Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a few weeks into spring. The songbirds call out once more and mice scurry around in the piles of god-knows-what on the corners of my floor. Hazelle had done a good job cleaning the years of filth and grime buildup on practically every surface of my house, but old habits die hard I guess. At least the vomit landed on a shiny and clean floor this time.

The wooden panels nailed to my windows had been ripped from their places by Hazelle. When I first found out, waking up from my regular drunken stupor at 2 in the afternoon, I had raged. Threw a few bottles at the wall, stomped around and screamed like an angry toddler until I passed out again. Any time I would attempt to nail new planks to the windows, they would be gone the next day. Apparently natural light would help, she told me. Hasn’t done a damn thing as far as I’m concerned.

So, a golden beam of sunlight stings my closed eyes as I shift around in my bed. I grunt, another splitting headache throbbing throughout my temple, and I move my hands to rub my eyes. It had been around 3 months since the end of the rebellion. Since both presidents had been killed. I had only been back at my home in Victor’s Village for a few weeks, and the most I’ve done was fetch my boxes of liquor from the incoming train from the capitol. By the time I came back, I emptied a whole bottle of rotgut and passed right out on the porch from the workout. I guess Peeta saw it from his house besides mine, and now I am forced every Wednesday morning to go on a run with him. He tells me it “clears his mind”, but if anything it makes my mind worse. Even though he was starved and tortured for weeks by the Capitol, the kid’s heart is in way better shape than me and always ends up miles ahead. I tried sneaking away once— slipping into an alley to catch my breath. A few minutes later the boy came back around, grabbed my shoulder, and forced me back into running as he ignored my groans of protest. It does a good job of flushing the alcohol out of my system judging by the gallons of water I'm forced to drink, ignoring the buckets of sweat that pour out of me.

Shuffling around under my blankets I swing a leg out and slowly move my body up. A wave of nausea crashes over me and I groan again. Wiping my sweat-coated hair out of my face, I rise out of bed and hobble over to the bathroom, where I vomit into the golden-rimmed toilet . Effie would always get on me about puking into somewhere that at least wouldn't stain, and at first I made sure to exclusively puke in places that would 100% leave a mark. After years of her relentless insisting, I finally gave in somewhat.

I wipe my mouth and wobbly rise up. Looking into the mirror, I take in my appearance. Same as always. Oily face, unkept beard that is really just glorified stubble, hair is a tangled overgrown mess (and also oily), but my eyebags that seemed carved into my face for decades have started to lessen. I hum and turn on the water, splash water onto my face, and call it a day. I walk back out into my bedroom and look out the window. A flash of dusty-gray— no, I think, dove, flashes by. A mourning dove perches on the tree outside my window. It cocks its head at me, judging my disgruntled appearance like a curious child.

“What d’you want?” I mumble, slouched over. The bird tilts its head again. Another dove joins it on the branch, and looks at me as well. They coo at me, or rather something behind me. I turn around and somehow a dove sits on my cluttered dresser. I scrunch my eyebrows and shake my head.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I walk over to the dresser, but the bird does not move. It stares at me just like the birds outside. It coos and I feel her. I take a deep breath and rub the back of my neck as I look down. Her sun-marked hand touches my shoulder and I smile. Lenore Dove’s hand rubs my shoulder soothingly.

“You should visit them today.” I turn my head to her. The corners of her mouth are creased, less than mine but still symbolizing her age. Her graying wild hair has a few braids in it, ended in wooden hand-carved colorful beads. In my dream last night I braided her hair, and they stuck with her apparition today.

I’ve been seeing hallucinations of my friends, family, tributes, and my love for years now. Sometimes they remain the same age they died, but sometimes they age with me. Today, Lenore Dove is my age. But she definitely wears it better than me.

“Visit who?” I ask, taking in her warmth. She smiles at me like it’s obvious.

“Your neighbors. I think you’ll like what happens today.” She says, but her voice dies as she fades into nothing. I sigh as my arms fall to my sides. Lenore Dove always leaves the fastest, just like the last time I saw her.

I stand there for a few minutes, taking in the grooves of the wooden panelling. Guess I’m visiting Katniss and Peeta today. I rub my hand on my face in thought. What could possibly be so intriguing that could happen today? I sigh, staring at the ceiling now. I need a drink.

I search through my drawers, nothing. I stumble downstairs and almost fall, but there's nothing in the cabinets of the kitchen nor the numerous boxes, openings, desks, or any other hole a bottle or flask might be stashed in. Every empty pull of a drawer ticks me off more and more. By the time I searched the last place (a dirty box in the couch), there’s practically steam coming out of my ears. I grab the closest object to me, a chrome vase that somehow hasn’t been smashed yet, and pelt it at the wall and yell. I look around again, thinking that perhaps a shiny bottle of vodka just so happened to magically form on my counter, but there is nothing but scattered books and other knick-knacks.

“Shit.” I rub my temples as I mumble. Maybe Katniss has a bottle stored away for some hunting reason. I walk with heavy steps to the front door, slide on some old shoes, and head out to the girl’s house. The sun blinds me again for a moment, but I harshly blink it away. Damn sun always screws me up. I trudge forward blindly for a moment, until I can see again. Stumbling up her porch steps, I drum my hand against her door. I hear talking inside, and assume that Peeta’s here too. Good. Maybe he has some if she doesn’t.

Katniss opens the door slightly, her eyes narrowing at my presence.

“What’re you doing up so early?” She asks with an accusational tone.

“Well, maybe I just wanted to say good morning,” I responded, eyebrows lifting and lips pursing.

We stand there for a few beats. She blinks at me.

“Alright fine, sweetheart. Have any refreshments?” I say, my voice turning blunt. Katniss rolls her eyes at me and begins to close the door.

“Okay, okay, wait!” I hurriedly slam my foot into the crevice of the door.

“Maybe,” I start, unsure what to say for her to let me in, “maybe…I would like to..talk.” I add, gesturing to nothing with my hands. Katniss just stares at me, a little dumbfounded.

“You, want to talk.” She repeats, her face contouring as if I said the stupidest thing ever. And honestly, it does sound a little stupid.

“Yes. Yes I…would love to tell you. What I have to say. Inside, preferably.” I lean my hand on the doorframe, trying to look at least a little serious. Katniss continues to stare at me and I can practically hear the gears churning in her head when I hear Peeta call from inside.

“Haymitch?” he says, walking up to the door as Katniss pushes it open wider. He has a leather pouch in his hands, and a big leather-bound parchment book lays on the table inside. Fun, some crafting to bond. How lovely. Now, any drinks?

“Hey, kid. Just trying to tell Katniss here that I would greatly appreciate her company. If she would let me inside.” I say in a mocking tone. Katniss glares at me, clearly not finding me funny. Peeta smiles slightly, probably figuring me out already.

“Well, I think it should be fine.” Peeta says, looking at Katniss. “Me and Katniss are making something, maybe you’d like to help?” Peeta gestures to the book on the table. Katniss bites the inside of her cheek, her face reading that she would very much not like to. I laugh a bit to myself at the look on her face.

“I would love to.” I force my way inside past Katniss, and immediately to her kitchen. The book lays on the dinner table just beside the counter, so it seems normal. I glance at the book, noting that around maybe 2 pages had been filled already.

“What’s this book about? Some art project?” I walk over and open the cover, and my jokes fall flat. I grow silent as I stare at the picture of Primrose, an innocent smile displayed on her face. It was before the 74th games, and she didn’t yet have the air of maturity that she did in 13. Peeta falls beside me as he sets the leather pouch next to the book. Katniss is next to him.

“It’s a memory book.” Peeta begins. “Katniss will write down things about them, and if there aren’t any pictures, then I’ll draw them.” He says solemnly, and my hand caresses the corner of the page. There are drawings of Prim on both pages, of Lady licking her cheek, her in her medic uniform, and her as a toddler. Katniss’ handwriting appears in the center, and next to the drawings and picture. Little bits of detail about her younger sister that she doesn’t want to forget. I can see Sid’s silver eyes gazing up into the stars. I bite the inside of my lower lip and look at Peeta.

“It’s a good idea.” I mumble. Hell, my own life is just memories. Ghosts of my past appear everywhere around me. Constantly, I remember. No, I don’t want anything to do with this book.

Peeta closes the book, and picks it up. He grabs the leather pouch and looks towards Katniss.

“We’re going to work on it now. Do you…” Peeta stalls, unsure if he can ask. I look away and shake my head.

“Nah. You two have enough memories to share. I’ll be down here.” I say, picking at the table. Katniss stays behind a little longer while Peeta nods and turns away, making his way upstairs. I look over at her, her face scrunched together and eyebrows knitted.

“You,” she sighs, fidgeting with her hands, “...can talk to us.” Katniss stares at him, her eyes honest. I grind my teeth as I look at her. That little girl, with her hair pulled into two braids at the Hob with her father, has matured. I let out a sad smile and pull her into a hug.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” I admit back. Katniss stands for a moment, her hands glued to her sides, before she rises them and holds me back. I smooth her hair down and pull away after a moment with my hands on her shoulders. No, she’s still there. I have to remind myself that she is only 17.

“You can talk to me too, y’know.” I add on quietly, noting the stinging wetness at the back of my eyes. Not today, I think. Katniss nods, and quickly leaves to join Peeta upstairs. Never the one to stay emotionally exposed for long. I sigh and drag my hand over my eyes until the stinging is gone.

“Not off to such a great start, Lenore Dove.” I say to the empty space to my right. I stand there for a few more moments before I begin scrounging around for some relief. After a few opened drawers and cabinets, I find a bottle of red wine. Maybe for cooking, I guess. Uncorking the bottle using a knife, I kindly throw the cork into the trash and not the floor, and lift the bottle to my mouth. Not always my choice of drink, but any alcohol is better than none.

I walk around to the dining room, and look out the window. Taking a swig of the wine I notice the same three doves outside perched on another branch. I scoff, wondering how interesting my life must be for these doves to follow me. Or maybe how boring there's must be. I roll my eyes, taking another sip as I walk past the stairs. I hear the two talking upstairs and since I have nothing better to do, I pause and listen. Peeta’s voice rings out first.

“...him. Not very well, but he talked about him sometimes.”

“Really?” Katniss’ voice answered.

“Yeah. I guess he helped him out sometimes.” Peeta paused. I wondered who they were talking about.

“He…no…that’s not right…” Peeta mumbled and I could hear the hints of aggravation and confusion fill his voice. Another hijacked memory. I lean back on the wall, sipping the acidic juice. After a few moments, Peeta resumed.

“Your father knew mine when they were our age. Real or not real?” Peeta asked quietly. I took the long pause afterwards as her answer. Katniss doesn’t know. But I do.
Before I know it, I'm at the doorway of the room they sit in. Katniss looks over at me where they sit, a crease between her brows as she looks for the answer in her memories. I answer for her.

“Real. We all knew each other.” I say, gripping the bottle in my hand harder. Peeta looked at me then; his eyes shrink slightly from their previous enlarged state.

“You knew my dad?” He asks, curiosity piqued. Katniss looks intrigued too, her eyebrows raising.

“‘Course I did. Otho was in our grade. Didn’t know him as well as Burdock, though.” I respond honestly. I can feel the warm hug of the wine sitting in my stomach, its effects slowly spreading throughout my body. Katniss looked back down to the page, her expression unreadable.

“He never told me.” She murmured, hands held in her lap. Makes sense. I was an asshole to him after the game. I had no other choice. Guilt seeps into the same pit the wine takes up in my stomach.

“Had a good reason not to.” I reply solemnly.

“You were close, then?” Peeta asks.

Suddenly I realize what I’m doing. I don’t want to carry these memories onto them. I can’t tell them, can’t tell them or else they will be taken from me too. I feel myself begin to panic, and I take another long swing of the wine. Cold sweat trickles down my back, my heart drums painfully in my chest, throughout my temples, and in my eyes and I need to leave. Can’t have my last family killed. Katniss, the last memory I have of Burdock. Of Louella. I can see them here. Burdock on the pages of the memory book, Louella laughing at something. Somethin’ funny? No, she’s laughing at me. I couldn’t save her, and she’s laughing at me. It’s my fault. Maysilee stands by the window, her arms crossed. Blood pours from the piercing wound on her neck, her eyes scowl at me just like Katniss does. Wyatt sits by Louella. He stares at me too, bruises decorating his face and blood is painted across his body. Lou Lou holds hands with Louella. She’s laughing too. Sid—Ma, they’re behind me now. I can hear their screams for help. I couldn’t save them. Ampert, Wellie, I couldn’t save anyone. But I need to save Katniss and Peeta, I need—

A mourning dove lands on the open window in the room. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I stare at it. I see Katniss standing, asking me something. It’s all blurry in comparison to the songbird. A soft coo comes from its downy neck. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and I can feel her; I feel her radiating warmth and smile. Her hands dashed with flecks of orange paint, the paint she used to paint her rebellious posters on the walls in town. Her songs, her laugh, I can hear her tune box in the wind as it gently lulls into the house. I see her dappled green eyes shine in the sunlight, and I know I am safe. Snow can’t hurt me anymore, can’t hurt my loved ones. None of them can. I can tell them.

“Haymitch? Are you okay?” Katniss asks, her hands now on my shoulders. Peeta looks between them, blue eyes filled with concern. I wipe the clammy sweat from my brow, and nod shakily.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” I say, setting the bottle of wine aside as I sit on the floor, finally taking in Burdock’s page. A black-and-white picture is glued to a side of the parchment, Burdock smirks in it. I smile back. Katniss had began to write little memories of hers. Peeta has a scrap piece of paper in front of him, with the beginnings of a drawing on it. Burdock singing, seems like.

“I met Burdie when I was eight years old. He was seven, just a year younger than me.” I begin, my voice unwavering now. Katniss and Peeta both watch as I tell them the story of how we met.

It was late July. I had been 8 for only a few weeks, but Pa had given me a special gift. It was rare when me or Sid got gifts, he and Ma couldn’t afford much for a present, but he had given me my very own knife. It was small, a little dirty, but I couldn’t have been happier. Ma was nervous, she didn’t want me to get hurt or worse—hurt somebody else. I was messing around with the knife when I heard the explosion. It wasn’t the strongest one, but I could feel it below my feet. I knew something had happened in the mines. Was sure of it. A deep pit of knowingness sunk deep into my stomach that day. Confirmed when I heard my mother let out a strangled sob after a Peacekeeper came to our door. I grabbed Sid’s hand, only 2 years old, and pulled him in for a hug. My skinny body shook with silent tears. I had to be strong for Sid, for Ma. I was now the man of the house.

Ma would scrub, scrub, and scrub away at the laundry she had piled up. Rubbing so hard that holes would be ripped into them again. Reminded me of my little sisters. She made bean and ham-hock soup for dinner. I put Sid to bed, but there was little chance of me sleeping that night. When Ma’s quiet sobs stopped, and the candle had been blown out from her room, I slipped on my shoes made from deer leather. Ma had traded the leather from a man in town. I grabbed my knife, and quietly snuck out of me and Sid’s window.
I ran like hell. When I got far enough away from home, I let my screams run out until my throat was scratchy and dry. Snot ran like rabbits from my nose; drool dripping from my chin as it joined my tears. I finally fell to my knees in a clearing next to a tree. I sobbed, crumpled onto the ground and ripped pieces of grass from the dirt. I screamed for Pa, for Mamaw. My knees now bled from the cuts I gained from falling. I switched from pulling at the grass, to pulling at my curls. I screamed while biting my lips.

I didn’t know how long it had been, but a boy had crawled down from the tree. I jolted up at the sight of his foot; I didn’t hear a single noise come from him when he climbed down. I clumsily reached for my knife.

“Your dad too?” He whispered, his voice quiet but as clear as the morning sky.

I looked at his face. Snot ran from his nose too. His eyes were swollen from the tears, a lone one crept down his cheek just now. My bottom lip wobbles. I nod.

He fidgets with his hands. His feet are bare, and It looked like he ran out in his pajamas too. I recognized him from school. Didn’t talk much, but I knew he liked to sing.

“M’names Burdock.” He mumbled. His voice was sore from crying too. I slowly stood up.

“Haymitch.” I croaked.

From then on, we would meet under that tree every night. We would talk about random things. Our dads, who turned out to be friends. A fight that happened at school. A song he heard from his mother or one of his numerous cousins. We then would meet at school. Sleepovers, going out for food at the Hob, and meeting each other's family. We were inseparable. Burdie showed me the woods, which showed me my Lenore Dove. I guess he cursed me in a sense. I remember his clear voice in the forest, the way his songs could pause all life while they watch. As if they were his audience. I remember a night he and Lenore Dove sang together. Me and Blair watched as Burdie sang his heart out, while Lenore Dove played a wicked melody on her tune box. The geese watched, honking along too. Me and Blair sang along as well, though we both sounded like a pair of dying goats. We all laughed at one another.

Peeta and Katniss ask questions about him. His favorite subject in school, and me and Katniss both answered at the same time: not math. She smiled and I laughed. But, Katniss’ brows furrow. I know what she wants to ask.

“Why did he never tell me?” She asks gravely. I rub my temple, the headache splitting my skull even further.

