oeight

[oeight]

HAYMITCH ABERNATHY IMAGINE

haymitch x f!oc: lorna harkner

summary: post-reaping goodbyes with 'his girl'

warnings: angst, swearing, inaccuracies from books/films (e.g. slight bending of post-reaping rules/age of minor characters)

She was the last one allowed in. 

His mother and Gordy had left in a flood of tears, hands lingering over his chest as though to commit the thundering of his heart to memory before the inevitable chop, slice, or hit would quell the life coursing through his veins forever.

Quell. He chuckled bitterly, unable to help his lower lip wobble.

Their faces. He would never forget their faces in that moment, nor would he forget the sheer panic that gripped his heart – a cold, steely compression that sent shots of pain through his chest and up past his shoulder. Their watery blue eyes, so much like his own, and their tear-stained cheeks. His mother’s cries, begging the Peacekeepers just five more minutes before my boy leaves me.

He’d never really noticed it before, but his mother was going grey. Perhaps it was because they weren’t exactly a touchy-family – close like that – or perhaps it was because she was a tall, slender woman and he’d had his growth spurt late and only just begun to tower over her. But they were there, clear as day. Thick, wiry strands of grey that curled on the top of her head like broken strands. A reminder that he wouldn’t be there to see her grow into an old lady. 

No, the Capitol took that right away from him. They made sure of that.

Fourty-eight fucking tributes. A death sentence. His predestined doomsday, or week, however the hell long he’d last in that bloodbath. 

He’d been hounded with quick whispers of encouragement from a naive Gordy – who, bless his soul, at seven didn’t really know what the reaping was or what it would mean for Haymitch. If anything, Haymitch struggled to stomach looking at him for long periods of time. Where he sported a thick mess of wavy dark hair that curled slightly over his ears, Gordy had a curly mop of sandy hair on top of his head. He also had freckles – a star-shaped one under his left eye – and a brown splodge within his blue iris. 

But Haymitch kind of hated his little brother in their last moments together. And then he hated himself for hating him in the first place, and his heart quickened when he remembered that in the last thirty seconds of blurred hysteria as he mumbled and blinked his way through a half-hearted conversation with his mother, that he didn’t even tell Gordy how much he loved him. Didn’t tell him that the front door had to be lifted up with his foot before it could be shut properly, or that Lorna leaves a rabbit on the back step each week expecting nothing but a quick doodle in return. Gordy couldn’t draw.

Not like Haymitch could. 

And that was what was going through his mind when he felt a gentle, apprehensive hand cradle his bicep.

He hadn’t even realised that the heels of his palms had stuck themselves in his eye sockets, or that he’d fallen against a rickety table, his chest heaving and salty tears streaming down his face. In his haze of numbness and dissociation, he’d failed to recognise the door creaking open and the hurried, concerned footsteps of her boots crunch against the floor to reach him.

He’d never been a touchy person, but Lorna Harkner was, and when it came to her, he’d tolerate just about anything if it meant she’d be with him. In whatever way she wanted.

“Lor–” He gasped, his limbs locked in place as the pressure behind his eyeballs built up tremendously. He could see white worms in the darkness of his vision, and his elbows were digging into his thighs with such ferocity he knew there was no way he wouldn’t bruise. He’d hoped the pain in his thighs would distract him from the…everything, but it only seemed to amplify his confusion because the next thing he knew – for certain – was that her hands were everywhere.

A gentle tug on his wrist had his hands falling free from his eyes, and a soft push against his thighs had the backs of his legs scraping against the wooden floor, and a pleasant warmth blooming across his cheeks had his stinging eyes open a crack. She was blurry and there was an aura of green surrounding her as her fingers continued to lightly wipe away his tears.

Other than the raging tsunami of his heart hammering so painfully against his rubs; the panic that seemed to blaze every nerve in his body; the whirlwind of thoughts flying through his mind; the sudden desire to jump up off the floor and scream until his throat was raw; the heaviness of his eyelids; the hot tears still somehow leaking down his cheeks, he was still. So still Lorna paused her movements, her own bottom lip trembling as she fought not to break in front of him, and pressed two quick fingers to the inside of his wrist.

Through his frenzy, Haymitch felt his nose crinkle slightly as his cloudy eyes lazily dropped down to where she was touching his bare skin, “Did you just check my pulse?” He mumbled, brows going slack against his face as his eyelids half-closed.

He wanted to look at her – really look at her before time ran out, but it seemed his body had other plans. He was so tired.

“Yes.” She breathed, voice trembling. 

“Why?” He blinked slowly, brows struggling to complete the furrow he was going for. 

She swallowed, her fingers still pressed to his skin. The electrifying buzz that bubbled between them was somewhat hard to ignore. Haymitch revelled in it, holding his breath as he waited for her response.

“Because you stopped breathing.”

