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[brnesblogposts]

Twenty-year-old Y/N returns to the ruins of District 12, seeking something—anything—of the life she lost. Grieving, self-contained, and carrying the weight of a brutal past, she finds herself quietly drawn into the lives of Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch. As unexpected friendships form and long-buried parts of herself begin to resurface, Y/N starts to wonder if it’s still possible for something soft to survive the wreckage.

Pairing(s): Haymitch Abernathy x Female!Reader (romantic), Katniss Everdeen x Female!Reader (platonic), Peeta Mellark x Female!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: themes of grief, past emotional and verbal abuse from a parent, past physical abuse from a parent, past self-harm (cutting), past alcoholism (Y/N) / ongoing alcoholism (Haymitch), references to non-consensual sexual experiences (no explicit scenes), PTSD, mental health struggles, age gap romance between adults (20s and 40s), eventual smut, death, descriptions of death/gore, mentions of bombing, descriptions of district 12 after the bombing, might be slightly divergent from canon, peeta was not hijacked

All heavy topics are treated with care, but reader discretion is advised.

this is basically just a suuuuper long slow burn friends to lovers. Y/N’s backstory is very detailed but i have not and will not describe her appearance. the first 5 or 6 chapters are basically just providing Y/N’s background and building a foundation for the rest of the story.

Shadows of the Past - Six months after the Second Rebellion, you return to the ruins of District 12. Haunted by memories and loss, you wander through the wreckage—until a flicker of light draws you toward something, or someone, unexpected.

Fragments of Home - In the unfamiliar stillness of Victor’s Village, you find yourself cared for by an old friend and a stranger. As wounds are tended to, new connections begin to take root—quiet, cautious, and strange in their kindness.

The Space Between - You move through the stillness of what remains, caught between memory and reality. In the space left by loss, something quieter begins to grow—unspoken understanding, and the first fragile steps toward connection.

The Club - A nightmare drives you outside in the dead of night—and you’re not the only one who couldn’t sleep. An unexpected conversation beneath the stars begins to chip away at the walls you’ve built.

The Quiet Shift - You wake to a new day and begin to settle into your new reality. A simple visit turns into something more, as laughter and conversation spark the beginnings of something long forgotten: friendship.

Porchlight - Three months into your return, you’ve slipped into a quiet routine—baking with Peeta, trading late-night banter with Haymitch. But comfort doesn’t come easy, and even the smallest moments of ease shine like a porchlight in the dark.

The Shape of Warmth - You spend the day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—what begins with a truth leads into something softer, steadier. Something that feels almost like belonging.

Shoulder to Shoulder - The weight of your thoughts pulls you under, but an unexpected knock reminds you that not all doors stay closed. Some nights don’t feel as heavy when you’re not alone.

Dust and Danish - The distance between you and the people around you is starting to shrink. Not all at once—but in the soft space of banter, taste testing, and old memories that still ache. You don’t trust it yet. But you’re trying.

Mint and Memory - You spend the morning in the woods learning the quiet language of herbs, your scars aching in more ways than one. In the comfort of kitchen light and soft laughter, something fragile and steady begins to form. But even in the warmth, some voices still echo.

What’s Waiting Inside - You leave with a smile that doesn’t quite reach, and a voice in your head that cuts too deep. But when you ask not to be alone, you’re met with quiet understanding—and something steady enough to lean on.

Something Real - As summer settles in, so do you. What once felt unfamiliar begins to feel like home. You spend a day with Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch—harvesting herbs, sharing dinner, teasing each other in the living room. And somewhere in the middle of the quiet laughter and small comforts, you realize you’re not surviving anymore. You’re living.

Almost Subtle - A quiet afternoon puzzle turns into something softer—shared teasing, easy silences, and the kind of presence that lingers longer than either of you mean it to. When Katniss and Peeta suggest a trip to the lake, you drag Haymitch along, sun and sarcasm pulling something looser from him. You see him—truly see him—and say something you didn’t mean to. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Maybe neither of you do.

She Fell First - You wake up with one goal: figure out what the hell is wrong with you. Why does your heart do gymnastics every time Haymitch talks? Why do you want to be near him 24/7 like some kind of emotionally confused barnacle? Naturally, you barge into Peeta’s house to demand answers and are promptly diagnosed with a crush. Disgusting. Mortifying.

Totally Chill - You’re totally fine. Completely normal. Not at all losing your mind over accidentally massaging mint balm into Haymitch Abernathy’s scarred, shirtless stomach. Nope. Nothing to see here. Except maybe the part where you sprint to Peeta’s house afterward to dramatically declare your emotional demise. Totally. Chill.

Paper Spine - The sharpness guts you like it always has—like it did before anyone ever said your name gently. You fold, crumple, unravel. And when the panic finally breaks you wide open, all you can do is hold your chest and hope it doesn’t stay like this forever.

Back to Steady - A few days after everything cracked open, you find your way back to normal—soft sarcasm, warm tea, and limbs pressed a little too close on an old couch.

Pinecone Problems - You spend the day with Katniss and Peeta, basking in cinnamon bread, emotional whiplash, and whatever flavor of denial you’re currently fermenting. Feelings are talked about. Trauma is unpacked. And Haymitch—unfortunately—still exists, looking unfairly good doing absolutely nothing. You’re not in love. You’re just dramatically inconvenienced.

