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The next time Haymitch sees Finnick is, apparently, a few days after his fifteenth birthday. Once again, they meet in District Twelve. His arrival follows that of Panem's Minister of Energy Production, Machus Mayflower.
They're installing new mining technology to increase coal production, but they'll never come up with something to limit the number of people that die every year in the mines. The Capitol barely uses coal for energy anymore— there's little demand for it— yet they work District Twelve to the death. Haymitch knows that it's just to keep them all busy and weak.
Eventually, Twelve will die out, from sickness, from exhaustion, from carbon monoxide poisoning, from poor air quality, and they'll be the next Thirteen. Snow wants to see to that. Slow, painful deaths across generations. Just like his least favourite district deserves.
The whole team of Capitol citizens that pour into the district stick out like bumpy red rashes on a coal miner's aggravated skin. In their extravagant and squeaky clean outfits, it's almost like they're illuminated in comparison to the dusty, ashen complexions of District Twelve's people. They look like they're living in a different timeline.
Haymitch scratches his head before turning away.
He can hear them just fine unfortunately, as they shout out orders to random civilians on the street like they own them. The way they squeak and whine, it's obvious they're completely disgusted with the oh-so-horrid conditions of Twelve. Mayor Undersee sounds bored, not even bothering to raise his voice to be heard over the commotion as he recites instructions about where they'll be staying, et cetera.
"Don't be stingy with the goods, Ripper, come on," Haymitch groans when the woman hands him a single bottle of white liquor.
She raises an unimpressed brow at him, the motion pulling at the skin of her scarred forehead. "Maybe you should also start buying some of Sae's soup whenever you come down here. That might be the better liquid for you. I swear, you only leave the Village to buy liquor. Ever heard of food?"
"'Course I've heard of food," Haymitch responds jokingly, patting his hefty belly. Ripper doesn't find that amusing. Tough crowd. "Besides, that baker's boy brings me all the food I could possibly need."
Ripper shakes her head as she begrudgingly places three more bottles into a paper bag. "All that Victor's money and you spend it on garbage, wasting away—"
"Catch you later, darling," Haymitch says with a lazy grin. He grabs his bag and heads out of the Hob to get his regular deep breath of smog. Ripper continues to prattle on behind him, but he tunes her out and eventually can't hear her anymore.
He nods politely to anyone he passes on his way home, but the gesture is undercut by the fact that he's drinking while doing it. Another local drunk appreciates him though, waving at him from his spot sprawled out on the wet ground.
"The sun's barely finished rising, Haymitch," someone calls out, exasperated.
"Someone's gotta do the groceries, Briar," he replies after lowering the bottle and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He lets out a burp, to the disgust of a nearby woman washing her clothes outside her home.
"You don't look like the type to do groceries."
Haymitch almost drops his precious liquor in his surprise. He scrambles to save the bag, heart beating faster than a woodpecker pecks wood. So much for Victor reflexes. "What the— The hell are you doing here, kid?!"
Instead of answering, Finnick holds out a fur hat and studies it with a curious eye. "Is this real? I traded my whole pouch of coins for it and the lady selling it told me it's authentic, but... I dunno. That was a real shady place."
Haymitch slowly breathes out through his nose and finally unclenches his jaw. He snatches the hat out of the kid's hands and shoves it on top of his golden brown curls with zero amount of gentleness. Finnick huffs at the rough treatment but adjusts the hat afterwards. The flaps cover his ears and the front, his forehead.
"You like?" Finnick bats his long eyelashes at him and flashes his dimpled smile.
"Real cute," Haymitch deadpans. He glances around town, but nobody seems to be paying them any attention. If this dumb little shit somehow snuck into District Twelve, he'll be killed if the Peacekeepers find him, Victor or not. And then Haymitch too, just for fun. "I'm surprised Mayor Undersee took you to our black market during your Victory Tour."
"He didn't. I was busy wasting my time making a snowman with a drunk loser."
Haymitch pinches the boy's nose.
"Hey!"
"What are you doing here, boy?" he asks again.
Finnick sighs, looking away. "You can calm down, Mr. Abernathy. I'm here legally. The president himself signed the papers."
