Archive of Our Own

It's Finnick Odair's sixteenth birthday and the Capitol is making sure everyone knows it. They pull out all the stops for something they've never done for any other Victor before and not a single one of them are surprised. 

This is the same group of eccentric freaks who had an official countdown clock set up the exact second he turned fifteen. Sixteen is, after all, the legal age in Panem. 

Which means Finnick Odair is finally on the market. Snow has welcomed a whole new pool of clients— people who want to pretend like they aren't just as perverted and sick in the head as the clients who willingly bought an underage child. They're the same though. They're all still buying a child, underage or not. 

Moral superiority is another one of many colours Capitol citizens can't make work.

The day started with an interview with Caesar Flickerman. For once, Haymitch actually bothered to tune in to the event since the last time he saw Finnick was during the Games, when he mentored the Four tributes for the first time. Mags retired after his own game, so he mentored with a man who won a few years after Haymitch. 

The male tribute from Four was one of the last two standing and it definitely had nothing to do with the seventeen-year-old's skills. Finnick singlehandedly got his tributes a bunch of sponsors, both by simply existing and by sleeping with them. Haymitch didn't like or approve of that method at all, but he couldn't exactly interfere.

He told the kid to his face that he wasn't his father, that he couldn't give him what he needed. What right, then, would he have to control who he sleeps with or how he does his job as a mentor? 

Well, for one, he was having sex with adults while underage and Snow wasn't forcing him to, his brain unhelpfully defends. It actually would've been well within your rights to make the kid stop before he starts to normalize this shit in his head.

Haymitch groans and loosens his tie. He promptly ignores the shrill voices of his stylists telling him to stop fidgeting and look presentable for once. Anyways, Finnick's interview with Flickerman was a total hoot. He didn't know it was possible, but the kid's stylists somehow managed to dress him even more provocatively than they did during his Tribute interview. 

Becoming legal really took away any and all reservations they might've had about dressing the kid inappropriately. He's half-naked right now, only a few feet away, being the centre of attention at his extravagant birthday ball.

"Just because it's his birthday doesn't mean they gotta put him in his birthday suit," Chaff mutters from his side, tall glass of champagne in his hand.  

Haymitch snorts because it's the most normal response he can manage. 

Finnick's youth gives him a feminine kind of beauty, with his slim face, big eyes, and small mouth. His curls make him appear even softer, framing his gentle features. His stylists capitalize on this tonight by dressing him in a flowing lace fabric. It's not exactly a dress, but there's a wide v-slit that starts from his shoulders and narrows down to his pelvis. 

There isn't really a point to him even wearing the lace when it's so sheer that they can almost see his bare body behind it.

The Capitol guests are fawning over him so badly that Haymitch is sure they can each fill up an entire bucket with their drool. Subtlety clearly isn't their strong suit, not when they've been reacting to him like this since the moment he rode out on his chariot during the opening ceremony of the sixty-fifth Games. 

The kid's tugged at from every angle, touched and prodded like a doll. He's never alone, which means he never stops entertaining. Like he's said before, Finnick is good at his job. Haymitch just... He hasn't physically seen him in action before, not even when he came with a client to Twelve. It's always been through the screen. This is a different type of disturbing that he can't make himself ignorant to by simply switching off the power. 

The young boy prancing around from guest to guest, smiling that pretty little dimpled grin and leaning into the molesting touches of adults older than his parents like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, is Finnick Odair, the Capitol's Darling, in the flesh.

His giggles are a soft chime and he indiscriminately gives away kisses as if a single one isn't worth a fortune to Snow. He dances when he's asked to dance. He leans his head back when an old man wants to breathe him in. He drinks and he eats and he sits on laps, and he's such an incredible actor that if Haymitch didn't know Finnick personally, he might've fallen for his performance like everyone else already has. 

Case in point:

"Look at him," Crank, a District Eight Victor who won almost a decade before Haymitch, sneers as he wanders over to them. His name suggests a lot about him. "He loves this shit. No shame at all."