Pinecone Emergency - You’re pretty sure spraining your ankle after dramatically chasing Haymitch through the woods wasn’t part of your character arc, and yet—here you are, face down in the grass, in pain, in denial, and in love. Probably. Unfortunately.

He Fell Harder - Haymitch starts the night in a classic spiral—staring at a wall, brooding about feelings he definitely didn’t mean to catch. Then Y/N shows up at his door (again), and things only get worse. Or better. It’s hard to tell when she’s stealing his couch, insulting his snacks, and looking entirely too good while doing it. He’s not in love. Definitely not. He just… likes her a little. A lot. Maybe forever. Who knows.

Storm Spirit and Sunshine - You feel the storm coming in your knees and immediately decide it’s your entire personality. Haymitch thinks you’ve lost it—until the sky starts throwing tantrums and the power goes out. Cue unexpected darkness, shared candlelight, emotional trauma bonding, and accidental (but very intentional) hand-holding. Turns out, thunder’s not so scary when you’ve got a grumpy ex-victor and his veiny arms beside you.

Tension? What Tension? - You go to the lake to cool off, not to feel warm all over. But between the splashing, the teasing, and a few glances that linger a little too long, things start to shift. It’s just a normal day with friends. Nothing’s different. Nothing’s changing. Except maybe it is. Not that you’ll admit it.

Don’t Ask Me How I Slept - Something wakes you in the dark. You follow it upstairs and find more than you expected. A name, a moment, a quiet unraveling. You stay. And when morning comes, everything feels a little different—though no one says it out loud.

Just One Good Day - It starts with laughter and leans too close to something real. For a moment, it almost feels safe—almost. But soft things are fragile, and you learn again how quickly warmth can vanish. When the silence finally breaks, it leaves you reaching for someone who’s still here.

One Good Day, Gone - You try to hold onto something soft. He tries to push it all away. But some silences say more than words, and when the quiet settles, it leaves you both with nothing but the truth—and the space where one good day used to be.

As Long As It Takes - You don’t expect to see him. He doesn’t expect you to stay. But when the night unravels and the ghosts are named, you offer him the one thing he’s never been able to ask for—time. You don’t know what this is. You just know you’ll wait. As long as it takes.

Casual, Right? - You and Haymitch are fine. Totally normal. Just two emotionally stable people moving a table and not at all panicking about how close you’re sitting. But when the teasing turns soft and the space between you disappears, you start to wonder if pretending it’s casual is getting harder to believe. Especially when Peeta and Katniss walk in and feel every inch of tension in the room.

This Year is Different - On the day before his birthday—and what would’ve been another reaping—Haymitch starts to unravel. You stay. Through the silence, the memory, the ache. And by the end of the night, with moonlight on the sheets, something shifts. He lets you in. You let yourself stay.

I Hope It Keeps Becoming - On the morning after everything shifts, you wake to the warmth of something you’re scared to name. There’s laughter. There’s teasing. There’s a quiet moment where something almost happens. And later, after the chaos settles and the kitchen quiets, you let yourself hope this softness might stay.

What We’ve Been Becoming - A quiet day drifts into something warmer, softer—something that feels a little too good to question. You spend it in good company, with laughter and teasing and quiet truths. But when the evening settles and it’s just the two of you again, something finally shifts in the stillness you’ve both learned to trust.

Now, Not Then - You wake up from the past like it never left you. But this time, you’re not alone. And even when the words won’t come, he stays—gentle, steady, and real. This is now. Not then.

Without Needing to Say It - You end the night wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something that feels a lot like love. You both haven’t said the words. But you don’t need to. Not when it’s already there—in the way you touch, the way you stay, the way you keep choosing each other. Again and again.

Clinginess Is a Symptom - He’s got a minor fever and a major case of “don’t leave my side.” You make the tea, the soup, the rules—and he, apparently, makes whiny affection into an art form.

The First Time It’s Safe - In the quiet before sunrise, wrapped in shared breath and steady hands, you and Haymitch finally speak the truth that’s been living between you for months.

Soft Things Stay - You and Haymitch settle into something slow and safe—until Katniss and Peeta burst in, convinced you’re dead. The rest of the day is filled with teasing, toast, and sunlight, the four of you slipping into a rhythm that feels like home.

Soot Sprite - You return to the ruins of District 12 for the first time since coming home, with Peeta beside you. The walk is harder than you expect—but softer, too. Just as the past begins to settle, a reminder of the settling past latches to your leg.

Did You Just Whimper? - With Soot spending the night at Katniss and Peeta’s, you and Haymitch finally get the alone time you’ve been craving.

We Are Not a Normal Family - Soot causes chaos. Peeta makes up a game with no rules. Haymitch suffers. You laugh until it hurts. And for a moment, under stars and mismatched blankets, you remember what it feels like to belong.

I’ve Been Yours

Epilogue

[brnesblogposts]

Bob, on the phone: Guys, where are you? This place is fancy and I don’t know which fork to kill myself with.