Haymitch's brows furrow. "And why would he do that?"
The boy raises his gaze and tilts his head at him like he's being dumb. "Why do you think?"
And then he makes an obscene gesture with his mouth and fingers.
It's Haymitch's turn to look away as he winces, the bottles of liquor in his hands suddenly heavy. So... Mayflower bought him for the duration of his business trip. He can definitely afford it with his high-ranking position among Capitol elites. Still, he must be paying so much that Snow's willing to take the risk of people finding out he prostitutes some of the Victors.
But then again, it's unlikely someone would do anything to help Finnick if they found out in the first place. Certainly not anybody in the Capitol or anyone in Twelve. It's too dangerous. A lot of their minds probably wouldn't even go to forced prostitution. Despite Finnick's incredibly young age, they'd assume he's just sleeping around for fun like they assume for the other Victors who are known for being salacious.
This also confirms his guess that Snow wasn't going to wait for Finnick to become of age. He never truly thought he would wait. A person who forces children to fight to the death wouldn't care about the morality of selling children's bodies for money.
With how popular Finnick is in the Capitol, he has even less reason to wait to sell him. Finnick's the most valuable Victor in the history of the Games. Maybe Haymitch and some of the other Victors thought Snow would wait until he's sixteen because everyone else who was sold was over that age.
But really, that's only because, until Finnick, nobody younger than sixteen has won the Games.
He sighs. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't pity me!" Finnick hisses suddenly, looking every bit like a riled up kitten as he glares at Haymitch. He shouldn't look so harmless to him. This is the same kid who murdered so many of his fellow tributes without batting an eyelash. And yet...
"Alright," Haymitch relents.
"I do my job and I do it good," Finnick continues.
"Okay."
"I'm doing great, actually. I bet you must be jealous I have people who care about me."
Haymitch snorts. Loud. Kids these days have bigger mouths than they do brains. His words don't even make any sense and he can tell Finnick's just trying to get him upset as payback for upsetting him first with his horrible, horrible sympathy. He wants to be mean like he usually is (like he never used to be)— tell him that those same people only 'care' about him because he's a pretty little boy and they're into that shit.
But the boy's green eyes are glassy with tears Haymitch doesn't think he realizes are there.
And maybe he'd stick around and comfort him if he was a better person. If he wasn't currently more concerned with getting home to drink in peace.
(Because sticking around makes him feel like he should take on every single one of this little boy's problems to free him of his pain. Because no child deserves this, but when has he ever saved a child who needed him? Not his sweetheart, Louella, not Beetee's baby boy, not innocent Lou Lou, not his precious Sid.
Nobody.)
"Alright, best of luck to you, kiddo," Haymitch says with a tipsy grin.
The boy blinks and his shoulders deflate because that was a cry for help, wasn't it? The last time they met in the Victors' apartments, Finnick was so calm and collected. He didn't seem rattled by his circumstances at all, even going so far as to make a critique about the Capitol. But the kid in front of him is defending his clients suddenly, words sharp and aiming to hurt.
It's obvious, whether or not he's doing it intentionally, that he wants Haymitch to notice. To do something. He's the adult between the two of them, after all. And Finnick is a child who'll be stuck with a Capitol Creep for the duration of a trip who knows how long will last.
Except Haymitch Abernathy isn't fit to help anybody and he sure as hell doesn't give a shit about anybody but himself.
He's knocked out good, drooling on his shirt and a mess of limbs on his couch, when the window latch clicks open suddenly. Shooting himself upright and ignoring the way his head swims, he hurls his knife at whoever's stupid enough to disturb his peace.
Finnick, half inside his house and half outside, catches it with ease before it can puncture his pretty little face. Of course it's Finnick. The boy steps into his living room, shutting the window behind him.
Haymitch squints at the ticking clock on his coffee table. "It's the middle of the night. Why are you here?"
Finnick yanks at the sleeves of his shirt, likely cold in his night clothes. He glances around the room and peers over at the staircase leading to rooms Haymitch leaves unoccupied. After a breath, he quietly walks to one of the couches and gingerly takes a seat, like he's afraid to take up space even though he broke into Haymitch's damn house.