Haymitch exchanges a glance with Chaff, taking a sip of his wine. Crank won during a time when Snow wasn't selling any Victors yet. He's aware of the ring now, but he seems to prefer telling himself that the ones who are prostituted are doing it of their own accord. In his eyes, Victors like Cashmere, Silas, and Finnick are just sex fiends. 

"Betraying his own blood to play doggie for the Capitol," Crank scoffs. At least he has the sense to speak quietly. It doesn't really matter though because Snow knows nobody would rebel with a brutish man like Crank. His only daughter died for his loose tongue a few years ago. Well, Haymitch can't exactly judge. "His parents must be disappointed, seeing him whore around like this for the enemy."

"Watch it," Haymitch bites before he realizes he's opened his mouth. 

Chaff looks at him like he's lost his mind. He actually lost it many years ago, thanks for the concern. 

He's not one to get involved with Victors— really, the only one he consistently talks to is Chaff and that's only because they're drinking buddies. But something in him flares up when he hears the way Crank talks about Finnick like he's doing this voluntarily. 

Crank didn't see that same boy from across the room break down in tears on his front doorstep and he sure as hell didn't hold him tight in his arms because a Capitol freak forced him to call him 'daddy'. He wasn't the one who ran a shivering boy a hot bath because he'd been soaked to the bone from running all the way to his house in the pouring rain after his rapist fell asleep. 

Crank didn't sit wide awake by his own bed while a restless little boy slept in it, refusing to let go of his hand. 

Crank doesn't know anything about Finnick Odair and Haymitch doesn't understand why that's bothering him so much. He gulps down the rest of his wine in one go. 

"What, he's sleeping with you too?" the man asks, as if what's going on around them is completely normal and the prospect of a thirty-three-year-old Haymitch sleeping with a sixteen-year-old isn't absolutely disgusting.

His foot rapidly taps against the polished floor. He needs more drinks. Maybe something to eat.

At his lack of response, Crank scoffs and wanders off to bother someone else. He wonders when the last time Crank came to the Capitol was. He no longer mentors and he's as much of an alcoholic as Haymitch is, so he's mostly kept out of sight. Tonight is probably his first time back at the Capitol in a while and it must irritate him that much more that the only reason he's here is for another Victor's sixteenth birthday. 

Snow made it a requirement for every living and able Victor to attend, mostly to show Panem how happy the Victors are together— to keep up the facade and push more of the propaganda that winning the Hunger Games should be what every District child strives to achieve. Haymitch thinks it's also to mess with the other Victors. To show them that his power knows no ends. 

They're helpless against him— helpless to watch as yet another child is forced to spread their legs.

"What was that about?" Chaff asks, raising a brow at him and bringing him back to the present. 

Haymitch shrugs, snatching a couple of glasses off the tray an avox holds as they walk by. Laughter fills a corner of the room and he glances up to see Finnick sucking chocolate off a man's fingers while another drips two lines down his chest to see which of the guests can lick it off faster.

Chaff, probably noticing his clenched jaw, follows his line of sight and grimaces. They both look away. For as long as they've known each other, they've never had to fill their silences when their only priorities were filling their glasses. This time, however, Chaff speaks up.

"You've changed in the past year. You seem more... alive."

"Gee, thanks."

Chaff laughs, knocking his shoulder with his own. Haymitch smiles at him. Maybe in another universe, they're real friends— not just two angry, depressed alcoholics who enable each other's shitty behaviour instead of talking about it. 

"I'm serious, man. It's the kid, isn't it? He brings something out of you, something soft," he continues. "I honestly didn't know you two knew each other so familiarly, but then I saw the way you behaved with him when he was a mentor."

Haymitch shakes his head, pushing his hair back to hide his restless hands. "It's not like that. He's just a good kid. I... I barely know him. Figured I owe it to Mags to be nice to him, you know?"

"I mean, sure, man, but..." Chaff takes a long sip, turning his attention to the party. "Last time I saw you like this was when you were sixteen yourself. Kid has the same starry-eyed look on his face that all those other kids in your Games had when they looked at you.

"And you have that same soft, almost protective, look from before. It's nice to see you again, Haymitch."