“It was for his safety. Snow would have killed him.” I mumble. I’m not quite ready to open up to that level, I guess. But It feels as if a little weight had been lifted off my chest. Looking at the book, I see Katniss had written my memories all down. Peeta finished the sketch of the Burdock singing, and was now drawing a goat belting. I smile again.

“He showed me her grave.” I add, my smile thinning to a line. I can feel puke stirring in my stomach, where the guilt and wine mixed together to make a nice smoothie. I grunt and rise, stumbling over to the bathroom where I vomit up stomach acid and wine. Well, it was nice while it lasted, I suppose. I can hear the two kids murmuring about my reminiscing. Questioning what I meant by “her grave”. Shit. I don't want to go into that right now. I clumsily rise up from my place by the silver-rimmed toilet (guess the Capitol loved their fancy toilets), and I walk past them. I grab the bottle of wine, take a swing, and sigh.

“Thanks for the juice, dear!” I try to lighten the mood by mimicking Effie. Joke lands very badly, judging by Peeta’s concerned face and Katniss’ unreadable gaze. I grunt, stumble down the steps, and grab a cheese bun on the counter. A dove joins me for my walk back home, and I smile a bit to myself. Maybe Lenore Dove was right.

Chapter Text

Peeta still has not given up on the runs. This morning, I had barely even woken up when he entered from my back door. Had new shoes for me, he came from the Hob where the Cartwright girl had struck up her family’s shoe shop again. I told him I didn’t feel like running, but he said he didn’t feel like watching me grunting and heaving while I dragged my boxes of liquor from the train station again. I hummed. Guess that’s fair. But I stayed put on my chair where I had fallen asleep, too tired and hungover to move. Peeta had to lift me up himself and push me out of the door. I cursed at him but lazily slid on the new shoes he had gotten for me. Some kind of special running shoes, they felt like I was bouncing on air every time I set down my foot. That girl has some crazy talent if she made these herself. 

Peeta hands me a bottle of water which I chug down in a matter of seconds, he curls his lips back and goes inside to fill up the water bottle again. Scratching my head, I look around the clearing in Victor’s Village. Dew coated the blades of grass and flower bushes in front of my house. Peeta had planted some flowers in my yard, too. The most I did to take care of them was water them once with my vomit on “accident”. Peeta had only sighed when he saw it and hosed it off. 

Peeta comes back outside with the water bottle. 

“Don’t drink it all yet.” He says as he hands me it. I yank it from his hands and squirt some into my mouth as my answer. Peeta looks away and walks down the steps of my porch, and gets to running. He has a bit of a funky pace, considering his prosthetic leg, but it’s still better than mine. I go as slow as I possibly can to try and pace myself for his sake. But after we reach the first stretch of houses being rebuilt in the Seam, I hunch over and hold my knees gasping for air. Peeta keeps going, lost in his own world. 

My lungs and heart heave in exhaustion, sweat dripping from my forehead onto the dirt road. My ears ring and my eyesight darkens around the corners. Groaning, I push back on my knees and stand, trying to catch my breath. Peeta is even further ahead now, and I turn around slowly, retracing my steps back home. 

I look back, and seeing that Peeta hasn’t come back for me yet I begin slowly jogging. I laugh thinking that I’ve escaped his grasps. Of course, that's when I hear him. 

“Haymitch!” He yells from afar, and I groan in return. Pivoting, I slouch and wipe my sweaty forehead. My lips thin in annoyance. Why the hell do I have to run? My liver is already slowly killing me, why does it matter if my heart is healthy if my blood isn’t?

Peeta stops running as he gets up to me. He looks annoyed too. Good, he shouldn’t be dragging an old guy like me running anyways. 

“Why’d you stop?” He asks, exasperated. We both breathe heavily in the silence. Birds call, and bugs rub their legs together in the late spring warmth. I purse my lips back.

“Why do you still insist on bringing me, kid?” I spit, my patience running thin. For some reason my body is working extra slow this morning.

“Well, first of all, it’s been barely 10 minutes and you’re already out of breath.” Peeta says bluntly. 

“I’m 40 and a severe alcoholic, Peeta. Not exactly the pinnacle of health.” I respond, mimicking his tone. Peeta groans and rubs his temples in annoyance. 

“Maybe you should quit, then.” Peeta suggests shrugging. I scoff and roll my eyes.

“Yeah, and maybe President Snow would’ve ended the Hunger Games if we just asked politely.” I say airily. Peeta bites his lips and shakes his head. Clearly he’s not getting through to me.

“I just don’t understand why you don’t…” he pauses, looking for the words, “care about yourself more.” Peeta looks up at me.

“I mean— even Katniss tries. We both know, we both saw what happened to her. She was so close to ending up like her mom. But…” he smiles slightly, “I think I helped her.” Peeta says. He shifts his weight onto his real foot.

“And I guess I want to help you too.” He admits, smile fading. I rub my forehead, a habit I’ve been picking up a lot, and sigh again.

“It’s a lost cause, kid. Trust me. Effie tried it before, it doesn’t work out the way you want it to.” I say honestly. I look deep into his eyes, and I feel disappointed in myself. Peeta looks at the ground.

“Well, you can at least try for us. This time, people need you. Katniss needs you— we need you.” He swallows, sweat trickles down his brow. I stand there somewhat awkwardly, definitely not ready for such a heartfelt conversation this morning. 

“...You’re really the only father figure either of us has.” Peeta adds quietly, picking at his fingers. I stand there with my jaw slightly clenched. All of us felt it before, back during the victory tour, during the training for the quarter quell, and especially Katniss and I when we were stuck in 13. But no one mentioned it out loud. Except for now. 

I join Peeta in looking at the dirt. We stand there for a few moments, before I hum and take a sip from the water bottle. I launch myself back into jogging before Peeta could say anything else. I hear the boy running behind me after a minute. It stings my calves and my lungs, but I guess I need to put more effort into being responsible, which means more than just preventing their deaths during the games. 

     **

We take a break by the newly rebuilt Hob. Tents fill the space with various stalls. Greasy Sae sells squirrel soup, probably killed by Katniss, while her granddaughter runs around from stall to stall. Sweet, spicy, and sour aromas fill the air while I catch my breath from the run. My water bottle had ran out a mile ago so I was parched for a drink. I resist gravitating toward Ripper’s stall in the distance and Peeta hands me his water bottle. I chug the remaining liquid water and pass it back to him.

We walk over to a table I haven’t seen before; a white tarp lays over the wood with various candies displayed. Round chocolate balls sitting in decorative white wrappers, red hard candy, ribbons of white and yellow taffy, and a rainbow of gumdrops. I grimace and avert my eyes from the gumdrops and instead, I focus on the red candy. Next to it lies a pile of red taffy that looks familiar to me. I hold one of them up, and look at the stall owner.

She has short blonde hair and typical merchant-blue eyes. Her face is round but reminds me of someone I used to know. She smiles, one side of her face badly burnt from an explosion. I remember her now, I saw this girl in District 13.

“That’s our hot pepper cherry taffy. Would you like to try it?” She says, voice smooth. Hot pepper cherry taffy, one of Maysilee’s creations. How does she have the recipe?

I nod and pop the candy in my mouth. Cherry flavor bursts in my mouth, but the spice of the hot pepper prickles my tongue. My eyes water but I’ll say it’s from the spice. Peeta looks down at the candies on the table.

“Could I try one?” He asks, looking up to the lady. She nods and he picks up one of the taffy ribbons. I roll the taffy around on my tongue and smile. 

“You a Donner?” I ask the merchant and push the candy to my cheek. She opens her mouth slightly, a hint of surprise in her eyes. 

“Yeah,” she begins, “my great-uncle ran the candy store. Did you know them?” She asks, I suck on the taffy some more and nod. I reach for the wallet in my pants (which had been annoyingly bouncing against my thigh while I ran) and pull out some cash.

“Knew one of your cousins then.” I say, handing her the money. “Could I get a bag of these?” I gesture to the spicy candies. She nods and grabs a glassine bag from a small box behind her. She scoops the candy into the bag and ties a small lavender ribbon to close it. She hands me the bag and I pocket it. 

“Good to know that the candy shop is back. I’ll see you around, then.” I say and she smiles back at me. Peeta buys some candy as well, but I’ve already begun moving towards the entrance of the Hob. He catches up to me with his bag of candy, curious eyes watching me. 

The walk back to Victor’s Village is somewhat quiet. Peeta’s eyes shift, pupils dilating as if he’s trying to remember another hijacked memory. I pause for a moment, looking at him, trying to see if he wanted to ask me something. He takes a deep breath in, and scratches a spot on his head that hadn’t fully grown back from the burns. 

“A Donner was one of your fellow tributes. In the 50th games, right?” He asks, confusion filling his words. I pop another taffy in my mouth and savor the complementing flavors.

“Yeah. Maysilee Donner.” I answer as the taffy rolls around in my mouth. I can see her roll her eyes at my improper manners from the corner of my eye. Maybe if I had used a fork to eat the candy, she could excuse me talking with food in my mouth. Peeta nods, his face clearing up and we begin walking again.

Peeta stops a half a mile away from the Village and leans into a wildflower bush. I hum and watch him pick some of the flowers by the stems. The flowers are large, bright orange and yellow in the middle. Yellow stamen sprouts from the center of the flower, giving the impression of flames. He gathers a few of them, then goes over to a bush nearby to pick up some others. By the end of it he has a small bouquet of the flame flowers, some little white baby’s breath, and a handful of other yellow flowers and grasses. 

“Didn’t know you had a knack for flowers.” I say knowingly, purposefully poking fun at the kid. He hesitates and rubs his neck, averting eye contact.

“Yeah. They looked pretty, I guess.” He says quietly, kicking a random pebble on the ground. I let out a gaudy laugh and clap him on the back. We walk back together like that while I give him some words of encouragement despite his insisting that it’s nothing, that “They’re just my favorite colors,” or, “Her house needs some life.” I nod and smile as we walk up to her door and I barge in. I can hear him sigh from behind me as I yell out her name.

“Katniss!” I call, my voice high. No response. She’s probably out hunting or something along those lines. Peeta comes from behind me and pulls out a vase from a closet and fills it with water. He places each flower delicately into the milky-white ceramic piece, and arranges it to his liking. He takes the ribbon wrapped around his bag of candy and ties it around the flowers. He smiles to himself.

I can feel my body itching for a drink. My headache has grown worse over the past hour, and the water isn’t helping. I subtly hustle over to the pantry where I’m hoping to find another bottle of wine. It’s not so easy trying to quit cold turkey, maybe Peeta would let just one drink slide…

There is no wine in the pantry. I groan to myself and walk out, looking for some food instead. A basket of rolls sits on the counter and I stuff one in my mouth.

“‘m  takin’ a nap.” I stifle out over the bread, and collapse on the couch in one of the living rooms. I hear Peeta in the background say something to me, but I nod off faster then I can process it. It doesn’t take too long for me to drift into the soft lull of sleep— considering my aching calves, and I open my eyes to a warm sunset on the meadow.

Lenore Dove is perched on one of the roots of our tree, her nimble fingers press into her tune box which plays a melody I am familiar with. A few geese waddle around her and quiet as she begins to sing. 

There were two sisters came walking down the stream

Oh, the wind and rain

The one behind pushed the other one in

Crying oh the dreadful wind and rain

Her hair flows in the gentle breeze, she is my age again. She wears a handkerchief on the top of her head: green with little white tulips, and her overalls have more patches of ribbons and fabrics. I feel someone tugging at my hair and I tilt my head up, only for it to be shoved back down. Lenore Dove laughs.

“Quit movin’. It’s hard to braid with you shaking up my work.” Maysilee retorts, fingers pulling a little harder at my hair in retaliation. I yelp as the roots of my hair sting, moving my hands up to stop her.

“Damn!” I snap back, turning to look at her.

She looks the best out of the two of us age-wise. Her wrinkles are subtle, hair still smooth and blonde with no flecks of graying. Her hair is noticeably shorter now and it's pulled back at the top into a small ponytail. Maysilee has a small braid in her hair too, with a matching lavender wooden bead to Lenore Dove’s. She notices me studying her face, and she grimaces.

“What’s gotten into you? You were the one insisting on the braid.” She raises her eyebrows. “Not my fault you were jealous and wanted to match so badly.” 

My eyebrows furrow. Just another ghost dream. This one already started off differently, Maysilee never appeared old in my dreams or my hallucinations.  I hear Lenore Dove laugh again. How are these two getting along? Is this some dream alternate future I could’ve had with them? My girl resumes the melody on her tune box at the angry honking of the geese.

They pushed her into the river to drown

Oh, the wind and rain

Watched her as she floated down

Crying oh the dreadful wind and rain

Maysilee and I watch her singing. The geese have calmed down at the return of their mother’s voice, and so have I. I should savor these precious moments, even though their reality could never be. I smile when Lenore Dove turns to me. She looks down to something I hold in my lap, and smirks. 

“Mind sharin’ some?” She says and gestures with her instrument to the bag in my lap. I look down a little confused only to see a white bag sealed with the Donner sweets shop logo. I widen my eyes, my heart dropping to my gut. I see my hand moving to open the bag but I am not the one moving it. Breaking the seal, bloodred gumdrops lay waiting for me. The scent of roses stings my eyes and tears build up; Maysilee pushes herself up to stand.

“I'm going to check on the potatoes.” She says and slinks away from the tree, and I desperately try to move and stop her. No! I think, Don’t leave. You’ll die, again. But my body is now picking up one of the gumdrops from the bag. Lenore Dove sinks to the grass beside me and opens her mouth, my hand rising up to reach her. Im shaking and tears break through my eyes, cold sweat trickling down my forehead and back. I can’t do this again. I clench my teeth, but my dream self remains smiling. I drop the gumdrop on her tongue as she hums, smiling at me. Vomit swirls around in my stomach.

A piercing scream sounds off in the distance and I know it is Maysilee. I see the flapping of bright pink wings, but I feel someone collapse next to me. It is Lenore Dove, her head turned up gasping for air while her tune box lays beside her. Dark red bubbles foaming at her mouth. She reaches for me but I cannot move. I cannot help. The gurgling of my love’s last breath and Maysilee’s pleads for help fill my head until I launch up screaming, my knife clenched tightly in my hand. 

I look around and ragged breaths tear through my chest, crazed but wet eyes trying to grasp what I’m looking at. It’s darker out now, candles light Katniss’ house and create a warm and comforting environment. But I am far from comforted. A candle lies on the coffee table in front of me and the flame dances in the evening light. I dart my head around and sweat trickles down my brow, I rub the corded handle of the knife and gasp for air. 

Nobody is in the kitchen. There are signs of life, bowls sitting in the sink and partially eaten food lay on dinner plates on the dining room table. I try getting off from the couch but instead awkwardly fall to the floor. Groaning and pushing myself up with shaking hands, I walk-run to the dining room. Smells like squirrel soup but food was not on my mind now; my head pulses and body shakes. I can’t tell if it's from the withdrawal or my dream. 

“Katniss?!” I bark and search candle-lit hallways and rooms for the two. My legs shake and stumble over someone's boots. Boots! Laying on the ground are Katniss’ hunting boots, speckled with dirt and mud. She must still be here. This discovery gives me a slight hope of finding them.  I trudge along the stairs loudly, yelling both of their names.

“Peeta! Katniss!” I practically screech now until a door flings open and a glare meets me. Katniss stands with a calligraphy pen in hand, her jaw slightly parted and brow furrowed. 

“What? Did something happen?” She says immediately jumping to the worst outcome and I hear someone fumbling around in the room she stands in. The piercing ringing in my ear grows dull at the sight that she is okay. Shaking my head slowly, I grunt and turn away. My shirt is soaked in sweat.

Katniss’ glare lessens. Her face is unreadable, but she seems to acknowledge my less-than-sane state. She looks back into her room to give Peeta a look, and the boy stands up and joins her at the door. Paint decorates his hands and a small spot on his forehead, and the memory book lays behind them. I rub my temples and try to cool myself down but Peeta looks at me with so much pity that I resist the urge to throw something at him. 

“What happened?” He asks. I pull my hand that is rubbing my head and drag it down my face. 

“Bad dream.” I grunt and shove my way past them into the room. I ignore their confused looks and instead bend down to look at the book. A girl, Katniss’ age, resides on the page; her hair is wavy and blond but styled with a pink ribbon. The picture doesn't look professional and seems to be cut out of some sort of magazine. Or maybe a poster. Katniss lowers down, legs bent and looks at the picture.

“Madge Undersee. She…was my friend.” She says quietly. I actually somewhat knew the girl, but mostly due to her being the mayor's daughter. Given that my experience with her had been limited to the reapings and pointless meetings with the mayor, I definitely do not know her well. 

There’s more she wants to say but I don't budge her since I know the feeling all too well. Some paintings have been attached already to the parchment, and it looks as if the two were about to finish her page. A small patch of strawberries, the mockingjay pin, and a spring flower were painted delicately to lose paper, then taped to the page. The mockingjay pin catches my eye.

“Why the pin?” I think out loud, my mind still hazy. Katniss looks to the painting of the pin. 