"You mean why aren't I busy warming up Mr. Mayflower's bed?" Finnick reaches out his dainty little fingers— because the Capitol wouldn't want their most precious Victor to have the same calloused hands as the boy who dirtily fought his way to victory— to grab one of the bottles of liquor. "Can I try?"
Haymitch snatches it out of his grasp and gulps it down for himself. He scratches his scruffy jaw. "Don't put words in my mouth, and no."
The boy's bottom lip juts out into a pout. With all the logic of a child, he says, "Why not? You drink it."
"Because I'm a grown man," Haymitch responds simply, reclining back into his seat until his limbs feel loose. Sleep threatens to take over again. When has he ever been able to fall asleep in somebody's presence since his family was taken from him? That sobering thought bats away the last bits of sleep with startling precision.
"That's stupid."
"You're stupid."
Finnick tries to hide his giggle, but Haymitch doesn't bother hiding his smile.
"So. You gonna answer my question?" He speaks up after a moment of quiet. A little farther away, the kitchen fridge thrums with electricity.
The boy shrugs eventually, swinging his legs. "My daddy always says if I'm still thinking about what I did, then it's probably worth an apology."
Daddy. Fuck. Like Haymitch needs any more reminders about how young the kid is.
"Well... your daddy sounds smart," he says despite the fact that the advice makes Haymitch feel guilty. He didn't apologize for the nasty words he said to the kid when they first met, but here this boy is, looking so miserable about what he, a reasonably upset child, said.
"Yeah," Finnick mumbles, staring down at his lap. His shoulders are rounded, posture small. He doesn't apologize. Neither does Haymitch. Shimmering green eyes find his. "Do you miss your family?"
Haymitch can hear the confession behind the question. The poor kid misses his family and likely doesn't get to be with them that often because Snow has decided he's more useful in the Capitol. It's a lonely, terrifying life for a child to be living when they should be in school, stirring up trouble with friends. That's what Haymitch was doing at his age.
But Finnick's here, in District Twelve and so far away from his parents, forced to serve some old man's sexual needs because that's his new reality. Fourteen, fifteen— it's young. Young enough to still be afraid, anxious, when separated from Mom and Dad.
Haymitch silently observes how the boy looks to him with those big eyes, waiting for his response like a drunk piece of shit truly has all the answers in the world. His unstyled hair falls over his forehead and his lips have been mercilessly picked at. The hem of his shirt is crumpled, as if he's been fisting it over and over again.
He doesn't look like the Finnick Odair the Capitol projects to Panem— the flirty, cocky, confident, up and coming sex symbol who thinks he's hot shit. The perfect Victor every eligible child in the districts should strive to become.
No, sitting across from him is a little boy who still needs his daddy to hold his hand.
And he's looking at Haymitch like he can provide what he needs because children trust too easily. Because a hurt child who's desperate for comfort will take it from the first person that's a little nice to them.
Haymitch turns his head and takes a long drink. He feels less vulnerable when he lowers the bottle. "I don't have a family."
The boy's lips pull down. "But everyone has a family. Even... Even if they're dead. Doesn't mean they're gone. They're still with us and they watch over us to keep us safe."
An ugly, bitter snort escapes him. "Who the hell told you that bullshit? If they're dead, they're dead. That's it."
"I don't agree," Finnick mumbles, shaking his head. "They live on inside of us. We carry their memories and love with us. It still feels like my grandmother is with me even though she died a few years ago."
Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off his impending headache. This is why he enjoys his solitude. No annoying little shits to run their mouths about nonsense to him. "Yeah, whatever, kid, and how do you know my family is dead? They could be fast asleep right now back in town and you'd be none the wiser."
Finnick stares at the bottle in Haymitch's hands. After a brief moment of hesitation or contemplation, he speaks. "Before I got my first client, President Snow warned me about what would happen if I disobeyed or caused trouble..."
Haymitch doesn't need anything spelled out for him. He chuckles and swirls the liquor around, watching it create a small, powerless whirlwind. "Told you about what he did to my family, huh? Didn't know I was a cautionary tale for the younger ones."