Out of spite, over the next hour, Haymitch finishes four more glasses of wine and all Chaff does is smirk at him knowingly. Even though there's nothing to know. Fuck. 

"You're not nearly as drunk as I expected you to be. You do know this shit's free, right?" Gloss joins them next, annoying but nowhere near as bad as Crank. He grabs an entire tray of drinks from an avox and places it on their table. 

"Thank you," Haymitch says loudly, looking at Chaff with an exaggerated expression that says 'see?' He's still got it. He's still useless, asshole, uncaring Haymitch Abernathy. There is zero resemblance between him and the sixteen-year-old from the arena. One's alive and the other kicked the bucket seventeen years ago. 

"How fucked up is it that I'm a little bit glad Finnick won his game? He's so popular that my sister and I have been mostly left alone now." Gloss laughs, visibly drunk. His face is flushed from the alcohol and his movements are droopy. Not everyone can handle their liquor as well as Haymitch and Chaff can. 

Chaff reaches out to pat the kid on his back. He leans in. "Very."

Gloss guffaws and the three of them spend a good minute cracking up. 

Nothing's funny and they don't actually judge the District One Victor for his words, but it's been a long day— a long however many years they've all been Victors. Haymitch doubts he's the only prostituted Victor to feel this way. It must be relieving to finally catch a break, but that relief is probably overshadowed by guilt because the only reason they're less booked is that a child is getting more booked. 

Gloss groans quietly, pressing his fingers into his face until blood pools under the surface. "This is so messed up."

"Sure is," Haymitch mutters. "You and Cash doing alright?"

The kid shrugs his broad shoulders and seeks out his sister in the crowd. She's with a few of the other Career Victors, looking better than she did half a year ago when she had a pregnancy scare. It would've been a client's baby had she kept it and Haymitch remembers she definitely did not want to keep it. 

Unfortunately, they aren't allowed to do body modifications without Snow's signed permission, so she couldn't go ahead and abort it on her own. Fortunately, Snow allowed her to get rid of it anyways because her value would've gone down if she remained pregnant. A baby with both District and Capitol blood also wouldn't have been a good outcome. 

This is how these kids are viewed. Cashmere got pregnant by her rapist and all Snow cared about was how that would affect her monetary value. 

"I've never seen a Victor create this much stir," Gloss says, sitting back in his chair. "Youngest Victor in the history of the Games and he was given the most expensive gift in the arena. Damn... I guess I can't say I don't get it though."

Haymitch doesn't think he's glared at anyone faster and he knows right then that he's failed to prove Chaff wrong.

"Chill out, man!" Gloss raises his hands placatingly, eyes wide despite the drunk smile on his face. "I'm just saying. He's real pretty. Yeah, it's fucked up, but it's no wonder he won."

"He made it out with skill too," Haymitch, for some odd reason, defends. Just two years ago, he was thinking the same as Gloss, crediting Finnick's victory to his looks. "We all saw how good he was even before he was gifted the trident. He would've won regardless. The trident just let him win dramatically."

Chaff's staring at him over the rim of his glass and Haymitch is too much of a coward to meet his gaze. 

"Yeah, I guess," Gloss relents, shrugging again. 

Before things can get awkward, the boy of the hour shows up. 

"Finally got away, did you?" Haymitch asks, glancing around the party to see guests still looking at him longingly. For the most part though, they're doing their own things, mingling with one another. He's pretty sure he can see Effie's humungous wig somewhere in the distance. 

"Yup," Finnick sings, his perfectly crafted persona sticking to him like the mysterious goop in last year's arena. 

He stands behind Haymitch and presses his hands into his shoulders, massaging lightly. He did this for him every time he himself got anxious during the last Games, saying he used to do it for his parents and brothers whenever they got home from a rough day of work. Haymitch doesn't really understand the correlation, but maybe reminding himself of his family helps him deal with his inner turmoil.

Regardless, his knotted muscles not once complained.

Now, though, he feels Chaff's eyes on him again and he tenses up. Patting Finnick's hand is enough for the kid to catch a hint and back off.