At this, the air locked in his lungs expelled, as if his body had just remembered what oxygen felt like, “I did?”

The blurry shape in front of him shifted slightly, and he could just make out the bounce of dark curls before she moved her hand away from his wrist, “You did.”

He caught a sniffle, and the next time he blinked, his vision cleared slightly. She wasn’t looking at him – that was the first thing he registered. The second thing was that her knee was pulled up under her chin, and clear droplets fell right onto the floor with the low angle her face was pointed. The silence between them almost made him forget why he was locked in that room in the first place. 

At that moment, it was just Haymitch and Lorna. The girl he’d had his eye on since he was eight and only worked up the guts to talk to her not half a year ago.

She was his best friend.

And though he tried to deny it – that insatiable craving for her touch all the time – he liked her more than he should. And right now, even though he knew she was crying because of him, she was still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. It was that paired with the knowledge that they were on a timer before she’d be ripped from him that sent a surge of courage through his entire body, the nerves at the tips of his fingers tingling as he reached a hand out to her.

He had nothing and everything to lose.

It was delicate, the way he lightly brushed her raven locks behind her ear to grab her attention, and it was delicate in the way she looked up at him, her eyes watery and bloodshot as she took in his equally dishevelled appearance. His blue shirt had been crumpled from the hands of his mother and brother, and his trouser legs had ruffled up his calves when he’d scrambled to the desk. Brunette locks hung in front of his eyes, highlighting his need for a haircut – and it stuck out at odd angles from when he must have run his hands through it. She could just make out the blonde strands shining in the sun, and wanted nothing more than to drag her hands through it and scope out how much of it would be left before he’d grow out of it. 

It’d probably be dyed completely brown by the time he stepped into the arena.

His touch was featherlight as he traced her cheekbone, his eyelids heavy as his bottom lip wobbled once more. 

She didn’t say anything, but gripped his wrist and relished in the warmth. She could feel his heart beating. 

She could tell he needed the reassurance more than she did, and it was that thought that drove her forward and into his chest. Her arm wrapped around the back of his neck, hand just splaying over the hair that curled down his nape. Her other arm wrapped itself around his torso – lean. She could smell the musk aftershave that used to be his father’s clinging to his shirt, but it was the familiar waft of lavender that overpowered her senses.

He seemed to lean back against the table, dragging her with him, and in one swift motion, her head was on his shoulder and her body was draped across his lap. He brought one knee up, caging her in against his torso, and used one hand to smooth her hair down before pressing a quick kiss on her forehead and using the other hand to press her further into him. 

They were quiet, every second tinged with morbid disdain.

“You’re smart.” She whispered, nudging his chin off the top of her head to look at him.

His blue eyes peered down at her – confusion evident.

“You’re intelligent, you need to use that.” She sat up, one leg swung around his waist and the other folded underneath her. 

They’d barely poot a foot between them, but Haymitch was still uneasy with that.

“You think I’m intelligent?” His mouth dried up, and his cheeks flushed as he searched her face for any hint of a lie.

“No, I know you’re intelligent, that’s why—” She sighed – breath shaky, rolling her eyes, “You’re focusing on the wrong things here. What I’m trying to say is that your brain can get you further than you think. Use it. Please. Don’t make any rash decisions.”

He nodded, though she knew it was more for her own sake than his. Everyone knew that all sense went out of the window for the first few days – if you even made it that far.

“And find a knife, shelter, and try not to piss anyone off enough to make enemies before you’re thrown in there.” 

“Of course.” 

“Why aren’t you fighting back with me here?”

Haymitch looked down at her trembling hands, and the green ribbon on her wrist.

“Can I have that?” He asked, his own fingers automatically going to untie it before she could even answer.

She didn’t reply, just watched numbly as he untied it off her wrist and tied it back on his.

“Haymitch?”

“I’ve accepted my fate.” Was all he said, twisting his wrist to admire his handiwork.

Lorna tilted her head inquisitively, “You’ve given up already?”

He looked so utterly defeated, a stark contrast already to the state she previously found him in when she first entered the room.

“Accepting isn’t the same as giving up, Lor.” 

“It is in there.”

He sighed, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he refrained from wanting to place both hands on the side of her head and just tug her into him for the rest of their time together. Was it so selfish of him to want to hold her when the end of his life was so near?

He didn’t think so. But he could read the room, and now wasn’t the right time to do such a thing when she was looking at him so devastatingly. Her lips seemed to be drawn into a frown, one that twitched as she wrestled to keep her emotions in check. Her brows were drawn together, creases on her forehead appearing as she blinked rapidly, looking to the ceiling to dispel the water gathering in her eyes.

He shook his head, unable to take it when she wasn’t looking at him. He had to memorise her as best as he could in the short time left. 