At his words, a furious glare begins to form on the kid's face as his fists clench by his sides. "How can he do this to us? How can he just—"
"Hey!" Haymitch barks.
His heart hammers in his chest, the sudden panic he feels sobering him up immediately. He glances around the room for cameras and audio recorders that he knows are here but which he's never been able to find before.
Finnick jumps at the volume of his voice, just like how he flinched when Haymitch yelled at him to get him more alcohol the first time they met on that cold winter night. Fear makes him obedient, makes him stare at him with wide eyes and hunched shoulders. And unlike last time, Haymitch is too sober for the alcohol to douse the creeping remorse he feels after the moment settles.
It doesn't matter, though, because it got the job done. Kid's quiet.
"If you wanna get yourself killed, then go right ahead. But leave me out of it," he spits.
Maybe he's lying by pretending he doesn't care about what happens to the kid. (He shouldn't anyways.) Doesn't mean Finnick, with his too-expressive eyes that Haymitch can't believe he ever thought were deceiving, knows that.
But as long as he washes away those dangerous thoughts, thoughts that can become tangible and then flammable way too fast, it doesn't matter how the boy feels.
There's a timid knock on his front door a couple days later as Haymitch emerges from the bathroom. He grabs a few bills from under the coffee maker and heads over.
"What do you got for me today, little guy?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe and waiting for the squeaky-sounding sales pitch. He doesn't need one, as he's a life-time guarantee kind of customer, but it's funny to hear it nonetheless.
Otho's boy is small for an eight-year-old, especially one from the Square, where all the merchants and mildly richer folk live. A baker's child should have a lot more meat on their bones given all the bread they're surrounded by, but Peeta and his scrappy blond hair always look a breeze away from falling over.
He stands on Haymitch's porch, holding out a box full of pastries and a bag full of loaves of bread. His nose is red and he sniffles like he's got a cold, but there's a visible bruise on his cheek that explains more than needed. Haymitch never thought Otho Mellark would grow up to become the kind of coward who sits back and lets their deranged wife hurt their kids.
Guess he's not the only one full of disappointing surprises.
"Uhm... apple tarts, blueberry crumble, a few slices of pound cake"— Haymitch's favourite, yum— "and we made a new type of bread with citrus in it?"
He opens his mouth to respond, happily, when he's interrupted.
"Peeta! Those weren't your lines!" Finnick complains from behind a damn tree, peeking his head out from behind the trunk. He's also eating a tart and one glance into the box Peeta holds reveals that the brat stole from Haymitch's stash.
"Oh, right... Sorry," Peeta whispers at him. Then, he clears his throat and looks up at Haymitch expectantly.
With a long, incredibly suffering sigh, Haymitch monotonously repeats, "What do you got for me today, little guy?"
"Just a few extra pounds for your belly."
Haymitch gives an absolutely delighted-looking Finnick a dry stare.
It's like no matter what he does, no matter what he says, the kid just won't take the hint that Haymitch isn't the person he thinks he is and stay away.
"You're getting more of it on your face than in your mouth, silly," Finnick says to Peeta, smiling warmly. He plucks a tissue out of the holder and gently wipes the younger boy's face, taking care not to agitate the bruise on his cheek.
Haymitch hears Peeta giggle for the first time, finally behaving in a way other than constantly nervous. There are crumbs littering his entire kitchen table somehow and half of the box of sweets he paid for are gone. Haymitch dips a cookie in his glass of milk and wonders how the hell this is happening right now.
At least the kid's making lunch. He's at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches using Peeta's bread, goat cheese, and some kind of meat that he apparently stole from under Mayflower's nose during dinner last night. With oil Haymitch didn't know he had, he also fries sliced wedges of katniss root.
"You training to be a housewife?" he asks with an amused smirk.
Finnick's been practically mothering the boy since they came inside to eat (his food, if that wasn't clear enough). It's quite a comical sight to see a little boy taking care of an even littler boy like he's so much older and more wiser than the younger. The kid's a damn good actor, Haymitch will give him that.
He's honestly struggling to reconcile the boy in front of him with the flashy Victor on television who has the Capitol eating from his hand.