"Hey, Chaff," Finnick greets with a kind smile, genuine. He leans down and presses a kiss to the man's cheek, like he always does with Mags and Seeder. The boy Haymitch knows shines through a little in that moment. 

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," Chaff says, as softly as he usually does when he's talking to the younger tributes and Victors. 

Haymitch, feeling warmer than he's been all night, is about to pull out a chair for Finnick to sit down and finally join them... when the kid greets Gloss next.

"Hi, Gloss," he says, way too sweetly. He's biting his lip, cheeks pink and head lowered.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

"Finnick," Gloss greets back, smirking.

Chaff kicks his leg under the table and Haymitch manages to fix his face for one second before he's right back to glaring. 

"I'm sixteen now," Finnick continues bashfully— Bashfully! Who the hell is this kid?— looking at One's Victor from underneath his lashes.

"That you are," Gloss says, crossing his arms over his chest. Finnick's eyes trace over the muscles hiding behind his suit. 

Haymitch buries his face in his hands. Chaff grips his shoulder but he can hear the barely concealed laughter. It's fine. It's nothing serious. Finnick just has a puppy crush on an older boy— a twenty-two-year-old— who happens to be, in the kid's pubescent, hormonal mind, super hot. 

Finnick doesn't say any more and as much as this whole interaction has pained him, it's also a little endearing how much like a kid he's finally being. This is what kids do. They develop crushes on people older than them, who look cooler and stronger than them. They get shy around that special someone and probably start planning their fairytale wedding together or some shit.

The same kid who has to act like a vixen in front of people he's forced to please should get the chance to just be shy and awkward. Like every sixteen-year-old is.

Gloss holds out a hand to Finnick, who slowly takes it. He pulls him in a little closer. "Tell you what, give it a few more years and I'll take you out on that date."

Haymitch wants to be mad, but Gloss is speaking real softly to Finnick and not a single trace of his camera-ready Career snobbiness can be found. He's being authentic with the kid, just as he deserves, as he lets him down gently.

"Promise?" Finnick narrows his eyes.

Gloss chuckles, raising his hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. "Promise."

Finnick blushes and looks away.

Never mind. Haymitch is mad. He's glaring again.

After Finnick is pulled back to the party a few minutes later, Gloss turns to Haymitch once more, grinning. "Dude, you can relax. I'm not gonna take your kid and sneak off into the night with him or something."

It takes a moment for the words to register and when they finally do, Haymitch glowers. 

"The hell are you—" Heads turn towards them, startled by his volume. He clears his throat, leaning in. "The hell are you talking about?"

Gloss looks at Chaff, amused. "Oh, he doesn't know?"

Chaff shakes his head, smirking. "Nope."

Haymitch gets up with a grunt and doesn't spare the assholes another glance. "I'm finding better drinks, preferably something much stronger."

He doesn't find better drinks but he does find Mags alone outside the banquet hall, tucked away from all the commotion. He hasn't seen her in over a year and her appearance has changed drastically. She looks much older now, hair thinning and posture slumped. The wrinkles in her skin drag her face down. 

Because Victors aren't given privacy, all of Panem was told almost a year ago that Mags Flanagan, Victor of the eleventh Hunger Games, suffered a major stroke. Finnick told him that she can no longer speak properly, that her joints are so weak she trembles every second of the day. Her wife and granddaughter do most things for her now.

It's hard to see her like this. He met Mags when she was younger and more full of life— when she was still an old woman but somehow swam laps every morning. Now, it takes great effort for her to lift her head to smile at him when he approaches. He swallows thickly.

"Hey, Mags," he says softly, kissing her cheek before sitting down beside her. 

Her limbs twitch jaggedly as she shifts to face him, hand quivering as she pats his knee in greeting. 

"How are you doing?" he asks, picking up her hand to hold it between both of his.

She lifts her free hand to touch her chest and nods slowly, smiling. 

"Kid's sixteen," he starts, chuckling. "He's getting up there, huh? Though I have to say, this party's a little over the top."

Mags squeezes his hand and points at him, gentle eyes curious. 