[brnesblogposts]

How many words I total is this cos I calculated 136k but I don’t think that’s right idk I’m bad at maths

Pinecone Problems - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.56k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s one of those afternoons where nothing really needs to be done. The sun is out but not too hot, the air is breezy through the open windows, and your house smells faintly like the cinnamon bread Peeta made for lunch and something vaguely floral that might be a candle or might be Katniss.

You’re stretched out on the floor of your living room, flipping through a book you’re not actually reading. Peeta and Katniss are curled up on your couch like they’re starring in the Capitol’s most understated romance drama—Peeta’s got his arm around her shoulders, she’s got her legs draped over his lap, and they’re talking in low voices that are definitely not meant for you.

You glance up, watch Peeta tuck a piece of Katniss’ hair behind her ear and murmur something that makes her smirk.

You fling your book across the room dramatically.

“Okay,” you announce, sprawled across the rug. “If I have to witness one more heart-eyed moment, I’m going to throw myself into the creek.”

Katniss doesn’t even blink. “Do it quietly.”

Peeta laughs, far too pleased with himself. “You’re just jealous.”

“I am,” you say without shame. “Jealous of your ability to be nauseating in any room, at any time, without even trying.”

“You invited us over,” Katniss points out, still not looking at you.

“I invited my friends over,” you say, hand over your chest like you’ve been personally betrayed. “I didn’t realize I was hosting a live viewing of The Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12: Home Edition.”

Peeta grins. “We can tone it down.”

“Liar,” you mutter, rolling onto your stomach.

Katniss shifts, leaning further into Peeta, not even bothering to hide her smirk. “We could do more.”

You lift your face off the floor. “I will cry.”

Peeta is cackling now, full grin, looking like the sun itself. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You made me this way,” you say. “You fed me cinnamon bread and affection and now I’m a monster.”

Katniss actually chuckles under her breath, which only makes you point at her.

“And you!” you say. “You can’t just show up all mysterious and medicinal-plant-savvy and then decide to become emotionally well-adjusted and in love. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not emotionally well-adjusted,” Katniss says. “I just like him.”

You flop back to the floor. “Disgusting.”

Peeta leans forward slightly. “Do you want us to get off your couch and sit like normal people?”

“No,” you say, voice muffled into the rug. “I want you to keep being gross so I have something to complain about.”

Katniss reaches for a dried strawberry from the bowl on the table. “She thrives on misery.”

“I thrive on theatrics,” you say, rolling onto your back again and staring at the ceiling. “And cinnamon bread.”

Peeta throws a piece of the bread at you. It hits your forehead.

You sit up slowly, dramatically, holding the bread like a weapon. “You’ll regret this.”

He shrugs. “Worth it.”

Katniss eats another strawberry and watches the whole thing like it’s better than any book.

You break your threatening bread stare-off with Peeta and tear off a bite instead, chewing with great dramatic flair. “It’s not just that you two are disgusting.”

“Oh?” Peeta leans forward like a shark who smells blood. “Do go on.”

“It’s that you’re disgusting together,” you say, waving the bread vaguely in their direction. “All smug and soft and cozy and forehead-touchy. It’s rude.”

Katniss quirks a brow. “Sounds like someone’s projecting.”

You scoff. “I’m not projecting. I’m bitter.”

Peeta grins like a man who already knows what’s coming. “Bitter… because?”

You throw your head back with a groan. “Because I can’t be like that with who I want to be like that with, okay?”

There’s a pause.

A loaded, slow, oh-no-you-said-it-out-loud kind of pause.

Katniss lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Peeta, on the other hand, lights up like it’s his birthday.

“Oh?” he says, far too sweetly. “And who would that be?”

You shoot him a death glare. “Don’t.”

His eyes sparkle. “No, no, I’m just curious. For science.”

“Peeta.”

“For the record.”

“Peeta.”

“Because if it’s who I think it is—”

You lunge for the pillow behind you and hurl it at his face. “I will end you.”

He catches it mid-air with an infuriating grin. “That’s not a denial.”

You collapse onto your back again, arms flung out like a starfish. “I should’ve moved to District 4.”

Katniss hums. “They have scary beach bugs.”

“I’ll take the beach bugs,” you mutter. “At least they won’t mock my emotional crises.”

Peeta tosses the pillow at your stomach. “Come on. You’re not in crisis. You’re in denial, which is much more fun.”

You groan again, dragging the pillow over your face like you can hide in it. “I hate you both.”

“Love you too,” Peeta says brightly.

Katniss glances at him, smirking. “She didn’t deny that either.”

You groan louder. “I am going to throw myself into the creek.”

“Don’t forget your cinnamon bread.”

You let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a wail. “You’re the worst support group I’ve ever had.”

“But seriously. You could just tell him, you know.”

Your whole body stiffens.

“Tell him what?” you say through clenched teeth.

Peeta shrugs. “That you want to be forehead-touchy and cozy with him.”

“I will scream.”

“You already did. When there was a tick.”

You toss the pillow at him again, but this time there’s no bite behind it. Just heat behind your cheeks and something fragile in your chest.

Katniss doesn’t say anything, but you feel her eyes flick toward you—calm, quiet, steady.

You push yourself upright, dramatic as ever. “I’m going to make more tea before this turns into an intervention.”