"Why, you interested?" Finnick flirts, biting his lip and gazing at him from underneath his curled lashes. It's a look that drives the Capitol crazy. And it's a look that makes Haymitch deeply uncomfortable.
"Not at all," Haymitch snorts. "How do you know so much about cooking?"
Finnick shrugs as he returns to the stove, lowering the heat for the potato to simmer. "I liked to keep busy, so when I wasn't helping the fishers or training at the academy, I was cooking with my mom. She got sick a few years ago and since my older brothers and dad couldn't take time off work, I took care of the house. At the time, I was too young to work the boats so I just helped out by making sure my family was fed."
"That's honourable," Haymitch says, inclining his head.
The kid hides his blushing cheeks.
A short while later, lunch is served and it's so good that Haymitch swears he'll never skip mealtime again.
Finnick's been in District Twelve for six days now and he usually comes over while the sun is still out because it means Mayflower is working. Nobody in Twelve knows he's actually Finnick Odair, Victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games, since he wears a hood that covers most of his face when he's out and about. Haymitch isn't sure if he chooses to hide himself or if Snow or Mayflower make him.
The weather's getting warmer but the light chill persists, so when Finnick is with him, he always wears the fur hat he bought from the Hob. Predictably, he's wearing it today after forcing Haymitch out of the house to take him on an informal tour of the woods.
The very woods he hasn't been in since Lenore Dove's death.
He's felt off since the moment he ducked under the fence and a leaf crunched beneath his boot. The feeling progressively gets worse because he realizes he keeps letting this kid into his life instead of forcing him to get lost. Having people to care about does more harm than good, but he just can't fucking shake this one.
If anyone else asked him to go out into the woods, he would've closed the door in their face and then gone right back to bed. If he had the energy, he might've thrown them off his front steps.
But with Finnick, something is different and he hates that it's different.
He hasn't left the house this much since before his Games. His flask of liquor, tucked into the inside of his jacket, helps keep him warm. It feels so normal, like taking an afternoon stroll and enjoying the weather is what he usually does. That can't be further from the truth.
Finnick walks ahead of him, traversing the obstacle-ridden forest floor with the expertise of the same Victor who was instantly able to adapt to an environment so different from his own. He carries a thin branch, twirling it around like he would his trident. It was mesmerizing to watch when it was actually his trident and it's mesmerizing to watch even when it's just an old stick.
Haymitch wasn't able to handle his own weapon this well during his Games. He was comfortable carrying it due to his stature, but they didn't share a mind in the way Finnick seemed to with his. Probably because Haymitch wasn't training to kill other kids straight out of the womb.
"Alright, you've had your tour. We're heading back," he says, coming to a stop.
Finnick turns around, digging his stick in the wet soil. "No, I didn't. I can still see the fence from here and this is the first time you've spoken to me since we've been out here."
Haymitch sighs, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He can physically feel his eye bags. "It's a good thing that we can still see the fence. Go too far and we won't be able to hurry back if a Peacekeeper gets close."
The kid rolls his eyes. "Like Twelve's lazy Peacekeepers could do any real damage to me. All they do is sit around and eat and drink."
"Hey. Tread lightly."
"You know, it's interesting. The other districts act like One, Two, and Four have it easy because we're apparently the Capitol favourites, but I noticed on my Victory Tour that nobody has as much security as the first four districts. I mean, back home, you wouldn't even be able to find a single alley without at least one Peacekeeper stationed at the entrance."
Haymitch noticed that on his Tour too. He might hate the Careers, but they're all Snow's property at the end of the day. Twelve is utterly useless, which is why nobody cares about what happens here. The Peacekeepers spend more of their time with prostitutes and at the local bar than maintaining order.
Career districts, on the other hand, are valuable because they can still provide what the Capitol needs. But Haymitch thinks the Capitol might value them more for the entertainment they can provide than the actual goods. The Careers make the Games interesting because they're trained to kill. They're groomed to become bloodthirsty killers who taunt and mock their prey.
They're pretty and haughty and everything the Capitol adores.
Gotta keep that in check, right?