He wasn’t entirely thinking straight when he encouraged her to look back at him by tapping the underneath of her chin and sitting up straighter. They were so close their noses bumped and he vaguely noticed the way her breath hitched in her chest for a millisecond when she realised it too, and he most certainly acted on sheer impulse when he wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her impossibly closer. So close that their chests bumped, so close that Lorna instinctively dipped her head down a little lower, and pressed a burning kiss against his cheek. 

Then the other. Then against the bridge of his nose, his forehead, his chin, in between his eyebrows.

Until Haymitch couldn’t take it anymore and turned his head fractionally to the left and caught her.

He felt her inhale sharply, their lips slotting together so painfully perfectly. He took her by surprise, but she reacted quick enough. Quick enough to suggest that she’d been expecting him to do such a thing – that she’d drawn that reaction out of him on purpose.

One of her hands tentatively hovered in front of his face – he could see the shadow in his periphery – but she dropped it, almost as though she thought better of it, so he took the initiative to grab it and place it on the base of his neck, right where he felt it necessary. The way her fingers gently scraped the back of his neck up into his hair sent a shiver of excitement down his spine, and his jaw dropped in pleasant shock, their lips detaching.

It was over almost as quickly as it began.

He could feel his cheeks heat up as she slowly pulled away, though not too far. Her own cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide. 

He felt drunk on euphoria, and if he shut his eyes he knew he’d be able to feel the phantom touch of her on him again. 

“Accepting my fate doesn’t mean I’ve given up,” he was breathless, but he still managed to convey the note of sincerity he wished to get across when he tilted his face up to hers, maintaining as much eye contact as he could, “It means that I know there’s nothing that I can do that will prevent me from being in there. It doesn’t mean I won’t fight like hell to get out.”

She crossed her arms, hand sliding off the back of his neck. He missed the warmth almost immediately after she removed it, “You’re good with knives.” She whispered.

“I know, Sunshine, I know. And I’ll—” he felt like a crazed man when he surged forward hungrily, hastily kissing her once more. He’d had a taste of her and now he couldn’t leave off. She was addictive and it killed him knowing he’d have to leave her so soon, “I’ll try and come back but I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.”

He felt her shake her head against his mouth as he pressed a hot kiss against her forehead, “This doesn’t feel real. Why did it have to be you?”

Haymitch pulled back, eyes scanning her green ones. His mind was stuck reciting the first part of what she just said, “What doesn’t feel real? Us?” 

His heart hammered in his chest and he felt the sickening feeling of dread creep up the back of his throat. He was about to be sentenced to imminent death and he was worried about rejection. The idea of the hilarity of that was not lost on him at all.

“Us? I mean, I guess, but I meant The Games. It doesn’t feel real that you were picked. Out of everyone, it had to be you.”

Haymitch smiled bitterly at her words, his hand caressing the skin from her collarbone to her neck and then under her hair. Relief wasn’t the correct word to use to describe the way his body seemed to relax upon her confession, nor the way he melted into her touch when it was her that instigated their next kiss. 

“It’s the Quarter Quell,” he breathed heavily, nudging his nose against her cheek, “double the tributes from each district significantly increases my chances at being picked.” 

“I wish you weren’t such a hardheaded, miserable–”

“Sorry?”

“If you’d have told me you felt like this,” she gestured between them both, “then we could have been doing this much longer.”

“I’m not miserable–”

“Let’s not do this now.”

“When else are we going to do it?” His voice was sharp, and the mood instantaneously darkened.

A grey cloud hung over them, but they didn’t move away from each other or look away. Lorna’s gaze was full of sorrow, Haymitch’s equally as harrowing.

Something unspoken passed through them, and despite their rushed conversation and hurried movements, they chose to use the rest of their time to bask in each other’s presence. Haymitch was glad she didn’t continue giving him tips on how to survive. It gave him an opportunity to forget the horrors of what he was about to experience. He allowed himself to grasp onto the slither of hope she offered, that silent realisation that she’d be waiting for him if he ever made it back alive. 

That was until multiple pairs of heavy footsteps were heard nearing the room, and Lorna scrambled to her feet, dragging him with her, before pulling him into a crushing hug so tight he could feel the ferocity of her heart pounding against her sternum through the material of her dress and his father’s shirt and he clutched her tighter, afraid to let her go and afraid to let his unadulterated terror consume him whole before he was reduced to a trembling mess. 

When the door burst open she pressed one last chaste kiss to the side of his neck, before she was torn away.

She uttered her last words under her breath, but he caught them with ease, “Please try.” 

He said nothing in return, but offered a short, sharp nod of his head as their hands were ripped apart. She was ushered out of the room without protest, but she caught his eye just before the door slammed shut in her face, locking them apart. Potentially forever.

He was terrified.

[oeight]

my instructor literally got in a car crash today and might have a whole new car and my test is on friday YOU CANT MAKE THIS SHIT UP

this is me trying (not to fail my driving test again)

[oeight]

this is me trying (not to fail my driving test again)