As you stomp toward the kitchen, Peeta calls after you, “Make enough for your mystery man, too!”

You flip him off without turning around, but your smile gives you away.

The kettle whistles low from the stove, and you pull it off quickly, pouring the hot water over the dried mint leaves in each mug. The smell fills the kitchen, earthy and sharp, and you stare at the steam curling up like it’s trying to say something.

You haven’t had a crush since you were twelve. Haven’t liked anyone like that—really, really liked anyone—since Dewydd. Since you watched the girl stab him. Since you watched the light fade. Since you watched him whisper your name with his last breath.

Since then, your whole chest has felt cracked open and never quite closed right. Not once. Not for years.

It’s terrifying. Because the minute you let yourself want something again, it can be taken.

You swallow the thought and grab the mugs carefully, padding back into the living room.

Katniss and Peeta are still on the couch, leaning into each other like they forgot you existed the moment you left the room. Peeta’s got a hand over hers, thumb tracing lazy circles. Katniss rests her head on his shoulder, eyes half-closed like she’s almost asleep.

You hand them their mugs and sink into the armchair, curling your legs beneath you. You stare at the mint floating in your tea. Then say, “I haven’t liked anyone since I was twelve.”

That gets their attention.

You look up, meeting Peeta’s eyes. “Not like… liked liked. Not since Dewydd.”

Katniss sits up a little straighter. Peeta doesn’t say anything—just watches you, all quiet patience.

“It’s just—scary,” you admit. “Having feelings again. Real ones. I used to think that part of me was just… gone. Or maybe I locked it away too deep to find again.”

Peeta’s gaze softens. “Because of what happened?”

You nod. “I mean… I watched it happen. I watched him die. And I kept telling myself after that—what’s the point? Why let yourself get that close again if it’s just gonna end like that?”

You twist your fingers around the mug.

“And now—suddenly—I feel like I’m back at the edge of something and I don’t even know how I got there.”

Peeta sets his mug down and rests his chin in his hand, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say.

“I think,” he says finally, “that if anyone deserves to feel something good again�� it’s you.”

You glance at him.

He grins—just a little. “Even if you’re a disaster.”

You snort softly.

“Pinecone,” he adds, mock-affectionate.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but your chest doesn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

Katniss glances toward you, then says in her usual quiet, blunt way, “You’re still here.”

You blink. “What?”

“You lost him,” she says. “But you’re still here. Still feeling. That means something.”

You stare down at your tea again. It’s cooler now, easier to drink. You take a sip and close your eyes for just a second, letting the warmth settle.

When you open them, your voice is softer than before. “I used to think… that was it. That I already had my person. That Dewydd was the only one I’d ever get. We were supposed to grow up together. Get married. Have kids. Be the kind of parents we didn’t get.”

Peeta and Katniss stay quiet, giving you space.

You huff a soft, sad laugh. “I was twelve when he died. And I still thought that. Still believed it for years. That I’d already had love and lost it, and that meant I was done. Doomed to just… be alone. Forever.”

The room doesn’t move. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath.

You don’t look at either of them when you speak again. “Sometimes… sometimes Haymitch’ll say something that sounds just like Dewydd. Or his eyes’ll catch the light in a way that reminds me of him. Not all the time. Just little flashes. And it messes with my head.”

Peeta’s voice is gentle. “Why?”

You swallow, setting your mug down carefully. “Because Dewydd was a softy. A total sap. But his dad was an abusive piece of shit. So he acted all hard and mean, pushed people away, kept his guard up so no one could see how much he was hurting. Sound familiar?”

Katniss exhales through her nose—just once, but it’s enough.

“We were eight when we met. Me, Fiza, and Dewydd. All three of us had messed-up homes. None of us talked about it at first, but we knew. That kind of pain has a look to it, and once you’ve seen it, you recognize it everywhere.”

You trace your thumb over the edge of your mug. “He didn’t let anyone near him. But then one day, Fiza shoved a flower in his face and I called him dramatic for sneezing, and something about that moment just cracked him open. We were inseparable after that.”

Peeta doesn’t speak. Neither does Katniss. You’re not sure if they even could.

You smile faintly, wistfully. “We started ‘dating’ when we were ten. Everyone thought it was just stupid kid stuff. But nobody saw the way we looked at each other. Or how we held each other when we couldn’t take our parents anymore. Nobody saw him braid my hair when I was crying, or stay up with me all night after my mom said she wished I’d never been born.”

You shake your head. “It was real. It was young and messy and dumb, but it was real. And it’s hard to believe anything else could be, after that.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward or heavy. It’s just full. Held between the three of you like something sacred.

Then, quietly, Katniss says, “I don’t think love stops being real just because you’re young when you feel it.”

Peeta nods. “Or because you lost it. Doesn’t make it any less yours.”

You don’t say anything for a while.

You sit with the silence a little longer, staring down into your tea. Letting it settle. Letting you settle.

Then you blow out a breath and glance at Peeta. “God, I just trauma-dumped so hard. This is why you’re gonna have to make all the friends when we all get old and weird together.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Wait, I have to be the social one?”

“Obviously.” You sip your tea with faux elegance. “I’ll be the cranky porch cryptid who throws mint at people and Katniss will just be locked away in the house.”