"You guys don't even have a whipping pole," Finnick says in disbelief.
"Yeah, that old thing's rusting away somewhere," Haymitch responds.
The kid shakes his head and starts to walk again. Haymitch glances back at the fence before eventually following.
"My older brother got ten lashes for taking home some of the fish he caught instead of giving it over to the Peacekeepers," Finnick mumbles, knuckles turning white as he grips the stick harder. His shoulders are tense. "It was three fish and they hurt him so bad that he couldn't get out of bed for a month."
Haymitch doesn't say anything. They aren't in his house in the Victors' Village. There are no cameras or mics hidden in the forest, so he lets the kid vent out his grievances.
It's silent between them after a while. For the second time, he wonders what Plutarch Heavensbee would think of this boy, with his silent rage and intellect, hidden behind his pretty face and perfect charm— a cunning pair that enamours every Capitol citizen while vexing the districts.
"Hey, do you hear that?" Finnick gasps, freezing in his tracks.
"What?"
"Water! It's water!" And then he's off to who the hell knows where.
Haymitch pulls out his flask and takes a long drink.
They've been at the lake for less than an hour and the kid's already done more laps than Haymitch can count. He's freezing just looking at him, but he can't deny that Finnick's truly in his element in the water. He swims like he's liquid personified, strokes fluid and graceful, barely causing a ripple.
Sometimes, he goes underwater for so long that Haymitch starts to worry, but then he'll surface again and be not even slightly out of breath. He'll admit he's a little jealous because maybe if he knew how to swim, he wouldn't feel like he was drowning every day. He licks his dry lips and tightens his hold on his flask.
"I can't believe you guys have a lake this big and you're not even allowed to access it!" Finnick shouts to the sky, floating on his back.
"The Capitol has to remind us of their power somehow," Haymitch answers. The large rock he sits on is damp from the wet air surrounding the lake. He should've brought a book to keep himself entertained.
No, actually. He shouldn't need to be entertained. He shouldn't be all the way out here with this kid in the first place.
With that resolute thought, he moves to get up but is stopped when the boy interrupts.
"Care to join me, Mr. Abernathy?"
There it is again— those purred words that sound too mature to be said by a child whose voice is only just starting to drop. He glances over to the sight of Finnick's golden brown hair wetly curled around his flushed face and neck. Only the boy's head and shoulders are visible, the rest of him underwater.
He's gazing up at Haymitch with practiced desire, with what the Capitol would probably appreciate as a sultry smile on his lips and a tantalizing tilt to his head.
"Can't swim," Haymitch responds flatly.
Finnick slowly rises from the water until he can rest his forearms and chest on the shore in front of Haymitch. Drops of water roll down his bronze skin. During this entire process, he maintains eye contact. Haymitch can think of a number of people who would switch places with him in a heartbeat and it makes him sicker than any amount of white liquor can.
"Oh, that's okay. I can teach you. And if you drown... Well, I know mouth-to-mouth." The tips of his fingers dance up Haymitch's calf.
He moves his leg out of the way, his skin itching under his pants. "Is this why you've been following me around— why you keep seeking me out? You wanna have sex?"
Finnick looks surprised, clearly taken aback by Haymitch's straightforwardness. He gathers himself quickly, smirking like he was never affected. "Don't you?" he asks.
"No." His voice is hard, impenetrable. "I'm not a demented bastard who gets off on fucking children."
The boy's smile falters as he sinks into the water a little. "I'm hardly a child. I've had more sex than most adults."
"You are a child," Haymitch says. The steel of his flask threatens to bend under his grip. "After how I reacted when Mags thought we had sex, you still think I somehow want you?"
"Everybody wants me."
Finnick's glaring now, and Haymitch knows it's not because he feels insulted. He's expecting Haymitch to eventually take an interest in him because almost every other adult in his life in the past year has. What's his proof that a drunk, middle-aged man doesn't want him like every other drunk, middle-aged man does?
"Listen," Haymitch begins. "I know you miss your father, but I'm not him and I never will be."
The boy blushes an angry red. Angry, humiliated— maybe hurt. He wishes they didn't have to do this with the kid half-naked, but he can't let this go on any longer.