"Me? I'm good," he answers. Unconsciously, he ducks his head into the grandiose room and finds Finnick talking to one of the other Victors. He lets out a breath. "Yeah, I'm good."

When he turns back to Mags, her gaze softens even more and he's not sure what she just saw. She speaks then, speech slurred and slow but with such conviction he's taken aback. "I'm sorry, Haymitch."

He blinks at her, brows furrowed. "For what, Mags?"

It's a little difficult to understand her, but he grasps that she's apologizing for what happened during Finnick's Victory Tour. That was the last night they had a proper conversation before her stroke and she'd basically accused him of taking advantage of the boy. 

He shakes his head immediately, squeezing her shaking hand. "No, Mags, don't. You don't have to apologize for that. I get it. If I'd been in your position—"

Mags stops him, looking away for a moment. "You care about him."

It grows quiet between them as Haymitch struggles to find a response. His mouth parts, lips working soundlessly. 

Why do people keep implying something about him that isn't true? Chaff, Gloss, and now, Mags? He cares about the kid, sure, he cares about any kid. But he can't care about Finnick in the way they keep suggesting he already does. It just— It won't work out. It never does. Doesn't Mags love Finnick like he's one of her own children? So why is she pushing the damn kid closer to him instead of yelling at him to run for the hills?

Haymitch isn't safe. Everything about him is wrong and cursed and infectious.

A good boy like Finnick shouldn't even be near the withering heart of a failure like Haymitch Abernathy. 

"I don't want this life for him," Mags rasps. 

Her saddened, pained gaze peers into the room and focuses on the creeping fingers of a Capitol Elite, reaching between Finnick's thighs. He's no longer with the other Victors. Nearby guests coo at him when he hides his face in the man's chest, like he's just shy and not uncomfortable. 

"I know," Haymitch whispers, lowering his gaze.

"...Should hate me. I was the one... who did everything I could to make sure he won," she continues. Her voice trembles, eyes wet. "Instead, he adores me... I don't deserve that."

Haymitch feels all of sixteen-years-old again, unable to see the kind woman before him this upset. Still, he hears the truth in her words. He yearns for death every single day of his life, wishes he never made it out of that arena— that he died with Lou Lou and Ampert and Maysilee. If he'd died like he was supposed to, his mother and brother would be alive instead.

They wouldn't have burned to death, his mother wrapped around sweet, tiny Sid. 

Lenore Dove would still be breathing, alive to sing and cause trouble and eat all the candies her heart desired. She could've made a difference and changed Panem for the better, unlike Haymitch.

But no. He's the one who survived. And he can't let himself die because he promised his darling that he'd live. 

If he could take it all back, he would've never made her that promise. He wouldn't have cared about staying alive simply to spite Snow. No, he would've swallowed a gumdrop and died right beside her. 

He doesn't tell Mags any of this because there's a part of him that thinks Finnick would be better off dead, safe from his many, many abusers and finally allowed the innocence he's been continuously denied. Instead, he squeezes her hand again.

"I don't want to leave this earth until I know he's safe," she says as strongly as her weak tongue will let her. 

"Mags..," Haymitch begins warily. 

"You have to try again," she begs, putting her other hand on top of his. 

He shakes his head and tries to pull away. The rebellion plan failed seventeen years ago and too many innocent people died or got hurt because of it. Because of him. It ruined his fucking life. There's no way he's going down that hole again. 

"Haymitch, he needs you," Mags implores, muscles too worn for her to grab his fingers. Her green eyes shine brightly against the strobes of light reflecting on her face, however, reminiscent of the woman she used to be. The same woman who pretended like she had no idea about the rebellion while being an active player and helping him survive the arena.

He continues to shake his head but she's persistent, lifting her hand to his cheek. The limb trembles like the rest of her.

"You need him."

"Mags, don't do this to me." Haymitch's voice cracks.

"Promise me. Promise... you'll try."

He won't make another promise, not after Lenore Dove. He can't do that to himself again. More importantly, he can't do that to Finnick.

"Promise me, Haymitch... Please."

He closes his eyes and feels a lone tear roll down his face. 