“She’s the one who gave it to me.” She responds simply. I feel Maysilee’s hands in my hair, just like they were in my dream. Is that some signal from her? Does she want me to tell them? 

I cough even though my throat is as dry as bark, hands shaking from what I now clearly know as withdrawal. I’m desperately itching for a drink to soothe the turmoil in my brain that spreads to the rest of my body, but I chose to focus on the girl next to me when I remember me and Peeta’s conversation from this morning. Well, shit. 

A silence falls over the room. The only sound comes from me fidgeting with whatever I can— grinding my teeth, picking my nails, tapping my hands on the hardwood floor (which earns me a side eye from Katniss until I stop). I can’t focus on anything if I do nothing. My brain seems to be going hundreds of miles per hour, yet it’s slow as a rock at the same time. Guess my body had been running on so much alcohol that it doesn’t remember how to function on its own yet. 

The fog that fills my brain is populated with even more ghosts now. Old Maysilee bleeds while sitting in front of me, judging my outfit and saying that I have the style of a soggy alley rat. Panache is swinging his sword against the wall and Silka watches, towering over the real people in the room. Ampert is talking Louella’s ear off while she groans, Sid is telling Wellie about the patterns of the stars, Lou Lou tells everyone that she is Louella McCoy from District 12 and even Wyatt is talking. The room is filled to the brim with noise and my brain’s throbbing so much I think it might explode if I stuff a blasting cap in my ear.

“My friend owned the pin.” I blurt out which somehow ceases everyone's blabbering. Katniss looks back at me. Peeta now sits besides me too, arm leaning on his leg. 

“Who?” Katniss asks. All the ghosts are gone now, all besides Maysilee who sits by the front of the book. I look at her, grey eyes meeting blue. My sis smirks at me, blood and wounds gone. 

“Maysilee. It was a birthday present from her father, I think.” I mutter. Maysilee is now gone. My hands fidget where her necklaces had laid around my neck.

I blather on about her. About her snotiness from back home, about my chiggers and how she nicknamed me “Itchy Itchy Haymitchy”, to which Peeta chuckles at and the corner of Katniss’ mouth quirks. I tell them about the train ride; about her defending my sweetheart and making Drusilla look like an absolute loser. That gets Katniss to really smile. 

I tell them about her necklaces, her cording and braiding skills. How she took every kid‘s token in that Gymnasium and turned it into a masterpiece. How she told me to run, at the parade. I don’t tell them what I ran from; I don't tell them who I clutched in my hands and who bled. I tell them about our alliance and they remember some of the details. I recall that the capitol had left me and Maysilee in the replays, so it would make sense that they knew these parts. I skip over her death, which I had just relived in my dreams and had no desire to live it again. They saw it themselves anyways, on the train to the capitol. I fall silent. I don’t have anything else to tell, and the ghosts begin to pick up again. Maysilee stays silent and rubs one of her necklaces in her hand.

Katniss watches me intently. My eyes flutter around the candle-lit room and watch each person go about their movements. I turn my head to look at her, and her eyes shine in understanding. I place one of my hands around her shoulders and rub them. I reach over and place one on Peeta’s too. Nodding to myself, I clap them on the back and wobble up.

“Gonna find somethin’ to drink.” I mumble to myself. I feel awkward and raw, opening up like that to a couple of teenagers. I really need to make some more friends my age, and I try not to remember that I would have some if they hadn’t been killed.

I hesitate before opening the door. I turn my face to the side and look at Peeta and Katniss. They stand now, and I clear my throat and look down to the floor around them.

“My girl…she liked the pin.” I start with a smile in my voice

“I’m happy it ended up in your hands, sweetheart.” I look back at Katniss. She looks a little stunned to own something so special to me, but she eventually nods. I now notice the flame-colored flower tucked behind her ear, from this morning. I smirk at Peeta knowingly, and excuse myself to walk outside. In the dark I listen to the sounds of owls and possums skittering around on the near forest floor.

 Lenore Dove steps along next me as we walk home together.

Chapter Text

President Paylor had passed the bill introduced by the newly-formed Senate for Peace to assemble a new police force. I had first heard of this when watching my TV mounted in the main living room, and groaned. This just throws a metaphorical vase at my wall of peace which I had built up those few months ago. They called it something  like “Officers of Freedom” or another load of bullshit I failed to care about. 

I had forgotten about it quickly, due to the massive amounts of ghosts invading my house constantly. For some reason I assumed it would be the opposite; that when I stopped drinking, the ghosts would leave with my other hallucinations. But I was proven wrong. My body shook with a desperation for alcohol, skull pulsating with a constant migraine that made me terrible company. I had quickly stopped joining my neighbors in whatever activities they partook in, which also meant the book.

Some of the ghosts were mad I stopped. They wanted to be remembered too, said Panache and Silka. Louella would give me a nasty glare that I assume she learned from Maysilee, who stares at me like I am a piece of dog crap on the side of the road. I attempt ignoring them by reading a random book on my shelf or staring at the TV. But they mess with me even more when I ignore them. Now, I seem like a crazy person when I talk to thin air. But to me, someone I love is there. Or someone I killed. 

On the first of July I am forced to the train station to escort Effie back to Victor’s Village. She had insisted on returning for my birthday over the phone, and I had refused numerous times. But after talking to Peeta, who thought it was a great idea, he had prepared the house next to his for her to stay at. At least she wasn’t close enough to my house that she would constantly show up, I had naively thought. 

I sit on the slightly rotten bench which resides on the train station’s platform, and pick at my hands while I wait for her train to pull up. It’s 10 in the morning, and the hazy warmth of the sun settles across my back. I watch a mouse skitter across the floor as it sniffs the air, pink nose quirkcing towards me. The humming of the train floating along the metal railings spooks the mouse and me, and I jerk up to watch the train pull into the station. The train is still pristine and clean, just as if it was a regular reaping day. It lulls to a stop and a few minutes later Effie pops out of the train, suitcases in hand. She wears something simple now, due to the rationing the Capitol has employed. All districts, including the Capitol, receive relatively the same amount of supplies. Which means no more fancy tiger pelts of the elites of Panem, including Effie.

Her dress is a simple sunshine yellow with small balls of fur sewn on. Her white heels tap onto the cement, and her eyes find my face. Effie’s face shines with delight at the sight of me and she dashes over to greet me. I dizzly rise up from my bench, my permanent hang-over still controlling me, and I quirk my lips into a dull smile. 

“Oh, Haymitch! It has been far too long.” She reaches up, grabbing my cheeks and peppering a kiss to each one. I roll my eyes and grab one of her suitcases that the train attendant brings out, the Avoxes having been freed from their enslavement and replaced with paid workers. She begins ranting about the newest fashion, updates from the capitol, and other miniscule details about a lovely lady she had become friends with on the train and oh— there she is! She walks over with a skip in her step to an elderly woman named Tress who apparently seems to be visiting various districts that she may want to move to. At first I am confused, until I remember that moving districts is allowed now. I greet her at Effie’s insistence and I stand around waiting for them to finish talking, fumbling with the suitcase’s handle.

It is not until 30 minutes pass that she finally kisses Tress on the cheek and hugs her that we can leave. I give Effie a glare which she quickly passes over, used to my annoyance after the decades we had been co-workers, and we begin the trek back to Victor’s Village.

Her hair is styled in a blonde wig today, and I wonder how many other wigs she has in her two suitcases. This one is simple though. The color is natural-looking and doesn’t have any pink or golden hints, which makes me study it more. Whoever had made the wig must have an extremely talented hand, I assume. 

Effie sees glaring at her hair instead of the road ahead of us, and gasps.

“Oh my, have you not heard?” She puts a hand to her mouth, as if I am lacking information on a topic of utmost importance. I quirk my eyebrow at her as my answer, temples still tingling in pain from my headache. Effie swirls her head around, short blonde hair swaying with her. It’s shorter than any wig I had seen her in before. 

“It is the newest trend in the Capitol. Everyone who's anyone wears their hair naturally now. And you know, Haymitch, I am never skipping a trend!” Her voice piques at the end, and I gape. Effie Trinket, with no wig? I smile slightly, shaking my head

“And I thought I would never see the day you go without a wig.” I say, Effie humming at me.

We reach Victor’s Village, and Peeta greets us on his porch. He had been drawing something in a small sketchpad on his lap which he pushes to the side when he stands. Effie lets out a noise of excitement, and drops her bags at my feet to trot over to the boy. Peeta has a small toothy smile plastered on his face; he is usually triggered by people coming from the Capitol, but I remind myself that they had both been taken and tortured by Snow. Peeta hadn’t told me, but Katniss did. They were separated but had heard each other's screams.

Effie kisses his cheeks and gives him a deep hug, and he hugs her back tight. When they separate, she gaps over how much he had grown, or how he looks so much healthier from the muscle he is gaining back. Peeta flushes at every little bit of change she gawks at, and he scratches the back of his neck. He then  spots the suitcases.

“Do you need help moving your things?” He gestures to the bags dropped on my feet which I refuse to pick up. She nods excitedly.

“Such a gentleman, Peeta! Really, Haymitch. You must improve your manners.” She tsks at me and struts down the porch and to the house next to Peeta’s. Peeta walks over and reaches down to grab the colorful bags by my feet, and we walk together behind Effie. A somewhat awkward silence falls over us. We haven’t talked since the day I told the two about Maysilee due to my crankiness from withdrawal. I clear my throat but no words come to mind.

Coming up to the house, Effie gently opens the front door and hums. Not as extravagant as her penthouse back in the Capitol I bet. Me and Peeta set her bags down by the door as she looks around the various rooms.

“My, did you clean the whole house for me, Peeta?” She breathes and Peeta smiles. 

“Don’t give me all the credit. I convinced Katniss to help too.” He says and Effie puts a hand to her mouth, golden bracelet sliding down her arm. She turns around with tears in her eyes and eyelashes fanning. 

“Oh…” she smiles at him, tilting her head, “I am…so proud of the progress you are making, Peeta.” She walks over to him and holds his shoulders, and suddenly I feel very left out on what is happening. What is she talking about?

Peeta slowly drops his smile while Effie walks away, exclaiming about the wallpapers. I think he can feel my eyes burning into his face, because he glances at me before quickly averting his gaze. He trudges upstairs to place her bags in one of the bedrooms. I know that Peeta had been keeping contact with Effie, but what has he told her that I don’t know? I roll my eyes and drop the suitcase by the stairs, walking over to the capitolite in the kitchen.  She is cheerfully grasping the curtains, judging their patterns and fabric quality. 

“Haymitch, don’t you think this would make a lovely outfit? Oh! I can just see it now!” She pulls the curtain up to me, adjusts the corners of the silky fabric but makes a face of distaste. 

“Not for you, then.” She says politely but her face reads as if I am, again, a soggy street rat. At least that’s what Maysilee next to me says. Effie drops the curtain and holds her fingertips together, looking around. 

“It really is a waste that these houses are not used. Are there not any refugees that need homes anymore?” She asks me. 

“We offered.” I say, shrugging. “Nobody was very interested. Some stayed temporarily while their houses were being rebuilt.” 

“Well, I would never leave such a lovely place. Of course, my place back home is much more…” she looks for a respectful word, “...decorated!” She chirps. But I catch a hint of hesitation in her tone. I had known this woman for years, so it may have slipped out of the notice of others, but there is something Effie isn’t telling me too.

I give her a questioning look and she clears her throat, chattering about something as she moves past me to talk to Peeta. Hmm.

**

A few days later and I wish my birthday could be done and over with. Effie has visited my house every day, multiple times. I have tried ignoring the door, but she somehow always barges in. She yaps to me about random things like how she had just had lunch with Tress from the train, how she thinks the lady would love living in 12. How much Effie dislikes going to the hob, but oh— the people are just so delightful! She has seemingly made friends with everyone in town in her opinion, though I know better. Decades of Effie calling out names at the reapings cannot be reverted so quickly. These people probably have known a kid who had been reaped, Effie calling their name out in delight as she escorted them to the Capitol. It could have been their sibling, their cousin, or even their child. They just want to be polite, and maybe they see like I had of how brainwashed she was. Effie Trinket is a good person, just blind enough to have accepted the Capitol’s ways. I think she understands now. I hope.

I begrudgingly help her unpack. Peeta stays and helps too, considering that Effie has way too many bags for just a one week trip. Each dress I pull out is somehow stranger to me than the next, at least, strange for Effie, as almost every single one of these dresses is somewhat normal. The most shocking thing to me, is that there is no wig. Effie. Effie Trinket has not brought a single wig. I guess the world really has changed.

Effie chatters both of our ears off and I am the first to leave. Effie is great and all, but after four months of basically no talking and spending days alone, my throbbing headache has increased tenfold. 

When I eventually stumble home my ghosts return. My temples throb and I groan when Woodbine runs through me; Louella chases after him with a stick in hand. I slump onto the couch, rubbing my eyes when the TV catches my attention. The mayoral elections for District 12 is tomorrow. I had been pushing it off from my mind, but I knew it would be coming soon. I had watched the elections proceed in each District for about a month now, and instead of District 12 being last it was now District 13. The TV shines bright with the candidates who I vaguely knew. A woman who’s my age, Mildred, a woman who looks to be a few years younger than me, Laurel, and a man that looks a decade older than me, Atticus. I have no desire to vote.

**

The new government had agreed to make the minimum voting age 18 much to Peeta’s distaste. Katniss is old enough to vote, her birthday having passed two months ago, though the idea of any more decision making made her exasperated. Peeta on the other hand wants to vote. It gives him some sense of control I think. But now, he insists I vote. Effie joins in thinking it as a fun new activity. I ignore them at first, but I decide to do it as we walk to the town square. Hell, I’m trying to improve, aren’t I?

The Justice Building is completely rebuilt and decorated with a new look. It’s called the District Center now to separate itself from its past, but we know better. The small mound of cement where the whipping post used to be sticks out like a sore thumb to the survivors gathered around the building. Peeta looks twitchy at the sight of the post and Katniss turns to him while they whisper to each other. Whatever she said to him he seems to settle down a bit, as the twitching dissolves to twiddling his fingers together. 

When we reach the inside of the building Effie gawks at the decoration. I hum approvingly; the wallpaper, the furniture, and even the little things like paintings all give a sense of home. The place looks just like any other rebuilt house in the district. We get in the line that connects to a hallway with a few separate rooms, each with three little boxes and slips of paper. A worker writes my name on a piece of paper, and I have to hand them something that identifies myself. I had been relying on blood tests since any certificate I had was burned down along with my family. I force my eyes shut when I hear their screams and feel the crackling of flames burn, face contorting into a grimace. 

“Haymitch? It is quite rude to block the line!” Effie’s whisper snaps me out of the hallucinations pulsing through my head. I open my eyes and look back up, the worker staring at me while he waits. I blink aggressively and wipe the sweat from my brow. 

“You have one of those uh…blood pricking things?” I grumble and surprisingly, he does. The man pulls out a white device and some surgical gloves, sliding the pair onto his hands. I hold out my hand and the tiny needle pricks my finger, the worker squeezing the blood out of it and lightly dabbing the blood onto a piece of paper. He scans it with the same device, which beeps and he allows me into the room. Peeta, Katniss, and Effie wait for me outside while I vote. I pick whoever Peeta talked about the most since I really didn’t do much research, and I trust what the kid says. I write Laurel’s name on the small piece of paper and slide it into the box.

 Joining the others, Peeta thanks me and Effie chirps about how exciting that was. Her life must be pretty boring now if she had found that exciting, but I'm sucked out of any fun thoughts when we push through the doors of the District Center. A group of people wearing grey militaristic suits are now gathered outside of the building. They have a bright blue patch on their back with the new flag of Panem on it and I curse to myself. They have the same exact helmets as the Peacekeepers, and each carry a taser.

Peeta takes a sharp breath in and freezes. He blinks rapidly and murmurs something to himself, but I can see his pupils dilating in size. I turn to Katniss and we both have the same look of acknowledgement on our faces. 

“Peeta—” Katniss is cut off by Peeta, “NO!” He yells, clutching his head with his hands. Shit. Slowly, I walk over to the boy and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinches away and gapes at me, eyes dark and darting everywhere. 

“It’s not real kid. Whatever is going through your brain right now, it’s not real.” I say softly, trying to soothe him. He shoves me away and clutches at his hair now, his mumbling getting louder. One of the officers turns up to us, a worried look plastered on her face.

“Is everything okay here?” She questions and Peeta turns to her. His chest rises and falls too fast and I know he is hyperventilating. I see his face shift completely to something else and I can feel a twinge of panic in my gut. I’ve seen this look before. Peeta’s face contorts into a scowl, turning around to Katniss. He begins to talk, moving a shaking hand up slightly but he notices the stares, the whispers of people gathering around. One of the officers moves towards him, hand reaching out. He snaps.

“No! I- I’m not going back!” He screams, voice catching in his throat. He slaps the hand away but more people crowd up on us. Katniss’ eyes widen and her brows furrow.

“Stop! You’ll only make it worse,” She begins and moves towards the officers but Peeta catches her. He holds her in an iron grip, his jaw parted as if he is trying to speak. He blinks his reddening eyes harshly, sweat forming in pearls across his face. 

