Chapter Text
Haymitch
The usual buzzing tension of the square on Reaping day is replaced with a still, thick silence.
There's a slight comfort in the fact that tonight, no new family will have to draw their shutters and prepare to endure whatever horrible fate could befall them as the family of a victim of the Reaping. No, tonight, only one, maybe two families will be condemned to that.
It's twisted to feel grateful that Sid and Ma aren't here, but I am thankful that there are no strings attached to me this time. No one to worry about. No cistern to not have filled.
As the Peacekeepers funnel us three victors to the staircase, I catch a glimpse of Prim in the front row. A girl with Seam hair is holding her shoulders as she weeps. I don't see the baker's family in the crowd.
As I climb the stage, my hand trembles and I will it to stop. Ever since I've been sober, or as close to sober as you can call it, the world has felt much too loud, too bright, too much. It's even worse now as I climb the stairs to the shoddy stage. I’ve had months to think about this moment, and still, the horror is larger than life.
Throughout the monotonous broadcast of the President's that plays every year, my eyes are trained on the bowl that holds the names Peeta Mellark and Haymitch Abernathy.
Stricken with panic, I wonder if they even put any slips with his name in. They must know he'd volunteer to protect the girl, so what if Snow has rigged it? What if I have no choice but to watch the two of them walk back into the arena again? The film ends before I realize that it's played all the way through. I must have missed Effie's crow of "Ladies first," because she's already at the bowl with the girls name.
There's no question of what name will be called, but I still feel ice in my veins when I hear Effie's almost-remorseful, “Katniss Everdeen!”
The crowd is murmuring with displeasure. As Effie strides over to the other glass bowl, I ask myself, for the millionth time, which is closer to my own personal hell? Watching whatever monsters Snow has designed in for arena rip the girl to shreds in real time, or on a screen in the Capitol?
“The male tribute from District 12 is…”
Effie’s breath hitches, and truly it feels like this moment will never end.
“Peeta Mellark.”
Like it’s a thousand miles away, I hear my own voice say, “I volunteer as tribute.”
“No!” the boy grabs my arm hard, turning me towards him. He forces me to meet his gaze. One look at his crestfallen face and I know what I’ve done is unforgivable. Ridiculous really, since I’m literally giving up my own life for his.
“Kid, let go.”
“No, no, you can’t!” His voice breaks a little, and I really look at his face and wonder for a brief second, how he could think that I wouldn’t do this if given the chance? Even if it weren’t for the girl, for what I know Plutarch has planned, for my promise to Lenore Dove, in what world would I be able to let him die when I could go in his place?
“I said, let go, Peeta.” Again, it’s my own voice, but it’s wrong. Louder than I mean, but sounding so far away it’s almost distorted.
With a little effort, I shake myself free from his grasp, and walk over to take my place center stage, next to Effie. The girl’s eyes meet mine in a desperate, quiet thanks. I nod, just barely.
For one brief second, Effie looks at me with a grimace and this strange look in her eyes. It takes me a minute to place it. At first, I think she’s pleased with me for sacrificing myself for the boy. Only when her eyes deflect to the floor do I realize that that it's despair. I feel a pinch in my chest. I’ve been at best, a nuisance to her for the last 24 years, and yet still, Effie Trinket is somehow my oldest friend. Her painted face only briefly struggles to suppress whatever emotions pass over her now. Then, she composes herself. In her usual shrill voice, just a touch tighter than usual, she declares. “District 12, give it up for your tributes, Katniss Everdeen and Haymitch Abernathy.”
I stare out at the crowd as they start to lift their hands, three fingers out towards us. No, don’t. I try to silently beg them with my eyes. All you’ll do is hurt yourselves.
The peacekeepers hands are on us instantly. I instinctively go slack. Only when I hear the girls strangled screams for her family, I’m jerked back to the moment and I start to thrash.
“I get to say goodbye!” she wails.
“Ma, Sid!”
Peeta’s yelling for them to get their hands off of her now.
That was the last time I ever saw them. My poor Ma, following Plutarch’s every wretched stage direction, gasping with grief, or sorrow, or surprise, just for the hope to maybe hold me, one last time. Stop, I tell myself. Focus on the girl.
“Let her go! She gets to say goodbye!” I struggle against the peacekeepers harder still, finally knocking one back. Then, I feel the taser connect with my flesh and I’m out.
I dream I’m back in my arena. I’m crashing through the trees, frantic like a hunted deer, although completely unsure if I’m running from something or towards someone. When I reach the clearing, it’s Silka, draped in snot green. Just as she does every time, she turns to me, holding out Wellie’s severed head.
Wellie’s mouth is open in a perpetual agony, and when Silka jerks her hand out, and out of her little lifeless mouth comes a horrible, bloodcurdling scream.
And it’s not Wellie’s voice, it’s my sweetheart's.
I run for them andmyaxecollideswithSilka’sand-
I jolt awake on the train in my usual compartment. I lay there for a moment, only motivated by the thought of getting a drink. In the back of my mind, I register that the train is already moving this time. I don’t get my one last look at home. No last glance at the mountains where my love wailed for me in the rain, when I was on my last journey to the Quarter Quell. Our private goodbye.
Goodbye for real this time, my love.
I stumble out to meet the kids in the dining car. He’s holding her in his arms when I get there. She’s folded into herself like a broken bird, shaking with sobs, but she straightens when I come in. I pretend not to notice.
I make a beeline to the bar cart, pick a bottle at random, and pour a fresh glass to the brim.
When I turn, glass in hand, Peeta flashes me a look that could kill. Piercing me with his townie blue eyes, so much like Maysilee’s.
If you’ve already taken my chance to protect her, don’t you dare take yours.
With great effort, I leave the glass at the cart to take a seat with them in the lounge area, already trying to devise how I can come back for it when I get a chance. He, of course, doesn’t know that she is safe no matter what. Maybe, when they arrive safe in 13, he’ll at least be able to understand.
“So, you gonna be my ally or what, sweetheart?”
“Unless my mentor can find me a better one.” She manages, with a hint of a smile. I bark out a laugh.