“Mint and trauma,” Peeta says, deadpan. “Lovely combination.”

Katniss snorts behind her mug.

You perk up. “New business idea: Mint and Trauma. A bakery-slash-herbal-apothecary-slash-cursed therapy service.”

Peeta gives you a long, tired look. “You’re fired.”

“I founded the company.”

“You’re still fired, Pinecone.”

You gasp. “That nickname is a hate crime.”

“It’s justice,” he says. “For that time you told Haymitch my cookies tasted like dirt.”

“They did!”

Katniss chimes in, deadpan. “They really did.”

Peeta presses a hand to his heart like he’s been mortally wounded. “You two are cruel.”

You pat his shoulder. “You’re soft, but we love you anyway.”

He squints. “Do you?”

You grin. “Sometimes.”

“Mostly when you bake things.”

He gasps again, full offense. “That’s manipulation!”

You raise your mug. “That’s friendship.”

The front door creaks open without warning, and the familiar thud of heavy footsteps trails in behind it.

You glance up just as Haymitch steps through the doorway, squinting like the light personally offended him. His hair is even messier than usual, sticking out like he’d lost a fight with his pillow, and there’s a crease on one side of his face that looks like it’s been there all night. Or afternoon, technically.

He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine,” you say, sing-song sweet.

He grunts, not even dignifying that with a reply at first, just trudges further into the room like some sleep-deprived bear. Then he pauses mid-step and throws you a sideways glare. “It’s afternoon.”

“Still morning for you,” you say brightly.

He scowls, but there’s no real heat in it. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Peeta glances up from the cup in his hands, entirely unfazed. Katniss doesn’t even look away from the small knife she’s using to clean dirt from under her nails.

You push yourself up from the armchair and move to the couch, settling in beside Katniss with a soft huff so Haymitch can have the now-vacant chair. He drops into it with a groan, leaning back like gravity’s doing most of the work. The flask comes out of his pocket like clockwork, but he doesn’t take a sip yet—just holds it, rubbing his thumb along the metal.

Peeta studies him for a second like he’s debating whether or not to be annoying then says, “You look… awake.”

Haymitch grunts. “Define awake.”

You take a dainty sip of tea and smile at him over the rim of your cup. “Grumpy, functional, semi-conscious? You’re halfway there.”

He side-eyes you, mouth twitching. “That’s a lot of words for ‘annoying.’”

You shrug. “That’s what friends are for.”

“Remind me to revise my standards.”

You toss a pillow at him. He catches it with one hand and doesn’t even pretend to give it back.

“Thief,” you say.

“Brat,” he mutters.

You settle deeper into the couch, trying not to grin. Katniss shifts beside you, putting her knife away.

Haymitch lets out a long, tired breath and slouches lower in the chair. “What are we doing?”

“Being cozy,” you say.

“Trying not to commit murder,” Katniss adds.

“Failing,” Haymitch mutters.

You smile, eyes flicking toward him again. “You love us.”

Haymitch mutters something unintelligible and unspeakably grumpy as he lifts the flask, then pauses. “Why are all of you here?”

“My house,” you say brightly. “You wandered in, remember?”

“I must’ve been sleepwalking.”

“Sleep-stumbling,” Peeta says helpfully.

Haymitch shoots him a dry look. “Keep talking, muffin boy.”

“Hey. That’s my nickname for him.”

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since just now.”

Katniss tears a piece of cinnamon bread in half and passes the bigger piece to Peeta without a word. He smiles, soft and easy, and presses a quick kiss to her temple.

You make a strangled noise and cover your eyes. “No. I’m already emotionally unstable. Don’t add fuel to the fire.”

Katniss smirks and leans back again. “You invited us, we talked about this.”

“I did not invite you to canoodle.”

Peeta rests his head against the back of the couch, clearly basking. “You love it.”

“I’m regretting everything.”

Haymitch takes a long, slow drink, eyeing the scene from the armchair. “You’ve got chaos in your bones, honey.”

“Pot,” you say, motioning lazily to him. “Kettle.”

“You comparing yourself to me now?”

“Unfortunately.”

Peeta tries not to laugh. “You do have the same scowl.”

“And the same drinking problem,” you add sweetly.

Haymitch lifts a finger toward you, unamused. “Watch it.”

You flash a grin at him and take a long sip of tea like it’s wine. “I’m just saying, if you’re gonna haunt my house, at least contribute something useful.”

“Like what? Commentary? I already do that.”

“Complaining doesn’t count as commentary.”

Haymitch opens his mouth to argue—and then closes it, brow furrowed. “Alright, that one’s fair.”

Katniss, still leaning into Peeta’s side, glances at you. “You want me to make more of that balm later? Your scars still bothering you?”

You shake your head. “They’re fine today, but you can still make me more.”

“She just wants an excuse to rub it on your scar,” Peeta says to Haymitch, who immediately chokes.

“PEETA,” you hiss, mortified, as Katniss snorts into her bread.

Haymitch wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Peeta like he’s considering flinging the flask at him.

You let out a strangled sound and drop your face into your hands. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

“Too late,” Peeta says smugly.