“No…no, I…” Peeta mutters confusingly. I step towards them slowly and cautiously, I don’t want to make this situation worse, but my ghosts are piling up on me now. Wellie is crying by an officer, Ampert is screaming for help somewhere, and a fire burns my back. I hear Sid and my ma’s screams. I see Burdock’s death in the mines as I come between the two, Peeta refusing to release her hands. Peeta’s grimace deepens and he now looks at me in anger. 

“Move! Don’t you see her? She…She…” It looked like his brain was fighting between itself, a flash of recognition and the shrinking of his pupils courses through him and he stumbles away, releasing Katniss gripping his head again. Katniss pushes me aside with bruised hands and rushes up to Peeta. She puts her hands on his shoulders and looks into his eyes. 

“Peeta. Look at me, it’s not real. I’m here, you aren’t at the Capitol anymore. Snow can’t-” She is cut off when Peeta punches her across the face. 

She falls away, clutching her face in pain and looks up at him in shock. He pauses for a moment and his face flashes in hurt, anger, confusion, but all disappear as he trudges towards her again. I cut him off when my fist meets his face. 

Effie gasps and gathers her hands to her mouth, along with a few other people in the crowd. Peeta clutches his nose, cursing under his breath before falling to the ground. My chest heaves. Ghosts circle me and scream, laugh, cry, cry for help, scream in pain or- or anger. I can’t tell. Katniss rises from behind me and I can feel my knuckles throbbing from the hit.

“You idiot! You just made everything worse!” She screams at me, shoving me away and stumbling over to Peeta. Effie stares at me for a few beats but I don’t meet her eyes. Peeta writhes on the floor, hands moving to his hair while blood pours from his nose. He’s sobbing uncontrollably. 

I hesitantly move to the two. I can hear him now, whispering nonsense to himself while tears and snot mix together on the floor. Katniss is crouched beside him trying to soothe him. 

“They’ll murder us.” I freeze at his whisper. Does he know? Did they tell him this? To say this? Is this another way to torment me? Was killing everyone I love not enough?

Effie walks over to us, bends down and talks to Katniss.

“We should bring him home.” She whispers to them, and Katniss nods blankly. They reach under his arms and lift him up while he continues to whisper. I faintly acknowledge a bruise forming on Katniss’ eye. Lou Lou screams in my ears and I cannot think of anything. I cannot think of how to help, I may have just made everything worse.

I don’t know how, but I am home. The sun is still out, but I am kept up in my house. Ghosts yell at me. They cry, they scream, but I can’t distinguish between their calls anymore. It is just a swirling mess of colors and blood and the smell of roses sting the inside of my nose and I clutch my head, falling to the floor. I taste salt, and I realize my mouth is open. I am joining the ghosts in their screams but I do not know who I scream for. Do they?

I rip at my hair and rise too fast, my stomach swirls with nausea and blackness fills my eyes. I yell and punch whatever is next to me and I feel the pain of glass shards cutting into my hands, so I scream more. It is too hot in my house, sweat clings to the back of my neck and I feel even more gross than I usually am. It’s like a humid cloud is clinging to my body and won’t let go, yet I feel freezing cold at the same time. My body shakes and twitches like I’m just as crazed as Peeta. Maybe I am, in my own way.

Someone rings my doorbell. I yank my head to look at the door, and see Effie slip in. 

“Haymitch?” She calls out before landing her eyes on me. She swallows and fidgets with her hands while walking over to me. I turn my head away and grimace. 

She stands next to me for a moment, not saying a word. She opens her mouth, but it seems she can’t find the right words to comfort me.

“Just spit it out. What did I do?” I mutter, glancing at her while my eyebrows crease. 

“Peeta is fine. Me and Katniss left him in his house to rest after…well,” she nervously laughs, “...well, Katniss is fine as well. Well, at least, I presume she is fine. Honestly, she really needs to remember our lessons in manners because she just- left without a word! Not very ladylike, if you ask me.” She laughs again, her face now displaying worry. I scoff and turn back to sulking and staring at the wall. I run a shaking hand through my curls and push back my tears, ghosts still screaming at me. 

Your fault. I would have lived, if it weren’t for you.

You ruined our lives. I could have thrived, if it weren’t for you.

It’s your fault you never got to see me grow. I would have lived, if you had actually thought things through.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

It’s your fault.

Lenore Dove does not call to me, does not scream, and she does not talk. She stands there, her face mocking me by it’s blankness. She refuses to sing, refuses to tell me her ideas, her secrets. I am not worthy.

I throw my punch to the wall and clutch my face between my hands and fall to the floor, a sob racketing through my body. Effie breathes and puts a light hand on my shoulder, crouching down to join me. 

“It’s not your fault, Haymitch. Peeta had hurt her, of course you would want-” 

“Shut up!” I scream in her face, turning to her. My anger and despair pours over the tight jar I had kept it stuffed in and I begin to lose it. 

“You don’t understand anything, Effie. You never did! You never cared enough to, you stood there and accepted what was fed to you. You never suffered like we did. You never even acknowledged it!” I roar at her and she stiffens.

“My whole family dies the day I get home, in a house fire. My-” My voice cracks as tears run down my flushed cheeks. “My girl… Poisoned gumdrops, bloodred, smelled like roses.” My voice begins to choke and I spit out any words I can. I wobbly point at Effie.

“You brushed it all off.” I croak. Effie takes a deep breath and looks down, her face scrunching up.

“I lost everything and everyone I knew, that I loved, in one year. But you kept going like it was fun. Every time you called out one of those kids’ names at the reapings you enjoyed it. You loved the fame, the money, you didn’t give a shit about us! You’re just like the rest of them.” I spit at her and she turns back up to me as a tear runs down her cheek. 

“I may have been blind.” She spits back, her throat tight and holds back her words.

 “But I cared. Maybe you were too drunk to remember, but every time one of those precious kids died I cried. I haven’t forgotten a single one of them!” Her voice waivers, tone sharp.

“I’m sorry, Haymitch. That I was such a….gullible person before. I may still be. But don’t think for a second that I did not suffer either.” She sucks a deep breath in and bites her lip, bright pink lipstick catching onto her teeth.

“Prosie…she…” Effie pauses, whatever memory flowing through her mind is painful, “...she was tortured. She died infront of me, and I couldn’t help. I was forced to watch over the weeks what they did to her.” She sobs, putting her palms to her eyes. I suck in a breath and look away, and I recognize that I screwed up for the second time today. I flex a hand through my hair, and wipe my eyes as Wellie’s bell rings repeatedly through my ears.

“Shit, Effie I…” I whisper, my throat dry and sore. She wipes her eyes and moves her hands away, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry. Just..” She rises and dusts off her dress and clears her throat.

“I will see you tomorrow, Haymitch.” Her voice returns to normal and she turns and walks out the door. I stumble to follow her but it’s too late. Panache laughs from behind me, Silka smirking at me. Laughter fills my ears but so do screams, more and more screams make my ears ring again and I clutch my hands to them, trying to block it out but it only reverberates more. My headache seems to be splitting my head open and before I can tell what happened, I am on the floor again. Sharp and dull pains ache throughout my body and I just want nothing more than to wake up and find out this was just a 40 year long coma. I want my ma, I want my pa, I just want my family back. 

I clench my eyes shut hard and squeeze the tears out of my eyes. Where is Lenore Dove? Have I forsaken her? Do I not deserve to see her ever again? I spiral more and more and I curse everything. I curse myself, it’s my fault all this shit happened. I made everything worse by trying to save everyone in the arena. The explosion would’ve never worked and all I did was hurt, not help. I killed Maysilee, Lou Lou, Wyatt, Ampert, Wellie, Ma, Sid, Lenore Dove….

My list continues as the time passes. I am guilty, guilty for causing pain to everyone I love. I hurt Burdock, and I now hurt his only living daughter. I hurt Otho’s last living boy, and I had just hurt Effie. I thought that maybe, maybe my life would start to heal when the war was over. I was proven wrong again. I curse myself, I curse my family, I curse the Capitol. But, as I drift into a pitiful sleep on the floor of my living room, I know that everything had been my fault in the first place.

Chapter Text

“Happy Birthday Haymitch!” 

A bright and preppy voice wakes me from my sleep. I grumble, moving around on the floor where I fell asleep last night. An ancient bottle of whiskey lays beside me covered in dirt— I must've dug it up from my emergency stash yesterday. I fling my hand around and groan, trying to shoo Effie off. She is persistent in waking me up and lightly taps my side with her shoe.

“Get up, get up!” She chirps while shoving me around. “We have a big, big day ahead of us! You only turn forty-one once, you know!” 

“Go away, Effie.” I grunt into the floor. She pretends not to notice my complaints and instead nudges me harder with her foot. I let out a muffled grumble and slowly push on the floor, raising my body up. Sitting and leaning against the wall, Effie watches me with a bright smile on her face. I roll my eyes.

“I have a surprise for you today, Haymitch.” She practically beams at me and I wonder if she has short-term memory loss and completely forgot about last night. I wipe the cold sweat from my brow as my stomach swirls with nausea. My temple throbs in pain from even the slightest movement; did I seriously get this hungover from one bottle?

Effie claps her hands together and squints her eyes at me. 

“Well, you really must clean yourself up. You have to be presentable for today!” 

She lightly scolds me while gesturing with her hands. 

“I don’t think today should be a day of celebrating.” I mumble with a dry voice.

Effie lightly bites her lip and looks to the floor besides me. She seems to be inspecting the whisky bottle before speaking again.

“Well…” she pauses, “...I want this day to have a better meaning. Of course, it always meant your birthday too but…oh, you know what I mean!” She gestures wildly at me, and I have to give her credit for trying to explain. And I do understand her. But I feel too guilty about last night to go out celebrating myself while others would be mourning the past reapings. Or are they celebrating today? Effie seems to notice this in my expression, and gives me a concerned look. After a few beats she seems to lose her patience for me sitting around and staring at her.

“Come on, now!” She reaches down to me and puts her arms under my armpits while grunting. I furrow my eyebrows at her, surprised she would actually touch my sweat-soaked shirt and push her away, getting up myself.

“I can get up myself!” I exasperate as I wobbly rise up. She makes a poorly-disguised disgusted face at her hands and tries to look for somewhere to wipe, finding a stray towel on the floor. My eyes feel like they’re ready to pop out of my head. My brain is throbbing with every pump of my heart, I rub my temples to try and soothe the pain.

After I had fallen asleep last night, I woke up and fell into a rage. I broke windows, punched holes in walls, but mostly screamed at walls and ghosts. That’s where I dug up my emergency stash of alcohol and got blazingly drunk. Most of it is a blur of memories I can’t distinguish from real or not real— which has me feeling more like the boy— and all I can hope for is that I didn’t cause any permanent damage.

I stumble after Effie as she trots through the house. Her hands gesturing in the air as she talks, which worsens the pulsating pain in my head. She keeps talking as if everything is fine. Is everything fine? Did yesterday just…not happen? Effie stops before the door, suddenly remembering something.

“Oh! Haymitch,” she turns around, “I really wanted to get you one of those thin layered cakes. You know, the ones with the crepes? And the frosting in between. It’s a dish I loved as a little girl. But Peeta had told me it was a common delicacy here in District 12, for birthdays. He was originally going to make one, but….” She trails off, looking away. 

The cake my ma had made me all those years ago is now fresh in my memory. It had taken her days to create, saving up all our family could to celebrate. Effie was going to have Peeta make me one? My face softens slightly. 

Effie clears her throat and brushes invisible dust off of her dress. 

“Come along, now!” I silently follow her out the door, squinting when the sunlight hits me. Steam billows from Peeta’s chimney, and I can distantly hear clunking coming from his house. Katniss’ house is barren. Presumably out hunting. I look back to Effie as my eyebrows scrunch up.

Suddenly, Peeta’s door flings open. The boy holds a woven basket full of breads: sourdough, dense rye bread with raisins, cinnamon dusted rolls, and variously colored cheese buns. He catches my eyes and he pauses, stunned. I rub my neck and sigh, then walk over to him. I need to apologize.

“I’m sorry, kid,” I admit to him, “...I really could’ve handled that better.” He looks at me, jaw slack, and I take in his appearance. A bruise swells right where I punched him and my stomach pools with even more guilt, but he closes his mouth and looks to the ground.

“No…I-” he begins, but sighs, “I don’t blame you. I mean- I was about to do it. Hit her.” He spits out the last part like it hurts him. Looking into his eyes, I know it does. 

“It just….takes over me. It creeps up over time, and I try to-to paint it or bake it away, or talk to you guys more, but it doesn’t matter. It’s always there.” He whispers. 

“Every night since the quarter quell has been the same. Nightmares, extreme nightmares after the capitol, and especially after we won. I hear these people talking to me, telling me everything I ever did wrong. About my family, about the other tributes, the mutts, about Katniss.” His breath grows faster, but when he looks back down at the basket he pauses. Peeta swallows.

“I felt it yesterday morning, like there were wasps in my head. The whispers weren’t quiet anymore, I should’ve known not to go. So don’t apologize, I guess.” He mumbles and fidgets with his bitten fingernails. I bite my cheek, Effie looks pityingly at the boy.

“I…should apologize too.” I gruff out. “We’re alike in that sense, you know? Shit buzzes all over in my head, too. Every single day for 27 years now. Now I bet you have some stranger voices than me but I’ll still say that I understand you, kid.” Peeta looks up from the basket with eyebrows furrowed.

“Hell, it happened to me yesterday too. Everyone was screaming or crying or watching me and everything just blew over the top. So, I’ll apologize. I’ve had all these years of dealing with it and you’ve only had a couple of months. Nobody expects you to be perfect. I definitely don’t.” I pat his shoulder and give him a thin smile. He takes a moment but nods and gives a quick and small smile to me. Letting my arm fall I snatch one of the raisin filled rye loaves and take a bite before he can grab it back. 

“Now, good luck with the girl.” I mumble, voice muffled by the bread as Peeta’s face grows slightly pale at the mention of Katniss. He swallows and mumbles a thanks before beginning to walk off. Effie catches him by the shoulder and whispers something to him. Whatever it was he agrees and Effie smiles at him while he trots off. I huff out my nose and look at her. 

“What?” She turns to look at me. I raise my eyebrows.

“What do you mean, what? I’d like to be let in on whatever it is you and Peeta have kept secret from me.” I tilt my head at her slightly. She rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“Oh, shush. Nothing you need to know. Anyways, we really must be going.” She gestures with her hand for me to follow her as she sets off and out of Victor’s Village. 

We trudge along somewhat quietly. Effie chatters about the view, or a passing woman’s dress made of patchwork handkerchiefs. She brings up my own patchwork dress shirt my ma had made for me on reaping day, and I snicker at her. She responds honestly to my laugh and says that it was “very out-there”. I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not. 

We get to town and there are banners decorating the newly-rebuilt storefronts. People are celebrating together for the first year of no games. Families, although damaged with burns, missing limbs, cuts, deep wounds, and missing members are gathering together in the square. A little boy runs past me and his dark curls bounce along with his steps. He holds a small bag of candy— from the Donner’s shop— and a young woman standing with crutches smiles at him. He goes up to her and giggles as she kisses the top of his head when they sit. I feel a small smile on my face as I remember my own ma’s kisses, Sid’s curls in my face when we slept in the same bed as kids, when I would protect him from the monsters under his bed. My smile fades. I guess I couldn’t save him from the real monsters.

Me and Effie pass by some more construction further into town. They’re building completely new shops or other residences now where nothing had been laid before, and I wonder where they got the money from. Distributing Capitolite wealth? Destroying mansions and selling the remains? No, who would have the money to buy such things besides the past owners? 

I see the Donner’s shop further ahead. It’s in the same place the old one was before it was bombed, but it’s not completely done yet. I had never stopped by after the games. I rarely ever went to town for anything besides the reaping in the first place. Inside the shop, the relative I met is inside. She wears a cream dress and her face is bright while serving a customer. I keep a mental note to visit sometime soon.

When we reach the end of the construction, the path ends into a field of grass. The barren tree trunks lay close by—ones destroyed by the bombing. If you follow this path for a while It’ll lead towards the meadow where my Lenore Dove sings through the breeze. Effie hmms discontentedly at the grass.

“It used to be so beautiful here. It really is such a shame.” She sighs. I hum in accordance. So, Effie had explored District 12 before? That’s new to me. 

Effie pulls out a thin gray cloth. She lifts it up and begins to place it around my eyes but I lightly shove her arms away.

“The hell are you doin’?” I exasperate at her and she rolls her eyes.

“Come on Haymitch, I’m not going to kidnap you. I'm taking you to your surprise, of course!” She gawks, as if I should’ve expected this. I laugh and shake my head at her taking it as a joke. Her face remains stern. She’s not joking?

“Is the blindfold really necessary?” I say bluntly. She takes her turn to shake her head at me.

“Of course it is. Do you want your birthday to be any fun?” She says.

I stare at her for a few moments before sighing.

“Alright. You can blind me.” She smiles and ties the thin fabric around my eyes. I can still see somewhat through the blindfold, but I close my eyes to please her. 

