink. Leaving it next to the tub, I exit to find a pair of decent shoes for the Reaping.
I check the clock. We're cutting it close.
Haymitch stumbles out of his bedroom just as I'm slipping on a pair of roomy leather shoes. He's fully clothed, and his face looks less pale, so I take the small victory for what it is. I don't say anything as Haymitch pockets a silver flask, most definitely filled with strong, amber liquid.
His eyes are clearer as we walk the overgrown path from the Victor's Village to the Justice Building. Haymitch stops short when we reach the divide between the weedy Victor's walkway and the beaten path of the Seam to Town. "Haymitch?" I ask.
My brother looks to be thinking hard, eyebrows drawn in a tight frown. He mutters, "Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight…"
I can see the moment Hay comes to a conclusion I don't understand. "Sid—!" He breathes, strangled. He grabs my shoulder, gripping so hard he pulls the skin on my burn painfully taut. "You're— It's you. I'm so sorry, Sid. I'm sorry." He starts to sing the song again, "First avoid the slaughter. Get weapons, look for water—"
"Haymitch, it's my last year. Everything's going to be fine." I don't fully believe it myself, but anyone can see I run almost no risk of being reaped.
"No, you're it, Sid. It's you." Haymitch is shaking. He tosses his flask to the ground. It lands in a patch of dandelions.
"Hay, come on." I shrug off his hand. "We're late."
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Haymitch wails, ignoring my attempts to pull him to the square.
"There's nothing to be sorry for." I pick up his flask and shove it in his chest. "Drink up, you've got a long trip ahead of you." My brother takes a deep swig, some of it falling down his wrinkled shirt. "Come on," I mutter.
I just manage to take my place between the other eighteen-year-olds before the mayor takes to the podium. Haymitch, who's now taken to talking to himself, is lead by a Peacekeeper's tight grip to one of three seats on the stage. He collapses beside our escort.
What did Hay mean by that? My name is in seven times, infinitely less than the other Seam kids around me. I've made it through all of my other reapings, and not to sound too cocky, the odds seem to be in my favour a lot more than the others.
Cindy McCoy, looking pretty in a grey frock, eyes me from my left. You're late, goes unsaid.
Sorry, I mouth.
After seven years of reapings, I've got the whole script down. The mayor starts with the same story told every year, though this is this particular mayor's first time saying it.
He finishes the brief history of Panem, uprising, yadda yadda, we squashed you like bugs, yadda yadda, with, "The Hunger Games is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks." Cindy rolls her eyes. I bite my tongue.
Haymitch, already half-way through his flask, burps loudly in the pocket of silence that follows. I'm sure the Capitol is eating this up. District 12: the laughingstock of Panem. But then I worry.
The renown my brother's victory brought 12 was short lived, and once Haymitch showed his drinking habits on his Victory Tour, most of the respect was lost too.
The mayor reads the short list of District 12 victors; an unnamed girl from the early years of the Games, and Haymitch. Then, after letting the woman give her due applause, introduces our escort.
Effie Trinket trots up to the mic, neon pink eyeshadow reaching past her eyebrows. Her lips, painted a matching color, part to chirp, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She goes on a minute longer about the honor it is to be our escort. She must still think she'll be promoted to a better district soon.
"As always," Effie Trinket says, "Ladies first."
Cindy tenses next to me. The McCoys have a lot of family members, which means more mouths to feed, more tesserae to take. She must have her name in the bowl at least twenty times. Thirty, maybe?
I think of my seven slips in the boy's bowl.
"Nettie Kohlmann."
Cindy's shoulders relax, as do many girls around me.
A whisp of a girl climbs the stage, her head tipped down so low her chin touches her chest. She's from the Seam, with dark hair and olive skin stretched over protruding bones.
I've seen her in school, only from last September. She's twelve. There's a ripple of unrest through the crowd. Nobody likes it when the young ones are reaped. In the disapproving silence, there's a clink of coins passed. Betters.
The betting scene in 12 quieted down when Wyatt Callow, a Booker Boy who was reaped for Haymitch's games, died. It was early on, perhaps even the bloodbath, if I remember right. But it's been so long since then. Sixteen more children have died from 12 alone. Jethro Callow isn't here to take bets, but his old friends are.
My brother is staring up at the sky, not even acknowledging the weeping girl on the stage. Effie Trinket reminds her to, "Keep your head up high!"
"And now, for the boys." Our escort plucks a name from the top of the bowl with little preamble. She takes her time to strut back to the podium in inches high stiletto heels, and now it's my turn to tense up.
The sound of the seal ripping open is crisp through the microphone. I'm so close to the end. So close I can taste it. Seven years in this pen, waiting for my name. Cindy escaped with her twenty-something slips, why can't I?
"And our male tribute this year, is—" Effie Trinket falters slightly. It's almost impossible to notice but adrenaline is running so fast and thick through my veins I can see anything. Blood rushes so loud in my ears it may drown out the sound of my freedom.
But it doesn't. I hear Effie Trinket's voice loud and clear.
"Sid Abernathy."