Haymitch chuckles under his breath, low and amused, like he’s enjoying the way your face is burning and your mouth can’t quite figure out what to say next. But he doesn’t tease you. Not this time. Just lifts the flask slightly in your direction and says, “Better get used to it, honey.”

You meet his eyes for a second too long. You don’t say anything, and neither does he.

But you swear he’s still smiling when he takes the next sip.

Peeta and Katniss eventually leave.

It’s not dramatic. Just a soft rustle of limbs as they stand, a few last jokes traded, Katniss murmuring something about needing to cook stew. Peeta shoots you a wink on the way out, one you pretend not to see.

Then it’s quiet again.

The kind of quiet that hums low in your bones, comfortable and settled.

You’re still curled up on the couch, the blanket Peeta brought earlier draped over your lap. The sun’s dipped lower, streaking amber light across the floorboards, and the room feels warmer now in that sleepy, end-of-day way.

Haymitch lowers himself into the couch with a quiet grunt. He doesn’t stretch out, doesn’t sprawl like he sometimes does—just leans back, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s too tired to bother with his usual dramatics. His flask sits untouched on the table. The air between you is easy.

He tilts his head toward the door. “Think we’re gonna hear Peeta screaming when he burns the stew?”

You smile faintly. “He’s more likely to cry if Katniss makes him do all the chopping.”

The room falls into silence again, the kind that feels intentional. Like neither of you is in a rush to fill it. The breeze from the open window tugs gently at the curtain, and somewhere outside, the low trill of crickets begins to rise.

You shift slightly beneath the blanket, letting your knee brush lightly against his.

He doesn’t move away.

You don’t look at him when you speak. “Today was good.”

Haymitch exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t terrible.”

You smile. “High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it, honey.”

You roll your eyes but it’s soft around the edges. “I never do.”

The sunlight catches in his hair, the strands lighter now with the summer coming on strong. He looks more tired than usual. Or maybe just more still. Like the quiet suits him tonight.

You glance down at your hands, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “You looked more relaxed today. Less growly.”

Haymitch grunts. “Was a fluke.”

“You think I’m gonna start marking that on a calendar?”

“I think you’re gonna start giving speeches about it.”

You lean your head against the back of the couch, turning to look at him. “I only give speeches when I’m feeling sentimental.”

His gaze shifts to meet yours, something unreadable passing between you. “So… all the time?”

You huff a laugh. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you for a beat too long before glancing away, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re a handful.”

“And yet, you love me.”

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t get up. Doesn’t shift away. Just stays there, close, the warmth between you a quiet thing that hums beneath the surface.

You pull the blanket a little higher and close your eyes, just for a moment. Let yourself feel it all—his presence, the safety, the hush of the late afternoon stretching into early evening.

And for once, you don’t brace yourself for the moment to break.

Next Part

[brnesblogposts]

this slow burn is slow burning

Something Real - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

stayed up all night writing this for y’all, figured i should post before i go drug test😭 i made this one WAY happier than the last because i figured we all would need a bit of comfort and happiness after last chapter, i plan to keep the story pretty happy for a few chapters before some angst starts again. i was giggling and kicking my feet while writing the end, i hope you guys like it:)

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.61k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The air has shifted.

Not in any sharp, dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and say, “There—right there, that’s when it changed.” But it has.

Maybe it’s the time of year. May has bled into June, and the days have stretched warmer, lazier. The wind carries more green in it, the mornings thick with birdsong. Gardens are blooming. Wildflowers sprout from cracks in the fence posts. Life is stubborn like that.

Or maybe it’s something else. Something quieter.

Because since that night��since Haymitch held you while your ribs cracked open and all the things you swore you’d never say came tumbling out—you’ve been different.

You haven’t said a word about falling asleep like that, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm still curled around you come morning. Neither has he. When you stirred, still half-lost in sleep, you found him already awake, still and quiet, staring at the ceiling like he’d been doing it for hours.

He didn’t say anything. Just muttered something about needing to refill his flask and wandered off to the kitchen, same as always.

And yet, everything feels different.

Outwardly, things look the same. He still grumbles. You still roll your eyes. Katniss still sighs at both of you. Peeta still coaxes a smile out of you with something sweet or absurd or a bit of both.

But there’s a softness now.

With Haymitch, especially.

You drift toward each other without meaning to. Without saying it. Without touching. Just… quieter. Closer. If he’s sitting on the porch, there’s space beside him, and you always seem to find your way into it. If you’re on the couch, you don’t keep to the opposite corners anymore. You sit close enough that your knees almost touch. Close enough to feel the heat from his arm. Close enough that the quiet feels full.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you. Maybe it’s better that way.

You’ve started seeking them out more—Haymitch, Peeta, Katniss. On the days when it’s harder to breathe, when the thoughts turn cruel and loud, you go to one of their houses instead of pacing your own. You’ve stopped thinking that you need to handle everything by yourself.

Turns out Haymitch was right.

You don’t.

And they don’t treat you any differently for it. They just make room.

You’re at Peeta and Katniss’s house now, all four of you gathered in the backyard where the breeze still carries a little chill even though the sun’s warm. Peeta’s pulled a small table from inside, and there’s a pitcher of ice-tea and a few mismatched cups on it, along with a plate of lemon cakes he swears are still cooling even though Haymitch already stole one.