We walk for a few minutes. The sun rises to it’s peak in the sky and I sweat slightly; my hangover still throbs at the back of my eyes but the nausea seems to have lessened. I can hear birds chirping to each other in the distance, a raven calls from behind me. A mourning dove coos from somewhere close to me and my heart swells. Is she here with me now?

Effie pauses after a while. The mood seems to have shifted, and I keep quiet. The mourning dove had followed us along to wherever we are now and sits besides me. Effie steps in front of me, I can hear the flats of her shoes lightly padding against the grass. She reaches up, her soft and well-manicured fingers lift the fabric from my eyes. I blink somewhat harshly against the sun and look at her. She has a soft smile on her face but her eyes show concern—is she worried? I look at her until she steps aside. She gestures with her head to whatever lays in front of me. I turn ahead.

The grass is well-kept. Any sign of the weeds that had grown over the decades are gone, and the stone is polished and glimmers in the summer sun. My breath catches at the back of my throat. I haven’t been here in years.

Ahead of me lies the Abernathy plot. People in town had kept it up for a couple of years after the fire happened, but they would eventually disappear too. I was too weak to visit them. I thought that if I showed any emotion in an area where I almost knew there were cameras or watchers or Peacekeepers— my family plot would somehow fade away too. 

The stone block is scrubbed clean of the moss and dirt that surely caked it. Various flowers lay on top and surrounding it, some weaved into a pattern and some planted in different designs. Effie begins to talk.

“I wanted to give you something more meaningful than something silly, like the years past. I thought of it yesterday after the whole…argument.” Effie begins softly, “You were right, I realized. Now I know It’s only been a few months since the end of the war but…I feel so different. Everything is different. My life, my home, my world, my family…and some if really just suffocates me sometimes. But…” she pauses, putting a hand on my back. 

“You, Katniss, and Peeta all remind me of how much I have going for me now. Prosie may not be with me anymore but…I have a new family. I see her in him, you know. They have that same spark for life. Well…” she tears up and looks back at the plot, “...she used to.”

I look over to her now. The world is hazy and wet and I realize there are tears in my eyes, too. Sid is whistling while weaving flowers together. Maysilee is teaching him while my twin sisters giggle over something, my mamaw watches them from where she sits with Ma and Pa. A warm and sweet humming fills my ears like honey and I know my girl is here too. 

“I’m sorry.” I choke out and realize I had been holding my breath the whole time, my chest and throat sore from misuse. 

“It- It was ignorant of me. To say that. I know you, Effie I…” I shake my head and rub my eyes. Effie deserves for me to be real with her. Everyone does. The capitol’s lies were enough for one lifetime.

“I was angry with myself yesterday. Not an excuse but…’guess I just want to tell you why. And the withdrawal didn’t help either.” I mutter. My eyes sting further as I forcibly blink away the tears, looking up to the sky.

Effie is silent next to me for once in my life. She stares at me with a saddened smile, one that I return. She tilts her head and her smile turns into a small grimace, her eyes squinting and tears glisten on her powdered cheeks.

“Does it ever go away?” She chokes and I answer in a hug, shaking my head against her shoulder and I can feel myself break. A sob slips through my throat and a tear slides down my cheek, falling onto the fabric of her dress. 

“Never.”

We hold onto each other as the crushing wave of grief takes over us. Our shoulders are wet with tears and I don’t remember the last time I let myself break like this infront of someone. Has it been since the funeral, since the day I said goodbye forever? It is weird knowing that my ma will never get to see me now. Would she be alive, if everything was okay? My pa? Sid? My sweetheart of old, my girl, my sister? I count over and over in my head of every person I had lost as I clench my eyes shut against Effie’s sun-warmed shoulder. She’s right. I still have a family.

My hands hold her back, but I move them to her shoulders as I push away. I use a hand to wipe my eyes and use my arm to wipe my nose. Effie blinks rapidly and lightly pats her face with a cloth, but her makeup has already been damaged. Taking a deep breath I stumble over to the plot, slowly sinking to my knees while my hand traces the names.

ABERNATHY

BAYLOR ABERNATHY

LISTON ABERNATHY

ELITHE ABERNATHY

ALMARINE ABERNATHY & ANNA MAY ABERNATHY

WILLAMAE ABERNATHY

SIDNEY ABERNATHY

My papaw, pa, mamaw, ma, sisters, and brother’s names are each hand carved into the white stone. My gaze reaches the flowers by the time Effie sits down next to me. White Chrysanthemums are weaved together to make a boutique, while others are planted by the stone. Smaller yellow, pink, red, and purple flowers lay around too. Effie lightly grasps one of the plants.

“I bought them from the Hob. A lovely older man had planted them just in time for bloom.” She whispers, her voice still hoarse. 

“He seemed tired. Had a very stern look to him, though. He had a fiddle too.”

I perk up at this. A fiddle? The only fiddle player that lives in District 12 I know is Clerk Carmine. I knew he had survived the bombings, since he was at Finnick and Annie’s wedding as the musician. I guess he couldn’t leave either even if he is the last of the Covey. I vaguely wonder if the others would have begun traveling, and I don’t know the answer. Did he finally accept twelve as his home, after these years of being forced to stay? Or did his loved ones keep him trapped? I wonder if he had placed a new headstone for Tam Amber since the bombing at the Covey graveyard.

“A fiddle player?” I ask. She nods, and I look back at the flowers. I move one around in my hand, inspecting it. Sid finishes his woven flower crown, which he places on Louella’s head while she giggles at him. Maysilee laughs too.

“I probably know him. There’s only one fiddle player left in twelve, anyways.” I murmur. “He’s my girl’s uncle.” Effie turns to me with a gasp.

“Really?” I nod and she furrows her brows. 

“I wish I had known.” She responds sadly, looking back to the flower in her hand.

We sit there for a half an hour. I tell her small stories about Sid, my ma, my pa, or my mamaw. In return she tells me little stories about Proserpina, and her own parents. Sometimes we laugh; about Sid falling on his face during a game of tug-of-war and getting a facefull of mud, or Proserpina trying makeup for the first time and looking like a deranged clown. But we reminisce about them nonetheless. Sid gazing up into the stars, his eyes shine with a never-to-be-fulfilled future. Prosie ranting on and on about her contracts as a fashion designer. I hug her shoulder when it catches up to us, the idea that they could have had a brighter life. If only we had not been involved.

.

.

.

After a while we get up and leave. Effie tells me about how she got the flowers organized to her liking, and how she got help in cleaning the plaque. My heart feels less heavy than it did this morning as we head back home. A comfortable silence falls over us, Effie sometimes bringing up one of the rebuilt stores or something that reminds her of something back home, but my thoughts are full of my family. I wonder what they would be doing today, if it weren’t for me. Even though I feel like a shackle has been lifted from my hands, that I can tell the truth to my loved ones, a part of me still feels an immense guilt. That porcelain pitcher of milk still taunts me constantly, and I can hear his sickly, unnaturally smooth voice still play through every part of my brain: to enjoy my homecoming. Do I have the right to tell them? Do I deserve it, after these years of failure? Forty-six dead tributes suddenly burn in my eyes and I bite my cheek, looking down to the ground as we walk.

Sid walks next to us. His hands are busy trying to figure out a new pattern Maysilee had taught him, Burdock walks with us too and whistles a song. Prosie chatters along with Effie, and I resist my slight urge to smile. Maybe, I can remember on my own now; I don’t need to get them involved anymore. I don’t need to hurt anyone more than I already have. I’m reminded of yesterday’s incident and I realize that I should try and fix what I screwed over; when we walk through the gates steam still billows out in clouds out of Peeta’s chimney, the one connecting to the oven. Katniss’ house is still barren, but I see no sign of the basket Peeta most definitely delivered to her. Did they talk yet? I decide to answer this question myself and before I know it, my fist rams at her door before letting myself in. We really need to install locks.

I hear a crashing noise from inside the house, Katniss comes rushing out to greet me. Her eyes spark with hope until she sees that it’s just me and not her boy with bread. Her face falls to a scowl.

“What do you want?” she says accusingly. Effie starts but I cut her off.

“Listen, I know everything was going well for you two. Then everything blew up in our faces yesterday and really ruined all the good. And I’ll apologize for that. There was a lot of shit going on and I handled it like it too, so I’m sorry. But you can’t blame him for this.”

“I’m not.” She scoffs, I shake my head.

“Then why are you cooped up in here? Don’t you see what this will make him think?”

She stares at me quietly and I know she’s going through twenty different outcomes at once. 

“Stop overthinking this. I know you are.” I exaggerate and her scowl sharpens.

“I’m sorry I don’t have the same situation handling skills as you, Haymitch. I guess not everyone is just as perfect as you.”

I let out a haughty laugh. Well I’ll be, Katniss Everdeen has a sense of humor now! We truly are a reborn country.

“That’s a good one. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. Finally learning to live a little loose.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Anyways, let’s go fix things before shit really hits the fan.” I move over to her, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her along with us. Effie seems to disapprove of my methods as she shoots me a good glare before chattering away with Katniss. The girl doesn’t respond much but seems happier to have a woman talking to her instead of me. My body itches for a drink right about now.

We walk over to Peeta’s porch, and I lazily knock while opening the door. He speeds around in the kitchen, flecks of paint scattered across his hands and face. Flour practically coats him and the room as he makes various types of breads and pastries all simultaneously. Different packs of the bread wrapped in cloth are stacked on whatever surface he could find. Seems like he’s putting together donations to the district. 

As he scurries to the kitchen island he spots me and looks up, mouth agape. His eyes catch on Katniss and he freezes, mouth closing as he swallows nervously. The girl stands still next to me too, gaze frozen. A few moments pass by silently and awkwardness fills the room like a blanket on a hot day. Peeta sets his hands down onto the wooden cutting board that lays on the countertop; he mutters something to himself and looks down.

“I’m sorry,” he says sorely, “I told Haymitch a few hours ago and…don’t know if he told you this, but I knew. That something would happen.” He spares a glance up at her. She watches him quietly, her gaze unreadable but slightly softer than it was before. Peeta looks beside her to me, and I read his expression. He wants to talk to her alone. I turn to Effie, leaning to her ear.

“Let’s let them talk this out themselves.” I whisper and she nods. We turn around and before I walk out the door I give Peeta a nod, Katniss watches us leave and I close the door behind Effie. She purses her lips, face full of worry.

“I hope everything will turn out alright.” She sighs.

“The boy is good with his words. Capitol might’ve screwed him up some but they could never truly take that away from him. It’ll be alright.” I reassure her and she nods, eyebrows still furrowed. 

I’m halfway to my house before I realize something. I don’t want to simmer in my memories today, especially not alone. I know I’ll inevitably end up drunk and angry no matter how much progress I made today, so I turn around. 

“Effie!” I yell over to her and she looks back to me a little stunned. 

“What’s the matter?” She yells back. I clear my throat to yell back but I choose to jog closer, not wanting to interrupt any talking inside the boy’s house.

“I have an idea for something. Come here.” I gesture for her to follow me and she gives me a confused look, but ultimately takes me up on my offer. I head over to the girl’s house. Effie grows more confused as we go, her face not hiding anything. We go inside and I walk upstairs to the room where the memory book is held. I find it in the center of the study, laying on a newly placed table. I sit down in the matching wooden chair; a small knife, some glue, and various other art supplies lay organized beside the book. I grab a calligraphy pen and splay open the book to an open page. Effie comes from behind me, looking over my shoulder. 

“What is it?” She says, and I flip to Maysilee’s page. 

“Katniss had the idea a couple months ago now. Her family has a book full of plants, it was started by the March’s but Burdie continued making it. She thought it would be a good idea to make one for people. They call it their memory book.” I trace the drawing of the mockingjay pin with the tip of my finger. Effie lightly touches the page and I let go, letting her flip through the book. Prim’s page causes her to pause, eyes shimmering for the second time today. She absorbs every single word written about the girl: and on the next pages of Rue, Burdock, Finnick, Cinna, and Boggs. Pages that I hadn’t seen before. 

When we get back to Maysilee’s page she pauses again. She pulls a hand to her mouth, before speaking.

“She really did have an eye for fashion. Do you remember? At the old tribute center, when I dressed you all?” I smile at the memory of the two girls bonding over their love for style.

“She was always knocking us for our outfit choices.” I hum and Effie laughs 

“She had every right to. Don’t think I forgot those flour sack shorts you had on at the reaping.” I roll my eyes at her and shake my head. 

“My ma worked with what we got.” I say quietly. Effie turns back to the book with a slightly guilty expression. I flip the page and pick up my pen, and I hear the flutter of wings from one of the open windows. I see a mourning dove, again, perched on the windowsill. She turns her head and coos at me, a small smile warms my face. Lenore Dove seems to tell me whenever I am safe, whenever I can be open. So, I reach into the pocket of my shirt and grasp the old, yellowed photo I keep with me to all the places I go. It's a picture of me, Sid, Ma, and Pa. Sid is pretty young and moving like a baby goat which makes him look blurry. It’s the only picture we could ever afford to take, with the combined salary of my parents and their savings making up for it. We could never afford much else than necessities after my pa’s death, anyways. 

Taking the picture out of my pocket I smooth it out on the table, trying to get the worst of the folds out fails to do me any good. I hum in annoyance and rip off some pieces of tape, sticking one to each corner of the photo. The tape latches onto the parchment page as I place it onto the book. Taking the pen, I write in the fanciest script I can manage. 

ABERNATHY

.

.

.

Effie and I have filled two pages of our own. I write down every little detail I can remember about my family, and she follows suit. She adds scraps of ribbon or chiffon that she pulls out from her own pockets, and I realise that I am not alone in carrying my loved ones belongings. I take a quick trip to my house and grab a book I had found a couple of years ago: a book about the stars. I tear some of the pictures from the seam of the book and tape it next to my section of Sid. 

“Haymitch!?” Katniss yells from the first floor, her voice tainted somewhat with panic. 

“We’re upstairs, dear!” Effie calls out to her, still taping a piece of fabric to Prosie’s page. Footsteps faintly echo through the hall until the door slams open, the girl looking stressed. She takes a few quick looks at us and realizes that we are not dying or hurt or being taken somewhere, and settles. Heavier and more clumsy footsteps follow her, and Peeta walks into the room holding something behind him. I raise my eyebrows at the two, waiting for one of them to talk. Peeta clears his throat.

“I-” he corrects himself, “...we have a gift for you.” He slowly adjusts his hands in front of him, and he holds out a poorly disguised box. A linen cloth is wrapped around it, and I walk over to open them. As I discard the wrapping from the box a cake greets me. Not just a normal cake, but the thinly-layered frosted cake that my mother had made for me once. A toothy smile breaks out on my face— an emotion which I hadn’t felt since both of them walked out of the 74th games as victors, seeps into my bones. I look up to the two of them and laugh quietly, shaking my head.

“You made this? Just now?” I ask, and Peeta smiles at me now.

“Katniss helped me.” He adds and I look over to her. 

“So you’re a baker now, sweetheart?” Katniss rolls her eyes at me and I nudge her shoulder, earning me a slight smile from the girl. Effie wafts the smell of the cake to her nose and beams at the two of them.

“It smells delicious you two! Let’s have some downstairs. It’ll be a lovely lunch.” She coos, and Peeta flushes a bit.

“Thanks.” He adds and follows her out the door, Katniss following soon after. I begin to leave, but the song of the mourning dove in the window calls to me. A warm breeze fills the room and my heart swells further. I turn around, looking the bird in the eyes as a hand with paint-flecked fingers touches my shoulder, soothing me. She lightly pecks my neck, sneaking her other arm around my back, resting her head on my neck. I close my eyes and breathe her in, her hair smells like the honey tallow hand crafted by her uncles, but her skin smells like the pine needles in the meadow. The sun warms us, and I can hear my name being called from the first floor. Lenore Dove gently pushes me away and looks me in the eye—her evergreen gaze are pooled with love and I feel my heart ache. 

“Happy Birthday, Haymitch.”

Chapter Text

My hand knocks lazily on Peeta’s door while I walk in, the whole lock situation still has not been figured out. The late summer breeze drifts through the open windows and carries the scent of cooking bread and ripe tomatoes, the boy shuffling around in the kitchen. He turns at the sound of my footsteps and flashes me a brief smile.

“Hey, Haymitch. Effies outside,” he turns back to the oven, pulling out three loaves of bread, “Katniss should be here soon.” Peeta wipes some sweat from his forehead.

“Where is she? I thought this was her whole idea anyway.” I ask, adjusting the bottles in my hand.

Peeta laughs out his nose.

“Out in the forest. She insisted on it, actually. I was going to go to the butcher for whatever meat they had, but that wasn’t what she had planned. She’s been gone for a few hours now.” I hum and walk over to the door leading to the deck. Effie is leaning over and fussing about the charcuterie board laid out on the table, thinly sliced meats and various cheeses are arranged in flower-like patterns. Grapes and crackers sit in white porcelain bowls. I set the bottles of wine onto the table which startles Effie out of her concentration. Her dress is far too fancy for a little dinner party, especially for district twelve, but at least she's moved away from the rainbow wigs. Effie shines a bright smile at me and leans up from the decorative flowers she is placing on the board.