"Can this night just fucking end already?" Haymitch mutters as he slams one glass down to pick another one up. 

Blight raises a brow at his sullen display. "What's up with him?"

"You want the entire rundown?" Chaff jokes, exchanging an amused look with Gloss and Seeder. 

They don't know what happened with Mags though and Haymitch will make sure it stays that way. The less they know the better. He won't make the same mistake twice.

"Shut up," he slurs. Droplets of a too-pretty champagne slip down the corner of his mouth as he knocks it back in one go. How does the Capitol drink this shit? It's more glitter than alcohol. 

"So you're supposed to sip that actually," Gloss says, like a smart-ass. 

"I said shut up," Haymitch almost growls. 

"Alright, Mister," Seeder intervenes, sighing as she rubs his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll be able to go home soon. Once Finnick gives his speech and the president says a few words, it'll be over."

They'll all go home to their grand houses in their respective districts and Finnick will go home with some fucking Capitol freak who spent a fortune to reserve the right to play with his teenage body. Wow, that's such great news and it definitely cheers Haymitch up.

Their attention is drawn to the sound of the aforementioned boy's voice nearing them, politer than Haymitch knows him to be.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ovidius. I promised Mr. Abernathy he could have my first dance!" Finnick comes up to the table and grabs Haymitch's hand, looking back at the Capitol man with an apologetic smile.

Haymitch frowns, lowering his glass. There are eyes from all over the room on them now. The kid's fingers squeeze his own but he doesn't face him yet, still speaking to the Capitolite. He can read Finnick's stiff body language and discerns that the man must have been bothering him enough for him to pull away despite not being allowed to. 

Because it's not like the kid would actually want to have his first dance, whatever that is, with Haymitch of all people. 

"Oh, no worries at all, my dear," Ovidius coos, the grin on his plastic face unsettling. "What a wonderful idea, dancing with another Victor! You lot truly are a family!"

The camera crews seem to agree as they start to focus on them, hovering closer. Haymitch is resisting the urge to sigh, but when he looks at the others sitting at his table, none of them share his annoyance. Their gazes are tender, smiles soft. They've never looked at him like that before.

Another clench of his fingers makes him raise his gaze to Finnick's big, expectant eyes. The kid shrugs and, giving in to his sigh, Haymitch finally gets up from his seat. Their hands stay interlocked as they walk to the centre of the hall and the spotlight finds its way to them. Others are also dancing around them to the slow music.

Haymitch awkwardly hovers a hand over the kid's waist until those green eyes find his and silently tease him like he's being ridiculous. Fine. He splays his fingers across Finnick's back and offers his other hand for him to place his own in. Slowly, they start to sway together. 

It's all so strange that Finnick's little giggle forces a reluctant smile onto his lips. 

He speaks up when a few minutes pass and the cameras get enough footage to stop exclusively focusing on them. "Sorry, Haymitch."

"Little bit of advice, kid— If you're dancing with someone like this, apologizing will only wound their ego," he responds jokingly, smirking. He wants to get rid of the guilt he hears in the boy's voice.

Finnick relaxes and laughs softly. "Is your ego wounded, old man?" 

"As if. Don't you know alcoholics drink because their self-esteem is over the roof? You're gonna have to try a lot harder if you want to do real damage to my ego."

Finnick laughs again, a stupid squawk of a sound and nothing like the practiced chime he gives the Capitol. He sounds like the teenage boy he's supposed to be.

"So... Gloss, huh?"

"Shut up!"

Haymitch pretends to gasp, looking at the table he was sitting at earlier. "Shit, he's staring right at you."

Finnick's head swivels around, turning at an almost impossible angle. "Really?"

Haymitch's guffaw garners a whole lot of attention. The kid shoves him— as much as he can, at least, when they're not supposed to let go of each other.

"But seriously, Gloss?" he asks after he calms down. The judgment in his voice is clearer than his empty liquor bottles back home.

Finnick shrugs, looking down at their shoes as they move. "I know he doesn't like me back or anything but... I dunno. He's nice to me."

Well that sobers him up pretty fucking quick because that's the kid's defence? Someone's nice to him so now he wants to be with them? That's all it takes?