"I get it, alright? You think I can give you something or be a safe person, but the truth is, I can't and I'm not. I'm not fit to be anybody's parent and I sure as hell don't want to be. You don't wanna get tangled up in my mess of a life, kid. You'll only get hurt."
Like Lenore Dove. Her uncles.
Burdock. Maysilee.
"I don't— I'm not—" Finnick stammers, avoiding eye contact. "I just wanna be friends..."
Haymitch's heart clenches painfully at those mumbled words. He's too sober for this. His liquor is in his hands, so why is he sober?
"No, you want someone to fill in for your daddy," he says, so softly he doesn't recognize his own voice. "And I think you know I can't be that someone, which is why you came onto me earlier. For some reason, you think I'm a good person. You reckoned that if I can't give you normal affection, then you can safely get it from me with sex."
"...So what?" Finnick's shaking voice is just barely heard over the sound of rippling water.
"So nothing, kid. You can't 'safely' get affection from me with sex because I'm an adult and you're a child. There is no world where I will ever be okay with that kind of arrangement," Haymitch insists.
Neither of them speak for a while. Everything feels so final.
"I think it's best you don't come see me anymore. I heard from the miners that the new installation's almost completed. Mayflower should be headed back in a few days." Haymitch doesn't have enough saliva in his mouth to swallow. He gets up without looking at the kid. "If you're mentoring for this year's Games, I'll see you in the Capitol."
He doesn't see Finnick in Victors' Village after that. Peeta comes by one morning though, which confuses him because he buys from the Mellarks every two weeks and the little one came by six days ago.
"What's this?" he asks, taking the outstretched paper bag. Inside are decorated cookies, courtesy of Peeta's talented young hands.
"I made them," the baker's boy responds, shrugging his little shoulders. There's a bruise around his right eye this time.
"Why, trying to make some extra money on the side?" He's joking but he is curious.
Peeta shakes his head of blond hair. "I just thought you needed them."
Haymitch narrows his eyes at the kid suspiciously. He's needed cookies many times before but this has never happened until today.
"I made some for Finnick too. He came to the bakery in the morning."
Ah. So a kid noticed his problems and took it upon himself to make him feel better. Just like another kid he knows.
"Well, thanks. How much do I owe you?" Haymitch asks, ready to end the conversation.
Peeta doesn't take the hint, or maybe he hears it but decides to roll over it. Surprising for the jumpy little boy. "Did you and Finnick have a fight, Mr. Haymitch?"
Haymitch sighs, resisting the urge to hit his head against the doorframe. "Didn't your mama teach you to mind your own damn business?"
The kid flinches and he immediately feels guilty. Fuck, children only make his life more complicated. He opens his mouth to apologize or say whatever it'll take to get the heartbreaking frown off that little face, but Peeta doesn't exactly give him a chance.
"Uhm, it's free. I guess I'll see you later, Mr. Haymitch."
For the first time ever, the Mellark cookies don't taste good and he's almost one hundred percent sure it has nothing to do with the family. Everything tastes bad these days.
"Already got through all these bottles?" Ripper says wryly as she takes the empty ones from him to refill.
"You know me," he says, smirking. It must look weak if the look she gives him says anything. He's not surprised she's concerned, considering he usually takes longer than a week to finish four tall bottles of white liquor. Thankfully, though, she doesn't lecture him this time.
The Hob is as crowded as it usually is and the small bar across the street is just as bad. He can see the slick white uniforms of the Peacekeepers in there, knocking back glass after glass. Old Cray's undoubtably in there too, with a woman on his arm who's only willing because he's paying her to be.
When he was younger, when the deaths of his loved ones were still fresh, he spent most of his time getting drunk in there. Never took a woman even though they flocked to him— whether that was because of his Victor status or the newfound money in his possession, he still doesn't know. Either way, til he dies, Lenore Dove will be the only woman in his life.
The bar provided a good distraction for a few years, allowing him to become numb. But he eventually got too rowdy, picking drunken fights and beating the shit out of other men at the slightest provocations. Soon enough, his reputation for being an alcoholic piece of shit overtook his reputation as Victor of the second Quarter Quell— as Twelve's only living Victor.