“You brought my favorite wine! Oh, Haymitch, how sweet of you.” She flutters over and pecks two quick air kisses to my cheeks, quick and aired with capitol politeness. I smile back at her. I had no idea this was her favorite wine at all, not even a clue from our years in close proximity. I had only picked the fanciest name out of the catalog every citizen received from the capitol for orders. She picks up the bottle from where I had set it down, it had been produced years before the rebellion, its age adding to its flavor but also a reminder of the times before. Its golden label shimmers brightly in the sun as Effie looks around the table for anything to use to uncork it. 

“May I?” I ask, gesturing for the bottle, and she hands it over to me. I slide one of my shoes off and place the bottle inside while I catch a confused look from the capitolite, and I put the shoe up to the wall. With just enough force I start banging it against the wall while Effie gasps.

“What are you doing?! Haymitch-” She titters over but I stop before she makes me, sliding the wine bottle out of the shoe. Easily grasping the cork out, Effie scrunches her eyebrows.

“The perks of being a drinker,” I say, accentuating the words as I tip the bottle out to her with an extra flourish. Effie gives me a light and amused laugh while I pour the wine into two glasses. She delicately clasps one of them, swirling it around for a few seconds before giving it a tentative sip and humming approvingly. 

“Mmm. Perfect.” She grins as footsteps in the grass sound from behind me. I turn, glass in hand, and catch sight of Katniss towards the deck, bow attached to her back and game bag clutched in hand. Some dirt is smudged on her cheek, boots grasping to clumps of grass and weeds. Her braid is half-unraveled and a leaf has somehow wedged itself into the strand of dark hair. 

“Well,” I say, eyebrows raised. “Look what the woods dragged in.”

Katniss looks towards the glass in my hands unimpressed. “Already drinking?”

“It’s a dinner party,” I say, feigning innocence. “Besides, it’s Effie’s favorite. I had no choice.”

“I’ve finally trained him to be a true gentleman after all these years!” Effie chirps in from behind and I roll my eyes.

Katniss lightly sets the bag on the wooden flooring and wipes her hands on her thighs. “If this is you trained then I don’t want to know what disobedient looked like.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it,” I say. “It’s usually around noon.”

She scoffs but I can see the ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth.

I nudge the glass towards her, swirling it slightly to intimidate Effie’s movements. “Wine? Pairs great with rabbit and judgment.”

The girl eyes it, grey irises narrowing as she studies it. She takes the glass from me and swirls it somewhat aggressively. Katniss gives it a tentative sniff and looks back to me as if I poisoned it, before giving it a quick sip. Her face contorts slightly, before softening.

“It’s sour. But, not horrible,” she mutters.

Effie claps her hands, another bright smile laying on her face. “See? I told you, Haymitch. Katniss is coming around.”

I lean a little closer to Katniss and loudly whisper, “She’s trying to turn us into capitolites. Stay strong.” Katniss quirks an eyebrow at me and glances over my attire, before handing the glass back.

“Too late for you.” She muses before picking up her game bag and slipping indoors. Effie laughs and sips at the glass while I raise my eyebrows. 

“Really,” I say, turning to Effie. “Capitolite? Do I seriously act like one now?” 

Effie is not paying attention to me. Her eyes are focused on the scene playing out indoors, as Katniss pulls a few rabbits out of the bag. Peeta watches her with an intense focus. A smirk plays on Effie’s face. She leans into me, whispering even though the kids wouldn’t hear us, “Something big is going to happen between them tonight. I can feel it.”

I snort and take a sip of wine. “Yeah? What, they accidentally brush hands and both apologize for an hour?”

Effie gives me a look of being half-amused and half-offended. “No. I mean, something big, Haymitch. There’s a new spark in her eyes tonight.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Katniss?” 

“Yes, Katniss,” she says obviously, assuming I’m being dense on purpose. “You didn’t notice?”

I glance back indoors where Katniss now skins the rabbits with vigor, placing their pelts in the game bag while Peeta cuts the meat from their bodies. Whatever conversation they’re having must be amusing as Katniss is smiling. Smiling. No, not a little smirk or the ghost of one, but a full smile. Thinking back to our prior conversation I remember Katniss’ shoulders, looser than usual. Her almost-smirk and now her full smile indoors. What happened in that forest? Or have I been missing something for days now? Still, I can’t imagine Katniss making any sort of move first. 

“No way,” I say with amusement, shaking my head. “I’d put money on that. Katniss acting first? Come on, Effie. She’s more likely to fight a bear with her fists than say how she feels.”

Effie sighs and rolls her eyes as if I’m a lost cause. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh?” I say, turning to her.

“Men never do.” She murmurs and shakes her head. I scoff and stare at her for a few seconds. She’s talking big about understanding situations as if she wasn’t calling out children’s names to be picked for a death game. 

Suddenly, the door swings open with Katniss trudging out. A big wet orange stain lays flat in the center of her shirt. She looks more annoyed than embarrassed. I lean back and let out a gaudy laugh.

“Looks like the kitchen fought back!” I say between laughs and I’m rewarded with a scowl, Katniss sending curses through her eyes alone. She picks at the hem of her shirt like it might undo the mess. Effie puts a hand to her mouth.

“Peeta kicked me out,” Katniss grumbles and I raise my eyebrows, feinning shock. 

“Politely, I’m sure,” I say grinning. Katniss rolls her eyes and shakes her head, annoyance growing at me.

“I never said I was a good cook. I just wanted to help.” She mumbles and Effie reaches out with a handkerchief. 

“Oh, dear. It's the thought that counts. I'm sure Peeta appreciates your help.” Katniss accepts the handkerchief and scrunches it to her shirt. Effie pats her on the shoulder and Katniss mutters a thank-you. My gaze shifts inside. I can make out a figure scrubbing at the floor—Peeta. 

I take another sip before setting my glass on the table. “Well, I’m gonna see what sort of mess you made there. Don’t drink too much without me.” I point between the two until Katniss’ glare kicks me out.

The second the door slides open, the warm aroma of bread, peppers, carrots, and spice fills my nose. More bread lays on a rack beside the oven, a pot full of simmering orange soup sits on the stove. Peeta is scrubbing the floor with a stained cloth. His face flushed, sweat trickling down his forehead, and mumbling something under his breath while rubbing a certain stubborn stain by the baseboard. He doesn’t notice me at all. I study his face and the stain for a few more moments before clearing my throat. He startles and yanks his head up to look at me, mouth agape. 

“Need a hand?” I ask, amused at the scene lying before me. 

Peeta tries to rise fast but almost slips on his rag, “No! No—uh, I mean. No. It’s fine. Just spilled a bit.”

“Uh-huh,” I respond deliberately casually. I step further into the kitchen and rest against the counter island. Peeta rubs his forehead and scrubs more. 

“Let me guess… Katniss was stirring, and you let something dumb slip out.” Peeta’s face flushes even more as he scrubs harder. I grin and continue.

“She flinched up, and the pot revolted.” I gesture my hand towards the stained floor. Peeta sets the rag down and drags a hand down his face, sighing. 

“Something like that.” He mutters. I laugh and shake my head at the boy.

“Hey, at least the bread survived. Good thing you didn’t let her near the oven.” Peeta turns to me, eyebrows furrowed.

“She just wanted to help. It’s my fault, for saying something like I did.” He says with a slightly raised voice. I raise my hands to my side.

“Hey, I’m just saying. Someone could’ve gotten burned. Figuratively and physically.” Peeta rolls his eyes and leans against the cabinets on the floor. “Besides. What horrible thing did you say to make her tense up?” I add, trying to soothe the boy. Peeta flushes more and looks down at his hands. He opens his mouth, before closing it in defeat. His cheeks are bright red now and I can't help but crack a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“I said she looked beautiful.” He says quickly, looking up at me in defeat. I stare at him for a few moments before scoffing out a hearty laugh. He can’t be serious. But after his face remains serious and red, I dull down.

“That’s it?” I say dimly. He nods and I put a hand to my temples, sighing. 

“I know. I shouldn’t say stuff like…that. I can’t intrude on her any further than I already have.” Peeta rants and gestures with his hands to nothing, before setting them down and sighing. I shake my head and remove my hand.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. She just got embarrassed, that’s all.” I say to reassure him but he only looks more conflicted. His eyebrows scrunch up before he pushes himself up to stand again, grabbing the spoon on the counter and giving the soup a quick stir. He sets it down and turns back to me.

“I just want to be around her. Even if she doesn't…” He pauses and gazes at the floor, “...want what I do.” He stares at the wooden panelling for a few moments before speaking up again. “She’s trying. That’s what matters to me.” He says softly. It hangs in the air, what he said. I don't add anything. I don't need to. Peeta reaches down and grabs the rag, wiping some of the soup on the counter. 

I glance outside of the window above the sink, where I can see the girls sitting at the table. Effie chatters on about something while Katniss remains quiet, gathering some of the crackers, cheese, and meets on the charcuterie board. She nods occasionally at whatever Effie was saying. Her scowl is still there, faintly, like a bruise fading in slow motion. 

Maybe Effie was right. 

Still, I’m not here to lose any bets tonight.

I turn my gaze back to Peeta who now stands at the sink rinsing out his rag. I walk over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He turns over to look at me.

“Tell you what,” I say as Peeta rings out the cloth. “I’ll bet that Effie extends her stay through fall.”

Peeta smirks and shakes his head at me. “She’s not leaving at all.” I give him a quizzical look.

“What, ever?” I say curiously

Peeta shrugs as he places the cloth on the faucet. “You’ve seen how happy she is here. With us, the garden, even the people in town. Besides, I don’t even think she has many friends in the capitol anymore.” I release my grip on his shoulder and cross my hands, gazing outside to where she sits. 

“You think she’s staying here? As in, permanently?” Peeta shrugs again and wipes his hand on a dish towel before checking on the soup and rabbit cooking in the oven. 

“I don’t know for sure. But, I’d bet that she stays this whole year.” He smirks at me from over his shoulder and I grin at the boy. 

“You’re on. Thirty bucks if she’s here longer than the last day of fall, then.” Peeta chuckles and I make my way over to the bathroom. Someone trudges behind me and I hear his voice as I rinse my hands in the marble sink. 

“The logistics don’t favor her staying.”

I freeze. Not out of fear, but from recognition. He wasn’t one that talked much in these hallucinations— or made himself known. But it would make sense that he's here now. I wipe my hands on the towel hanging next to the mirror.

“She’s still got ties to the capitol,” He says. “Social expectation. Reputation. We both remember how badly she wanted to improve the Trinket’s reputation.”

I stare at him through the mirror. Wyatt Callow. Older now, grown in a sense he never will. I still look older than him as I look back to my reflection in the mirror, even though he’s three years my senior. His voice is the same, steady flow as it was decades ago. His grey eyes are clear and serious. It seems that my subconscious thinks he would remain the same stoic boy as a man. He leans against the doorframe while I stay silent.

“But you’ve heard her voice. On the phone, before she came here. The way she would trail off after she ran out of things to say but couldn’t bring herself to hang up the phone.”

I put my hands on the sink and lean forward, studying the faucet. Of course, I remember. But could she bring herself to live in Twelve? Sure, the smell may have gotten better after the war, but enough to stay?

“She’s lonelier in the Capitol than she is here, in Twelve.” His voice grows quieter. “You’re all she has whether you like it or not. Effie has no more family besides you, Peeta, and Katniss now. It’s more than likely that she stays longer than fall.” 

I look at his face in the mirror. He’s looking at me, too. 

“You know what it’s like, to have nobody,” Wyatt adds. I look back down and clench my eyes shut, holding onto the sink as if my life depended on it.

“So, you think she’ll stay?” I say after taking a deep breath and turning to face the other man. Wyatt still looms tall over me, but I caught up after these years. I beat him if we compared wrinkles and white hairs.  I notice his lips quirking slightly. A smile? 

“Would you bet on it?” I add and Wyatt shakes his head, pushing himself off the doorframe.

“I'm not a Booker boy,” He says. “I'm an oddsmaker.”

And then he’s gone. Like a draft in the doorway, a memory. Like he was never there at all. 

After a few moments of silence, I take up myself in the mirror, eyes wet. My hair is definitely in need of a cut as it now reached the bottom of my neck. I had bathed and dressed the nicest I could for tonight so my hair isn’t a greasy mop. 

Around a month ago I had a rage-touched day and threw out almost every single fabric I had owned from the capitol. Today, I wear a faded white button-up. The fabric is starting to splay at the seams and the buttons look older than Greasy Sae. But my favorite part of the shirt is something I had added to it, a drunken night around seventeen years ago. I took a little plaid patch from the depths of my closet. It reminded me of Lenore Dove’s overalls, and how she had added her own stitching and fabrics to it. The ruffled ribbons, the embroidered leaves, and then the plaid patches. I didn’t know how to sew, but I was never a drinker either. I take in the stitching where the plaid patch sits on my breast pocket. It’s messy, sure, but it feels like home.

The house is quiet again save for clunking coming from the kitchen. I can hear the faint noise of laughter coming from outside. I stare at the door frame until it suddenly cracks open, Effie’s eye glances at me through the crack.

“Haymitch!” She whisper-yells at me and I shoot a confused glare at her.

“What the hell?” I blink. “You really couldn’t wait to talk?”

Ignoring my glare she pushes the door open further. “I am almost one hundred percent confident on that bet now! I would even place my first edition Vladymeer fur coat on it.” She boasts.

It makes me stop short. “The coat?” I echo her words. “You mean, the one you forced that Peacekeeper to carry up five flights of stairs in the snow?”

“The very one!” She declares proudly.

I scoff and shake my head. What happened to make her so confident? I vividly remember her buying that fur coat at the 61st games. I had been too drunk to remember the price but I’m almost sure it was triple the amount of my yearly Victor’s earnings.

“Sure,” I cross my arms and lean against the sink. “I’ll even raise it. Thirty bucks nothing happens tonight.” Effie scoffs at me as if I had just insulted her mother. 

“Money is a vulgar thing to bet when style is on the table.” She mutters at me and Maysilee backs her up beside me. I roll my eyes.

“Yeah, well, I don’t happen to have any coats worth more than my house,” I say matter-of-factly. It’s Effie’s turn to roll her eyes, crossing her arms. 

“Whatever. Vladymeer was hanged a month ago anyway, for being a part of the old government.” She sighs. “Mink fur is out of style anyway. I’ll take your deal.” She says and turns back out the door, I follow her to the deck where Peeta lays different plates and bowls of food on the table. 

The orange soup that Katniss had spilled is in the middle, grilled and oven-roasted rabbit lays on various plates. Baked loaves of bread also sit by each plate, one for each of us. I plop myself down where my glass of wine sits. Effie seats herself next to me as Peeta places the last plate— a bowl of various grilled vegetables.  He sets it down and walks back over to sit next to Katniss. We wait a few moments as Peeta looks over the food, seemingly waiting for us. 

A moment later he realizes that we’re waiting on him, “Oh, um. Dinner’s up.” He adds quickly and Katniss rushes a hand to gather up some rabbit and vegetables, returning to butter an already-cut slice of hearty bread. Effie scoffs but stays silent. Maybe deciding against calling out Katniss’ poor table manners, since it didn’t really matter to anyone but herself anymore. I grab a bowl of soup and some rabbit when Effie exclaims beside me.

“Oh, Peeta, This is divine. Truly divine.” She taps a handkerchief at the corners of her mouth, and Peeta beams from across the table. That kind of praise really does feel different when it comes from someone like Effie, who seemed to have issues with almost anything district-made. 

“And this bread,” She adds, slicing a piece with her knife. “ I mean you could really sell this. No, you should sell it. Have you thought about it yet?” Peeta’s smile dies slightly at the mention of selling his bread. 

“Yeah, I have. I just…I don’t think I’m ready just yet.” He adds slightly sullenly. Effie realizes after a few awkward beats what her words had meant, and puts a hand to her chest.

“Oh, Peeta,” She begins, reaching a hand over to his. “I’m so sorry. When the time is right, I mean of course. I will support you in whatever endeavor you might pursue.” She tilts her head and smiles at him, Peeta’s face picking up slightly.

“Thanks, Effie.” He says quietly.

By the time I had finished my rabbit, Katniss is already starting on her seconds. She tips the bowl of soup to her mouth as if it's a drink, and pauses when she sees everyone's eyes on her.

She looks quietly between us. “What? It’s good.” She says quietly and slices off another piece of bread. 

That, for her, is a love poem. Peeta smiles shyly at her before turning back to his own plate. 

.

.

.

Dinner lingers comfortably between us. Each bowl or plate had been scraped off and eaten, only sauce or bits of seasoning were left. Effie had finished a few glasses of wine, while I had only drunk two so far. Effie giggles at something Peeta says which pulls me out of my food coma. The sun now lies resting on the horizon, bathing the deck in a warm golden light. Peeta’s curls and Effie’s blonde locks shine like floss, while me and Katniss’ hair glows a reddish-brown that reminds me all the world of my girl. Peeta turns to Katniss, a warm look glimmers in his eyes. 