Of course that's all it takes. Finnick's a child whose formative years are spent providing sexual pleasure to adults. He should be dating kids his own age and awkwardly but excitedly exploring each other's inexperienced bodies behind school. Was his first kiss even with a kid like him or did the Capitol take that from him too? 

Haymitch clears his throat, giving the boy's hand a gentle squeeze. "Hm... Can't say I approve of Gloss though."

Endearingly and definitely without realizing, Finnick is trying very hard not to pout. "Why not? I thought you 'tolerate' him."

"Oh, I do, but he's too old for you," he responds.

Finnick doesn't like that answer and Haymitch can tell he wants to say something similar to what he said back at the lake in Twelve. Age doesn't matter to the kid anymore, as if he thinks he's older than he really is. More mature. 

He eases the tension with a smirk. "I think Peeta has an older sibling your age actually. Should I set you guys up? You'd get unlimited access to the best bread in Panem."

Finnick groans as he laughs, smiling wide. "I'm so sick of you."

"Give me a second to grieve."

They let the sounds of the party take over for a while, still swaying but not really getting anywhere. Performers entertain the crowd as they breathe fire and make animals out of food. This is what the citizens of the Capitol do every night while people, children, in the districts starve and slave away. 

He wishes the shock accompanying these miserable thoughts didn't dissipate over the last seventeen years. It's normal to him now. He's practically complacent.

Haymitch's knees start to ache from standing around for so long and his heart thumps with the need for a drink. How long are they supposed to dance for? He's about to ask Finnick when the kid speaks up himself.

"I miss my mom and dad."

He doesn't lift his head and his voice is hushed, but Haymitch hears him. He hears the quiver and the longing.

When he does raise his gaze, his eyes are wet, brows drawn together. "I wish they were here. I wanna celebrate my birthday with them, not these people. I want my big brothers to take me fishing like they always do on my birthday and I want my mom to sing our special song to me and I want— I want my daddy."

Haymitch's shoulders drop as he exhales. His chest physically hurts. "I know, sweetheart."

Finnick stares at him, bottom lip trembling, before he looks away.

Haymitch sighs, hating how useless he is now more than ever. Self-loathing thoughts fill his already crowded head. Staring out into the swarm of Capitol parasites, he mumbles, "If your parents were here, they'd protect you. They wouldn't be sitting around, getting drunk while you're hurting."

The kid shakes his head, sniffling imperceptibly. They can't show weakness right now, not when there are this many eyes in the room. "They wouldn't be able to do anything. Just like you're not allowed to either."

Great. He's being comforted instead of the actual child. He can't for once do his fucking job.

"Still..." He breathes out, licking his dried lips. "Your dad should be dancing with you right now, not me."

"Haymitch."

He hums and forces himself to look at the kid, meeting his eyes. They're so honest, so easy to read, when he isn't forced to put on a show. He's almost his height now, his head just under Haymitch's chin. 

"I know you're not my dad," Finnick says softly. "And that's okay. You're Haymitch and that's enough for me."

His eyes start to sting as he stares down at the sweet boy in front of him, who looks up at him with a gut-wrenchingly earnest expression, like he believes with all his heart that Haymitch is good. 

But he's wrong. Being him isn't enough, certainly not for a person like Finnick, who deserves so much better than what he has to offer.

"I want you in my life, Haymitch. Please don't push me away again."

Want. 

Not just need. He wants Haymitch in his life.

Here, in front of him, is a brat of a kid who forcefully shoved his way into his heart and made space for himself like he's always known he was meant to be there. 

And Haymitch wants to be selfish so badly. He wants to look in the mirror and see that bright-eyed, curly-haired sixteen-year-old again, the one who had the courage to care and love and protect. The one who didn't give up.

He wants, too.

"Okay, sweetheart," he whispers finally, voice shaking.

Finnick smiles and Haymitch wants to protect that smile with his life. Suddenly, he wants nothing more.

When he lifts his gaze, he finds President Snow's from the other side of the room. The man raises his glass of champagne in a mockery of a toast and smirks.