“You know,” Haymitch mutters around a mouthful, “you could’ve let these finish cooling before serving them to your beloved guests.”

“You’re not a guest,” Peeta replies. “You’re a local menace.”

Katniss smirks. She’s sitting on the grass, hair braided back, fingers absently spinning a sprig of mint she plucked from the garden.

You’re on the ground beside Haymitch’s chair, your legs stretched out. Close to him without touching. Without thinking. It’s just where you ended up.

“I think the lemon makes up for it,” you say, licking a smear of glaze from your thumb.

Haymitch nudges your knee with the side of his shoe. “Don’t encourage him.”

Peeta just smiles. “She’s got taste. Can’t help that.”

You glance at him, and he catches your eye with that same familiar ease. There’s no hesitation between you anymore. You tell him things now—real things. About your mother. About the nights she threw you in the cellar. About the days she left your ears ringing after deafening screams filled with venom and searing hatred.

He told you about his mother, too.

The belt marks. The slaps. The way she never looked at him like he was anything worth loving.

There were tears in both your eyes when you talked about it, but neither of you cried. Not then. Just shared it, like an old story passed between friends.

And you think—maybe Peeta’s the closest thing you’ve had to a best friend in years.

Katniss stands from the ground and crouches near one of the garden beds, brushing her fingers across the leaves of a flowering plant.

“Yarrow’s thriving,” she says, glancing up at you. “Wanna help me harvest some later?”

You nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

That’s how you and Katniss bond now—over leaves and stems and memories. She tells you stories about her father—how he used to hum when he cooked, how he made up names for plants he didn’t know. You tell her about Dewydd, about Fiza. About how Dewydd used to steal wilted flowers from the trash bins and bring them to you like they were treasures.

There’s grief in it. Of course there is.

But it doesn’t feel quite so heavy when she shares hers too.

Peeta hands you another cake, careful not to drop it. Haymitch steals another. Katniss rolls her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, you realize the voice in your head isn’t louder than the people around you.

You glance at each of them in turn—Katniss, Peeta, Haymitch—and feel something settle deep in your chest. Not joy, exactly. But something steadier. Something real.

Maybe this is what it means to start again.

You don’t say it. Don’t dare.

But for now, just being here is enough.

You lean back on your hands, the grass cool beneath your palms. Overhead, the sky stretches wide and endless, soft blue with just enough clouds to make it interesting. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun press gently against your face.

Haymitch shifts in his chair, and you hear the scrape of wood as he tilts it back on two legs.

“You’re gonna fall,” you murmur without opening your eyes.

“Gonna live a little,” he says, lazy. “Try it sometime.”

You crack one eye open just long enough to smirk. “I think I’ve lived plenty.”

He snorts. “That a threat of a sob story?”

“Maybe.”

Peeta laughs quietly. Katniss tosses the sprig of mint at Haymitch, who swats it away without moving more than an inch.

The breeze picks up again, and you tug your sleeves down over your hands.

“You cold?” Haymitch asks, his voice just low enough for you to know it’s not for anyone else.

You shake your head.

He settles the front legs of his chair back down with a quiet thud and leans forward to snag the pitcher of tea. He refills your cup without asking.

Katniss rises, brushing dirt from her knees. “Come on. Let’s get the yarrow before it gets too hot.”

You push yourself up with a small groan and look at the others. “You two gonna supervise from the shade?”

Peeta nods solemnly. “It’s a vital role.”

Haymitch lifts his cup. “We’ll hold down the table. Make sure nothing escapes.”

You roll your eyes and follow Katniss to the edge of the garden. You crouch beside her, fingers moving through the stems and soil like you’ve been doing it your whole life.

“You’re doing better,” she says quietly, not looking at you.

You glance up. “With the plants?”

“With everything.”

It hits you unexpectedly, the weight of that. Not heavy—just real. A truth you hadn’t noticed growing roots.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

She hands you a sprig. “Here. Start with this one.”

You fall into the rhythm of it, the two of you working side by side in a silence that doesn’t need to be filled. Behind you, you can hear the low murmur of Haymitch and Peeta, the occasional clink of cups, the laughter that rises and falls like wind through leaves.

When you return, arms full of herbs, Peeta’s already laid out clean cloth for sorting. Haymitch has stolen another cake and shows no remorse.

You join them again without thinking. Without asking yourself if you’re allowed to. No voice in your head tells you to leave. No weight on your shoulders says you don’t belong.

And maybe that’s the biggest shift of all.

You sit down in a chair close to Haymitch—just close enough for your knees to brush when you move. He doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

Katniss drops down in the chair next to Peeta and starts sorting through the bundles of yarrow, separating leaves from stems. You study her for a second before helping, mimicking her method. Peeta watches, then joins you both, scooting his chair closer to Katniss’ so he can reach. Haymitch doesn’t help, but his gaze flickers to the herbs, lingering like he might make a snide comment—but doesn’t.

“You ever think about starting your own garden?” Katniss asks quietly.

You shrug. “Maybe. Haven’t killed anything lately.”

“There’s hope for you yet,” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta hands you a stem. “You could plant mint. You already smell like it half the time.”

You shake your head and chuckle. “That a complaint?”