“Wanna see the lemon balm? It finally sprouted this morning.” He says brightly. Katniss quirks an eyebrow.

“You’ve been going about that plant for weeks.” She says somewhat amused.

“And now I have proof it wasn’t just a hallucination.” He smirks, which Katniss returns—albeit a much less enthusiastic one. She shrugs on her hunting jacket which was wrapped around the back of her chair, and the two make it down to the rows of herbs and vegetables below. They fall into step beside each other with a kind of ease that isn’t loud or sudden, one that seems natural to both. Effie leans back in her chair while taking another sip from her glass. She watches them with interest, then turns to me with a gleam in her eye. Has she always been such a lightweight, or was this bottle just stronger than the others?

Effie leans back to the table and rests her head and her perched arms. She turns to me. “I have a new bet,” She purrs. “Katniss will let me braid her hair before the first snow.” 

“Oh really?” I say with mock enthusiasm. “You think she’s gonna let your hands get anywhere near her head?”

“She’s softening up. And I am very charming, Haymitch.” Effie adds with seriousness and I choke down a laugh.

“What’s on the table?” I ask and Effie takes a moment to think, before straightening and sitting up.

“My finest pair of pure-white leather flats. Capitol vintage. I’ve only worn them twice. Once to a wedding, then to a funeral.”

I whistle and cross my arms. “Morbid. Alright, I’ll offer my boots.”

Effie makes out the sound of a dying bird and scoffs at me. “Those hideous things?”

“They have character.” I grin.

“They have fungus, if anything.”

“Fine. I’ll throw in a few bottles of wine. The fancy kind.”

She grins at this. “What kind of fancy?”

“The kind I can’t pronounce.” I gesture to the wine in her hand and she ponders it for a few moments, before turning back to me with a smile.

“It’s a deal, then.” She hums. We shake on it as a chilled wind breezes over us, the sun now a memory as it rests below the horizon. I spot Katniss and Peeta walking back up to the deck. 

His arms are holding the other, goosebumps prickle all over his skin. He glances over to us with an uncomfortable scrunch of his face.

“We’re heading inside. It’s gotten too cold out here.” He says as Katniss slides open the door, following her indoors. Effie stands up and rubs her bare arms too, the summer dress not necessarily fitting the cold wind.  I get up too, my knees popping at the movement while I grab the plates at the table. Effie reaches for the wine bottle, glass still in hand, and we head into the kitchen. 

I rinse the dishes at the sink and watch the warm steam swirl up into the cooler air of the kitchen. Effie busies herself organizing and cleaning the charcuterie board with the efficiency of someone who had never cleaned a dish in her life. I laugh a little to myself.

We linger there for a little while. Effie pours another glass for each of us. I turn around, facing the rest of the house, and find Peeta and Katniss sitting next to each other on the couch. They’re both looking at something on the table—maybe a sketchbook? Whatever it is, they seem intent on looking at the pages. Murmurs are exchanged between the two until silence blankets the room. I take a sip of the acidic juice and try to get a somewhat closer look at the two kids. Effie seems to have followed my movement as she peers over with me. 

A sudden laugh—or sob, sounds from Katniss. Peeta looks over to her, concern written clearly on his face. Slowly and hesitantly he reaches an arm over her shoulder. Katniss pauses and looks back at him. A thousand silent words pass between their eyes; he searches them while she stares. She leans into him. Peeta looks stunned. His eyes are clear yet full of love. Before long, Katniss has her head resting on his chest as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Not awkward, or forced by viewers, but real. Peeta slowly rests his head on hers and wraps his other arm around her body. Effie makes a quick noise beside me and I glance over at her, cradling her glass up to her face with glossy eyes. 

Eventually the mood shifts. Katniss sits up straighter and rubs furiously at her eyes, but Peeta keeps an arm tucked around her. It's not the same as the embrace but it’s no step backwards, either.

I make the move to walk to the living room first. Effie trails behind me. We walk quietly, to not startle either of them, but I can’t hold myself back when Effie holds a hound out to me with a knowing grin. I sigh and dig through my pockets, eventually scrounging up thirty dollars, and hand it to her. She exaggerates a thank-you while the kids watch confused.

“At this rate, I’ll be broke by winter.” I hum at Peeta. Katniss looks between us as her eyebrows wrinkle. A few beats pass before Katniss’ face contorts into further anger when she realizes. Face flushed, she scoffs at me.

“This isn’t a game anymore,” she says, the edge in her voice harsh. “I don’t know why you’re so amused.” 

Awkwardness blankets the room. I take a look at my hands while Effie looks for something to say. Peeta, whose hand still rests on her back, gives a small reassuring squeeze. Effie blinks and seems to have found her words.

“Katniss, dear—it wasn’t meant as—” I look back up and put my hand up, gently gesturing for Effie to stop. 

“You’re right,” I say softly. “It’s not…old habits. We didn't mean it that way.” I take a deep breath after seeing Katniss’ stony gaze remain. She doesn’t respond.

I glance down and I’m suddenly unsure where to set my hands: until I see the memory book. It sits on the coffee table in front of Peeta and Katniss, opened to Finnick’s page. A new picture is taped to the pages. One I haven’t seen before. That’s when an idea pops into my head.

“Do you remember hearing about Booker boys?” I ask quietly. Her eyes flicker back towards me, still cold, but nods slowly. I sigh and rub my hands together, looking back down. “Well, the other boy in my games. Wyatt Callow. He was from a Booker family. His pa bet on him, even. But he wasn’t like the rest of them.” I pause, before taking in a breath and continuing.

“He was quiet until we got to the capitol. He knew everyone's odds about anything, and told us that we needed him.”

“In the games he died at the bloodbath. Protecting the little girl from our district. She only made it a day, after he told her to…go to me.” My voice grows more and more soft as I continue. Katniss looks at her hands and her shoulders soften.

“You…would’ve liked him I think. He was decent. More than decent.” I finish quietly.

A moment of silence passes over us while everyone absorbs my words. Effie looks at me, remembrance shining in her eyes. The seriousness must've sobered her up somewhat. It’s Peeta who breaks the silence, though.

“Do you want to add him?” He says quietly. I look back up while my throat tightens. I look at the leather-bound book, unsure, but when the boy passes the book over to me, I can’t refuse. I slowly pick up the pen and write his name. I write small notes of memories, of the room we all shared before the games. Trying to get him to keep quiet about odds at the training center, or how he had told all of Panem to bet on me. How he, himself, had truly bet on me by sending Lou Lou to me in the games. 

My handwriting isn’t perfect. It's messy, if anything, but it's readable. But I know for sure that I wouldn’t be able to draw him any justice.

“I’m no artist,” I mumble. Effie, who has been silent longer than expected, suddenly perks up.

“Actually…” she says gently, “the new government has been going through classified videos and tapes. Now that the propaganda division is…well, reconstructed, they’ve started releasing the unedited films. Not to the public yet of course, but, I’m sure I could find some way to get them. They even have the original interviews.”

I look at her with a stunned expression. I don’t know quite what to say.

Effie continues while my silence stretches on. “I could try and bring some pictures. Film copies. Of everyone, from twelve. If you’d like that.” 

It sits heavily in the air, around my shoulders, and weighing on my chest. The idea of seeing pictures of them, not blurred memories and ghosts, creates a conflict inside me. Seeing them excites me. That I wouldn’t be alone in remembering or knowing them. But, on the other hand, the entire footage being released? Or even clips from the interviews? I bite the inside of my mouth and rub a hand through my hair. I could start slowly, maybe. Have Effie give me pictures of them instead of videos. But the spark of joy her words had given me overpowers the negative. I look up to her with wet eyes. A true, happy smile splayed across my face. 

“Yeah,” my voice shakes subtly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

Effie leaves Twelve along with the green of the leaves. She left her outfits, makeup, and other necessities at her house in Victor’s Village. We don’t know when she’ll return. She calls me almost daily and brings me updates about her journey in finding footage of the Fiftieth Games. She’s been running around like a beheaded chicken, from what she tells me—going from apartment to apartment, building to building, until she finally hit the jackpot on a warm Thursday in October.  She called me breathlessly, saying how President Paylor had met with her and permitted her to go through the Gamemakers Archive belonging to the Heavensbee’s. She had been there once that day and told me how many stills, films, and unedited interviews there were.

“I’ll be back in two days,” she had promised.

I don’t sleep much after that call. The thought that in only two days, I would see the faces of most of my loved ones. It doesn’t feel real. My visions— the ghosts — I’m sure aren’t accurate. It had been 27 years after all. But now that I’ll see them for their true selves and not some amalgamated bloody form I see of them in my everyday life, is conflicting me. I’m happy, I think. I have to be. To see my loved ones after so long of yearning to see their eyes, their faces, their whole being again? I would give up my life for it. But not like this. Those pictures, those films and stills, aren’t their true selves no matter what. Even if these are the unedited versions with no propaganda whatsoever, that doesn’t mean that we didn’t put up an act. I know this for a fact. I can still see Louella steeling herself after being called, trudging up to the stage with a poker face. At least, I think it was a poker face. I don’t know anymore. But I will.

Louella seems to have wedged herself into my dreams. She comes to me in the Meadow where I lay with Lenore Dove, my sweetheart yells for me, “Hey Hay! You promised you’d play today!” And I groan, fake-annoyed that Louella wouldn’t leave me alone with my girl. I run after her when I spring up, she giggles and dashes away as her braids bounce like ribbons with each pace. I taunt and tease her as I begin to catch up but she trips and falls to the ground. I reach her about to laugh, touching her side when she stops responding. In a blink, I am no longer surrounded by the warm comfort of the meadow. Louella lays on hard cement as blood seeps out from the crack on her skull, my hands shaking when I touch her coal-smudged cheeks. “Louella?” I say breathlessly. But I blink and I am suddenly surrounded by a beautiful array of wildflowers as I hold Louella—no—Lou Lou’s body in my arms. She makes terrifying gasping noises, her mouth gaping open while she clutches her neck. The flowers that caused this lay in front of us but I move to her chest, where I tear the machine from out of her body. She rests now. But I don’t, my eyes fly open and I remember that Effie is back. 

**

Effie had told me to meet in the Meadow around morning when she called on Thursday. It’s almost noon by the time I reach the place, staring at the tree where they all lay together on a quilt beneath the falling leaves. Effie sits beside a bright silver suitcase while her gloved hands fumble with something. Katniss sits hunched together, hugging her knees to her body, while Peeta sits next to her gazing off into the distance. Sighing, I begin trudging forward in the short burnt-patchy grass. Autumn had finally sunk its claws into District 12, Thursday having been a rare occasion for how warm it was. I don't doubt that snow will fall soon. Effie adjusts her fur-lined coat and dusts leaves from the blanket. I can spot her nervous habits from miles away.

Effie spots me and my skin feels too tight for my body. I hadn’t eaten, didn’t shower, or shave. Of course, I haven’t shaved in weeks, but I was going to today before the call. She shoots me a slight glare.

“Well,” she chirps too brightly, “look who finally rolled out of his pit! I thought you might have grown roots on your porch.” 

I don’t respond with anything more than a glance. I simply drop onto the quilt and stare at the stitches. Effie takes a deep breath, sighs, and smooths her skirt, starting again. “I…just want to say how truly meaningful this is,” she starts, her hands clasped in front of her as if she’s giving a speech at a memorial. “That we can sit here as people. Not as victors, rebels, escorts…” she pauses. Effie looks unsure of what to say, but looks to her side and pats the suitcase lightly. “President Paylor granted me permission to the Gamemaker Archives. I found a lot of footage, films, stills, even posters. But I made sure that…” she hesitates, “... that what I’ve brought will be suitable for all of us.”

A few moments later Effie turns to me. “I’m not sure if you’d want me to do the honors, Haymitch, or if you’d like to—” I cut her off by reaching for the suitcase and clicking it open. I gulp, clenching my teeth as I look at the opaque bags. I reach for the first one slowly, my hands holding it as gently as I did when I first held Sid in my hands. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, alive and dead. Katniss and Peeta look with curiosity and slight guilt, Effie looks at me knowingly as her lips make a thin line. Sid sits close to me as he peers over my arm. Maysilee, Proserpina, and Louella sit to my right. To my left is Lou Lou and Wyatt. Burdock and Lenore Dove are behind me. Primrose is holding her father's hand and I am a little stunned she’s here. Ampert and Wellie join Wyatt and Lou Lou as I open the bag, pulling out the first picture. My eyes already sting and blood pumps through my forehead painfully. Something is caught in my throat. Maysilee, Merilee, and Asterid stand huddled together in the picture. It was at the reaping when her name was called, just before she was forced onto the stage. I can hear Mr. Donner’s voice, begging, pleading for his little girl to be saved. For fate to change. I stare at the picture before I pass it over to Katniss with lidded eyes. “Your mom’s on this one,” I say quietly. Katniss takes the picture gently, releasing her knees, and studies the photo. 

“That’s the dress she made me wear. For the reaping,” says Katniss quietly. Peeta gazes at the picture too, eyes solemn. I slowly take the next picture in hand and take a deep breath. I don't want to break here. Because if I do, I’m afraid everything will come out. 

Louella meets my gaze with a defiant stare. Her gingham dress flows slightly in the gust as she stands on stage. Her eyes are determined, her face not letting anything through because she knows that she can't let it out. But I can tell. I can tell, by the quirk of her eyebrows and the clenching of her hands, that she is terrified. Was terrified. And I know she was because I can remember vividly the moment when I hugged her on the train to the Capitol. But I feel like someone hit me hard and square in the chest as my eyes study every last bit of my sweetheart. Her face curved like a heart, her big and innocent grey eyes, her two pigtail braids hanging next to her neck, and my eyes sting so hard that I have to dig my palms into my sockets to make them stop. I curse myself in my head— because how could I? How could I have forgotten what she looks like? I knew her for her whole life and I dared to forget her looks. Even her voice, I’m sure, I’ve forgotten. From the day she was born, Mr. McCoy holding her up to the window of the school to show off his daughter, to the day she died, cradled in my arms as I failed to be her protector. 

I set her picture down gently in the suitcase. I don’t want to give a reason why I’m like this to the kids, why seeing a simple picture of a girl is making me react so suddenly, but they deserve one. Isn’t that the whole point of this? To make sure they will never be forgotten? I take a few moments to breathe before I start and hand the picture over to Katniss, staring at the memory book now splayed in front of Peeta. “Louella McCoy, she was my sweetheart,” I say quietly. I laugh quietly at a memory that comes to me suddenly but softly, “Well, until a boy gave her a bullfrog and won her over.” A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. Effie adds quietly next to me, “Such a cute one. I do love her dress.” I nod slowly and look back down to the suitcase in my lap, pulling out the next picture. 

Wyatt Callow stands at the stage, blank-faced and solemn as always. My eyes rake over every part of him like I have to engrave his image into my brain but I know these pictures won't leave, not anymore. I’m sure Effie would give them to me, or we could choose what ones to put in the book. But I can’t help but feel desperate to remember. That there's still the over-impending doom that these could all disappear in an “accidental fire”. I hand the picture over to the kids.

The next picture is blurry. Shades of green, brown, tan, and other neutrals mix in a motion blur— but I can still see his figure over to the right. Woodbine Chance running for his life. I look over to Effie, who has been watching my face this whole time. “Woodbine?” I say and she gives me a confused look.

“Who’s Woodbine?” asks Effie. I look back down at the picture again. A pit of guilt, even though none of it was my fault, grows in my stomach. Is this the last we have of him? The boy who ran, even though he knew he was dead no matter what? Peeta and Katniss give me confused glances too and I realize no one knows that I wasn’t reaped. Nobody here does. I clear my throat and rub my temples, setting the picture down lightly in my lap. 

“When the last boy was reaped, it wasn’t me,” I start slowly and Effie’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.

“What do you mean, wasn’t you?” asks Katniss. I pick at the corner of the suitcase.

“It was Woodbine Chance. But he booked it, he’d rather be shot dead than go to the Games. ‘ caused a ton of crap to go haywire. Peacekeepers— shooting anybody moving in the crowds. I don’t know who all died but… he was one of them.” I reminisce. “You know, your dad, Katniss, saved his dad that day,” I gesture to Peeta and they both perk up. 

“How?” He asks, curious.

“Burdie shoved him in the knee. Otho fell over and wouldn’t get shot,” I say. “My girl wanted to help. Woodbine’s Ma was getting all sorts of crazy over her dead boy, and the Peacekeepers were getting to her. My girl was helping her but I got up to get her down, that's when I was called. To be reaped.” I finish quietly while pulling the next picture out of my younger self. I don’t study it for long.

Effie, trying to lighten the mood somewhat, “Isn’t that shirt lovely?” she says. Peeta smiles a bit. Katniss holds onto it longer, though, with a serious look on her face. 

The next pictures are from the Tribute Parade. If my headache was bad, then it was about to get a lot worse. Cold sweat drips down my back like a river and my hands shake with no set rhythm. My teeth have been tormenting the skin of my lips since I sat down, and a drop of blood makes its way into my mouth. 