Gradually, he took his drinking to his empty house in the Village, and now, he's basically only seen during Reaping Days. It's a damn good life.
Haymitch snorts.
In Greasy Sae's corner of the Hob, he spots a few coal miners drinking her specialty. He turns back to Ripper, watching as she refills his second bottle.
"Mayflower still in town?" he asks after clearing his throat. A regular conversation starter.
"Since when do you have shifty eyes?" Ripper looks amused at the way he starts glancing around.
Haymitch huffs, rubbing a hand over his scruff. "Just answer the damn question, darling."
Liquor pours into the bottle. He should start making his own alcohol again. Would definitely save him some money and a shit ton of energy that's spent whenever he's in town. Hattie would be proud.
"Yeah, he's still here. Pretty sure he leaves tomorrow night. Ask Undersee if you want to know more," she responds, handing him his bottles.
"Nah," Haymitch says distractedly. Tomorrow. "Good riddance, right?"
Ripper laughs with him.
Haymitch feels like shit no matter what he drinks and it's really starting to piss him off. It's not like he said anything wrong to the kid, so why does he feel this way? In fact, he'd say he did everything right for once.
Set boundaries, let him down easy, got him out of his life so he'd be safe away from him...
Haymitch has never had any problems kicking people out of his life before. How the hell does a child he didn't think he'd ever like manage to have this strong of a hold on him?
Groaning, he throws his arm over his eyes to try and go to sleep. He's been at it for hours. The alcohol stopped helping a while ago, so now it's just sitting around in his living room collecting dust. If there's one thing in his mostly untouched house that has never collected dust, it's his alcohol. What's happening to him?
As if on cue, to make his night absolutely worse, someone starts pounding on his front door. Instinctively, he clutches his knife, but he doesn't make a move otherwise, deadweight on his couch.
"Go away," he mumbles under his breath.
The knocking gets louder.
"Get off my property!" he shouts.
And still, the knocking doesn't cease.
He swears, getting off the couch and stomping over to the front door. He's sober and he's exhausted— not a great combination. "Are you fucking kidding me? What do you want?"
He rips open the door and... immediately freezes.
The familiar sight of Finnick on his front steps greets him, soaked from head to toe under the pouring rain. Unfamiliar is the lack of an impish smile. He's wearing next to nothing and his feet are bare, dirtied from his walk over. What makes Haymitch's breath catch though is the angry, red ring of bruises around his neck and his busted lip.
The kid doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at him. He's just standing there in the dark, shaking with unseeing eyes.
Haymitch swallows. "Oh, sweetheart."
Finnick's breath stutters. His foot takes a step forward, almost unconsciously. He launches himself into Haymitch's chest.
With a reflex he didn't know he still had, his arms wrap around the boy's small, trembling body. His own hand shakes as he raises it to cradle the back of his head.
Finnick begins to cry, loud and pained, chest and shoulders heaving. His fingers grasp at him desperately as he buries his face in his shirt, wailing like a wounded fawn. Haymitch feels his own eyes water. It's like Sid is in his arms again and the grief is so sudden that he has to gasp to force air inside his lungs.
The guilt hits him next— disgust at himself, because this abused kid is crying in his arms, seeking his comfort, but all Haymitch can think of is his brother. His darling little Sid who used to fit in his arms just like this. Against his will, Haymitch has been waiting for Finnick's return for days, even though he was the one to chase him off, but now that he has him, he's thinking of Sid?
Not again. Not again— why is he seeing Sid in Finnick? Why are they blurring together? It's not fair.
This is why he pushed Finnick away.
This is why—
Haymitch lifts the boy into his arms. "It's okay. You're okay."
"You're okay," he murmurs. "I promise."
"I had a nightmare, Hayhay," Sid sobs, hiding his face in his shoulder. "It felt so real."
"I know, buddy, but I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you." He kisses his hair, breathing in the scent of primrose blossoms, handpicked by Lenore Dove.
Finnick wraps his arms around his shoulders, sobbing into his neck.
He smells like the Capitol.