The kids are working delicately on the memory book together, writing down most of my ramblings as I stare at pictures. It's quiet to them, but a storm brews in my head as each ghost watches me while I take in their photo, their faces contouring to their true looks as I see their real faces. The colors are bright, seemingly full of life even if our outfits were dull and coal-stuffed. I don’t want to pull out these pictures but some force makes me, seeing her last moments. Louella seemed determined to grasp my hand. She was terrified, I had promised to keep her steady. I can’t look anymore.

I sit to the side as they go through the pictures. Now, without my input, Effie tries to give her voice to some of the photos of what little she truly knows. But I stay with a hand to my face as the endless chattering in my head runs through me like a pitchfork. I can feel my dream from this morning again, the thousands of dead bodies buried beneath us from the bombings, Louella’s blood coating my hands as I pick at my lips. Effie still peers at me from her spot on the quilt. Her eyebrows scrunch in worry. “Haymitch…” says Effie quietly, angling herself towards me while the kids aren’t looking. “You know I wouldn’t have put anything,” she pauses, “. . .triggering of the sort. I know that chariot ride wasn’t the best. But, you all made it out at least. Well, that poor girl’s brain injury. . .” She mumbles off and I realize she still doesn’t know. Still absorbed in Capitol propaganda that will never truly leave her completely. But how could she have known? The only person here who knows is me. It’s not entirely her fault, I try to tell myself. But I can’t help feeling the trickling anger seeping through my veins. Anger, guilt, disgust with myself, and a deep, deep sorrow. I slide my hand from my face and grab whatever picture lies in the suitcase next. It couldn’t have been any worse.

Lou Lou, running in the Arena. Blood drying on her black District 12 outfit from the bloodbath and I wonder if it is Wyatt’s. I can spot the slight protrusion on her chest where that machine lay. Small pictures of my own flow through my head as I remember her. The way she would clutch her ear in pain, another Capitol machine implanted inside as she bled. The desperation and fear that would shimmer in her eyes when we caught on to her true origin. I wonder where her family is now if there's any still left. I wonder what she would be doing now if she was still here. She and Louella. They, and everyone. 

My head splits with memories as they flash through my mind. Blood. A lot of blood, fire, blasting caps and wires, ladybugs and squirrels, butterflies and breath. An axe, a canon, a girl with braids, and another explosion. Effie is talking, saying something wrong. Completely wrong. Louella is not Lou Lou, I thought she had known? Was she not told? I shake my head and mumble something I don't know to myself until a rush of white-hot anger spikes up my back. “You don’t…” I stop because I don’t know what I’m saying. “She was replaced. Can’t you see?” I mutter and take two pictures from the kids, their actions having paused while they watch me. My shaking hands point at the differences in their cheeks, Louella’s naturally round while Lou Lou’s are shiny with injections. Her skin stuck to her bones while Louella had some meat to her. The bump on her chest, I say, is a machine. Implanted and poisoned her body slowly while a microphone read to her what she was to say. Why? I don't know. They have questions I can’t answer. I want to answer but I cannot, because I didn't know her. I knew Louella. Not the little girl thrown into a life she never asked for, tormented and murdered for her curiosity. She just wanted to live. Isn't that what we all wanted? Effie looks confused. 

“How? I… I’ve never heard of anything like this, I-” She shakes her head and glances at the pictures in my hands. She's not questioning my grief—just the shape of it. The impossible truth of what I'm saying. That anger, the one I felt spiking through my back, lashes out like a whip.

“Well, you weren’t exactly there.” I spit. Peeta glances at Katniss with a look of confusion. Effie furrows her brows because she most definitely was and I know this. We both know how she had saved us the night of the interview with our outfits. How she became our impromptu stylist, giving us a slight boost of morale after the disappointment we had with Magno. She cheered me on personally, when she promised to give Lenore Dove my flint striker. But she refused to change any part of her mind, the mind that still spoke so proudly of the Capitol even after I returned from the arena, scarred and alone.  She should understand what I mean, I shouldn’t need to explain to her. 

“Haymitch, I,” says Effie, “I was there.”

“No.” I spit. “You were. You watched, you helped us, yeah, I’ll admit that. And it was nice. To feel like someone was there who understood but you didn't. You watched from a TV when Wyatt was murdered in the bloodbath. When I almost died from poison, when Lou Lou did. When Ampert died, when I failed, when Maysilee died,” my voice cracks and a tear begins to pave its way down my cheek, “When I was holding my guts inside with my hand. You told me that it was all for the greater good.” 

Effie looks shaken and looks away. She has nothing to say, to defend herself. Peeta and Katniss seemed stunned into silence. I’ve said too much. That stinging that had been building up behind my eyes is cracking like a damn now that a tear slipped through and I can feel my body shaking with more. “I have to go. I…” I mumble and rise wobbly, a hand running through my hair. 

“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I shake my head and stumble back away. 

“Wait!” Effie starts but I don't listen. Peeta says something from behind but I pick up my pace while palming my eyes because I can’t break here, I can’t. I keep telling myself that it’s okay now, that I can, that Snow is gone and these people—my family— won’t be taken but I can’t truly convince myself. I can’t open up because they would be next. But my family of old has a wish to be remembered, from the countless times they whispered or yelled or sobbed or screamed at me before. I need to tell their stories because I am the only person left in the world who knows of them. But I run because I am afraid. I run home with no dove following me because I can’t face it.  Because it was never me who was supposed to live.

Chapter Text

They don’t talk to me now. I sit with my back haunched on the couch in my living area, staring into a blank space on the wall. I can’t face it. I’m a coward, one who shouldn’t have been trusted to do anything right. I left them all. I left the Newcomers, and now I’ve left Effie and the kids in the meadow. Would she continue telling them stories of the tributes, or the games? My face scrunches into a grimace at the thought of her continuing to spill out the nonsense false-truth the Capitol had fed her. I know it’s only me that could tell those kids what truly happened. The footage they watched before their Quarter Quell, through Lou Lou’s body, was almost all propaganda. They still believe that I had nothing to do with Ampert in the arena. That I had fought the squirrels on day 2, and that I had left every single one of my allies. But some part of that is the truth. It was selfish to cling to that hope of destroying the arena— a hope that had led me to nothing but despair and loneliness. I need to talk to them, my ghosts had told me earlier. Yet they now remain silent. Or lost. Did they stay by the memory book? I’m not sure I can even see them anymore. Are they gone for good? Have they left me, again? I deserve it, I tell myself.

I don’t know how much time has passed. I stay in my spot on the couch unmoving. A clawing sense of longing pits in my body but I cannot distinguish it from thirst, hunger, or loneliness. The sun is now at its peak in the sky. It’s only when I notice this, that someone knocks on my door repeatedly. I move my eyes slowly to the sound. I don’t feel like talking anymore, and ignore the noise. She's persistent. “Haymitch!” Katniss yells, voice muffled from the wood. I groan and rub my eyes, she knows the door is never locked. I know that every door in this village is never locked. Why is she so insistent on knocking? 

“What?” I grumble out and sink lower into the leather of the couch. She is silent. Until I hear the rumbling of the doorknob, and she welcomes herself inside. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” I weakly snide to myself. Katniss huffs and stomps over to me. Her hand clutches a bag to her side, and she gives me a good scowl to let me know she is angry. My eyes drift up to meet hers. Eyes storm with words she is struggling to cohere into a sentence. I sigh and look away. “Did Effie send you?” I ask solemnly, picking at the buttons on my shirt.

“Why, do I need Effie’s permission to come over?” She scoffs and I hum a response. I take to looking at my stubby fingernails while she takes a seat next to me. Katniss pulls the bag to her lap. She hesitates for a moment, looking at me then to her bag. She scoots the coffee table closer to the couch and pulls the objects from the bag, setting them on the wooden surface. My eyes grow cold. She has brought the memory book and supplies. A bag filled with pictures and tapes. I stiffen and look away, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I can’t do it today.” I say with no more than a breath. She gives me a stern look, but her eyes aren’t cold like mine. Katniss’ mouth twitches like she has something else, but her back straightens and she looks back down to the book. “If you can’t do it today, then why would tomorrow be any different?” She asks me quietly. Her words sting more than I had expected. I swallow hard. 

“Tommorow could be better,” I mutter. Her eyebrow twitches slightly and I can sense annoyance filling her body. Never one to be patient.

“But how would you know?” She turns to me. Her voice isn’t sharp, but insistent. Katniss’ eyebrows scrunch up while she gazes at me. She swallows and glances back down, at her hands fumbling in her lap. “It might be better,” she starts, “but it might be worse.” She glances up, taking a deep breath. “What if you see something that reminds you of them?” Her eyes turn to meet mine again. “They don’t have a voice anymore. It’s up to us that they’re remembered.” She breathes. I can't argue with that.

The room falls quiet. The song of geese flying west calls from outside, wind rustling through the trees as their leaves fall.  Katniss picks at her nails. She’s right; I turn her words over and over in my head, but I have been telling myself this since the day she and Peeta started the book. They deserve to be more than a memory in my old, withdrawn brain. I force myself to sit upright on the couch, shoulders slumped. 

Katniss doesn’t push again. Instead, she runs her hands down the spine of the book in thought, a memory creeping up on her. “My father taught me how to swim. At the lake in the woods,” she says softly. “Some days, I just couldn’t. I was too scared. The lake was too cold, too slimy, or too full of fish.” I feel a smile at the corners of my lips, thinking of a little girl in two pigtail braids screaming when a fish grazes her foot. She gives me an almost-smirk. “But he never gave up on me,” she gazes away, her voice becoming serious. “Even when I refused to go in. He was always insistent. I would try and tell him that I’d do it tomorrow— that instead he could help me with carving. But he told me that tomorrow wouldn’t be any different. And I learned how to swim that day.” Her voice trails off as she stares below the table, picking at her nails. 

“You know,” I start. “Your father taught me how to swim, too. Him and my…” I trail off, not quite ready. “...his cousin. Sounds like he was a lot gentler with you, sweetheart. Burdie told me to suck it up or drown.” Katniss lets out a quick laugh, which brings my smile back. 

“Sounds like something you would’ve said to me.” She rolls her eyes. Another silence fills the room, but this one is warm and welcoming. It isn’t until the thought that I could’ve been in her life before, that it grows sharp. I was always meant to be her Uncle Haymitch. Now…now it feels like I’d taken Burdock’s place. Katniss seems to be thinking something similar. A frown has replaced her previous smile. “Neither of us can tell him anything, now.” She says slowly. I nod once. She swallows, hesitating. “Isn’t there anything you wish you could tell them?” Katniss says quietly. I look back down. The cold silence fills our empty space yet again. Yes, I wish I could say everything. But I can’t. Even when I think I could, when their ghosts catch up with me, I am speechless. What can I say to someone who would've known everything about me? Who should’ve known everything about me? But there are times when I think too much. Where I think, if there was the chance they could come back to me now, what I would say to them.

That I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. That I didn’t mean to survive if it meant leaving them behind. That Lenore Dove deserved better than what I had given her. That I had failed to be Sid’s protector. That I failed to be Louella, Lou Lou, Ampert, and Wellie’s protector. That Burdock…that Burdock was right about everything.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” I say solemnly. Katniss opens the memory book to its first page. Primrose. 

“Ive been talking to her through it,” she says, voice tight. “I don't know if…if it would help you but…” Katniss stiffens when the silence stretches too long. I don’t know what to tell her, I seem frozen in place while I look at the girls page. It's full now. Before, there were some empty spaces between notes and pictures, but now dark red ink fills empty space with endless scribbles of writing. Katniss does not take kindly to my silence anymore. It seems that her patience has run dry. “You know, my father told me to never give up on anyone. But you’re making it really hard, Haymitch.” She spits and shoots me a furious glare. I scoff, more out of defense than anything else, but reach for the book steadily. Her words echo in my mind. Never give up on anyone. Well, maybe I should put an effort in to make her listen.

My eyes follow some of the writing on Primrose’s page. Katniss’ handwriting is unmistakably hers, sharp and blunt. But it's softened with the memories she writes of.

“ Buttercup left a hairball on my bed this morning, ” one note reads. “ I haven’t killed him. Yet. ” I let out a small huff.

Another: “ Happy birthday, little Duck. Peeta and I made you a cake. Well, mostly Peeta.” I swallow. I can recognize the ritual of it all, the conversations that will never have a response. At least my ghosts can muster up a few words. Does Katniss get ghosts, too?

I read through more of these little notes. Until I meet the most recent one, on the corner of the page. Written as small as her hands could muster lays an admission. 

“ Something changed. This feeling in my heart, there's something different. It's like a burst of sparks all going off at once. Only when I see him. ” Then, below it: “ I could use your help right now. ”

Katniss quickly flips the page as she catches my eyes reading that line. I give her a knowing glance. Not rude, not meant to poke fun at her, but I try to show that I’d listen. She chooses to flip to the newest pages, the ones about the tributes from my games. Written next to their pictures are small bits of details; their district, their name, and maybe a little something I had mentioned. But most are bare faced with no details. That ball of guilt sinks further into my stomach. I should be more dedicated to this book, I’m too selfish to be crawling away from it. If the girl can do it, why can’t I? These children are nothing but an empty pit in my brain now. I can’t believe I had the gaul just a few hours ago to leave and give up. I had already given up on them once and I can’t do it again. 

She looks back up to me and fidgets with the pen in her hands. I notice the burn marks that stretch across her summer-tanned skin. Pale strips of raised skin slide across one another, creeping outwards as if reaching for more. The dance of flames greets me as I force my eyes shut. She briefly grazes my calloused and worn-dry hand; prying open my fingers that I didn't know were clenched and places the pen in my palm. I slowly look at the pen. Her hand hovers over it, unsure of my reaction, until I meet her eyes. This time, she seems to be telling me something as both seam-grey eyes meet. Her lower lip is slightly caught beneath her front teeth as she worries. I can almost see my sweetheart looking at me now— scared and unsure. The girl hides it better than Louella ever did, especially to me, but my heart aches and I can feel the poorly-patched walls I had built up from this morning falling pathetically yet again. My eyebrows pinch while my fingers grasp the pen tight. I quickly take to flipping to the start of the tributes with Louella, worrying my lip as tears prickle and sting the corners of my eyes. Katniss has pulled herself next to me on the couch, clinging to her knees as she watches the ink spread onto the pages. I write to Louella, to Lou Lou, and when I am done for the moment; Ampert’s page I fill with updates of his family. I try to dig deep into my memories for anything he would’ve liked. Maybe a new invention his father had crafted, or a joke I know he would’ve loved. To Wellie, where I draw a blank. Did I really know anything about her outside of the games? I know she had a rusty little bicycle bell. But I didn’t know why she had it, or who had given it to her. Instead I apologize that I had left when she insisted to me I shouldn’t. That was my own betrayal to her. To Mags who I thank for her love, for her understanding and comfort. For the soup she had given to me. To anyone on all of the pages. I flip to the start, I write my own messages to Primrose, to Burdie, to anyone I have known. I note that Katniss leans her head slightly on my shoulder. I write for what feels like hours as a hope flows through my veins and fills every single part of my body with a cause. To tell my story. To tell their stories, for the ones whose mouths are now made of ash or stuffed with dirt. It’s no longer the feeling of reliving these tragedies that have plagued my every being since my 16th birthday. It's like a boulder has just been lifted from my shoulders and replaced with a warm hug.

When I am done, my hands shake with a new courage within. I nudge Katniss awake, who had fallen asleep sometime during my writing rampage. She blinks at me with slow groggy eyes. “I’ll walk you back home, sweetheart.” I say softly. With her nod of approval, I pack her bag for her. The book, the pen, and the pictures she had brought are all placed back inside. I get the feeling that I’d see a lot more of them soon. The girl gives me a confused look when taking the bag from my hands. 

It’s a quiet walk. I don’t need to ask which house she’ll stay at tonight, because I know now that it would be Peeta’s. Effie had been right that night a week ago. Even when I stayed secluded in my house I could tell something was changing between the two— Katniss’ note to Primrose had only reassured my thoughts. 

When we reach the door, she gives me a hesitant look. I give her a slow and truthful smile. “Thank you. For today. I don't know how- but you really did help me out, sweetheart.” I tell her gently. She returns my quiet smile. Katniss reaches for the door, about to slip inside, when she looks back at me. Her mouth agape and on the verge of a question before she answers it herself; she quickly swings her arms around me and envelopes me into a hug. Stunned for a moment, my hands stay up until I wrap them around her. Just as quick as she hugs me, she is just as quick to jump away with a quick and rushed “goodnight, Haymitch”, before she disappears behind the door. I smile a little wider to myself.

The sun is about to set as I walk back to my house. I have a plan for tomorrow. Plans have never come easy to me and typically fail in some sense, but I have a new hope for this one. For all this talk of those passed, I skim over those who live. There are few, of course, but it only encourages me more. I reach the wooden panels of my door and can no longer hear the cries of the raven. Only the calls of the mourning doves singing goodnight can reach my ears. Tomorrow, I ‘ll confront the living ghosts of my life. Tomorrow, I will work up the nerve to talk to Blair. Tomorrow, I will work up the courage to talk to Clerk Carmine. Only then will I share to my family the songs of my lost Lenore Dove.