“Never,” he says with a grin.

You all settle into the rhythm of it—sorting, teasing, sipping tea. Katniss tells you which herbs need to be hung to dry and which can be crushed fresh. Peeta offers suggestions for recipes the yarrow might help with. Haymitch, surprisingly, listens more than he speaks, watching the way the three of you move together like he doesn’t want to disturb it.

The sun shifts higher, casting sharper shadows across the yard. Someone brings out more tea. Another cake disappears. You don’t know how long you’ve been out here, but it doesn’t matter.

Because for once, the day isn’t something you need to survive.

It’s something you get to have.

As the shadows stretch longer and the warmth fades from the breeze, Peeta stands and stretches, glancing toward the house. “I should start dinner.”

Katniss rises with him. “I’ll help.”

You and Haymitch gather the last of the herbs and carry them inside, trailing after them into the kitchen, where the light is golden and soft. Peeta moves with easy confidence, pulling out vegetables from the basket on the counter. Katniss starts chopping with practiced precision.

You take up a spot at the table while Haymitch leans against the counter, watching like he might say something sarcastic but doesn’t. There’s something comforting about it—all of it. The way they move around each other. The sounds of chopping, sizzling, quiet jokes passed back and forth.

Dinner is simple. Bread and soup, roasted vegetables, lemon cakes for dessert. The four of you gather around the kitchen table, elbows bumping and laughter filling the space like it belongs there. Haymitch grumbles about the soup being too hot, Katniss smirks, Peeta insists it’s perfect. You just smile and eat.

After, the plates are stacked in the sink, left for tomorrow. No one rushes to leave.

You all drift into the living room. Peeta and Katniss settle on the loveseat, shoulders touching, voices low as they talk about something only half serious.

You end up on the couch. Haymitch joins you without hesitation.

This time, there’s no space between you.

Your knees touch.

Haymitch leans back, one arm thrown over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching. His knee stays pressed to yours, warm against your leg.

“So,” he says, voice low. “You finally learning the difference between yarrow and dandelion, or is Katniss just humoring you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Please. I’m practically an expert now. I’ve only misidentified poison once this week.”

He snorts. “Impressive. Let me know when it kills someone. I’ll plan a party.”

“Don’t worry,” you say sweetly. “I’ve saved a batch just for you.”

His mouth twitches, just barely. “Knew you were keeping herbs in your house for a reason.”

“Murder’s a reason,” you reply, sipping your tea like it’s innocent. “Not a good one. But a reason.”

“You ever think you missed your calling as a vaguely threatening apothecary?”

You glance at him sidelong. “You ever think you missed yours as a professional grump?”

“Professional? Honey, I’m top tier.”

You grin. “I don’t know. Peeta’s giving you a run for your money lately. He sighed dramatically at a pie the other day.”

Haymitch huffs. “That’s just baking passion. Doesn’t count.”

“Pretty sure it counts. It was a very theatrical sigh. There was arm flailing.”

“Bet he didn’t threaten to haunt anyone if it turned out overbaked.”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider. “No, but he did say he’d cry.”

“Same thing.”

You laugh, and something about the sound seems to make him pause, just for a second, before he mutters, “You’re getting mouthier.”

“You’re getting slower,” you fire back. “That last insult had at least three seconds of hesitation.”

He looks over at you fully now, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I was being gentle. Didn’t want to hurt your fragile ego.”

You lean a little closer, just to make the point. “You couldn’t hurt my ego if you tried.” That’s a complete lie, he definitely could and he knows it, but neither of you acknowledge the fact.

His gaze flicks down to your mouth, then back up again. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s not,” you say, a little too quickly.

He smirks, but doesn’t push. Just leans back into the couch again, arm still behind you, fingers drumming lightly against the cushion.

The banter eases into silence, but it’s not awkward. Just easy. Like the rest of the day.

Across the room, Katniss says something under her breath and Peeta chuckles, leaning closer to whisper something back. You glance at them, then back at Haymitch, who’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to start something again.

So you do.

“You’re not gonna steal another lemon cake, are you?”

He shrugs. “I could.”

“You shouldn’t.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Gonna stop me?”

You match the look. “Might.”

He leans in slightly, voice quiet. “I’d like to see you try.”

You don’t rise to the bait this time. Just smirk and shake your head.

He shakes his head, smiling into his flask. “Mouthier every damn day.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “You saying you don’t like it?”

“Didn’t say that,” he mutters, and takes a long sip. Then, casually, “Keeps me on my toes.”

You laugh softly. “You? On your toes? That I’d like to see.”

He nudges your knee with his. “Careful. I’ve got moves you’ve never dreamed of.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

His smile twitches wider. “Depends how fast you duck.”

You snort. “Please. I’d dodge you with time to spare.”

“You think pretty highly of your reflexes for someone who walked into a wall last week.”

“That wall was aggressive,” you reply primly. “And poorly placed.”

“Sure,” he says, deadpan. “Let’s blame the architecture.”

Your shoulder brushes his side as you shift to get more comfortable. Neither of you comment on it.

Peeta and Katniss are still murmuring on the loveseat, their heads tilted together, some private joke between them drawing quiet laughter.

You glance toward them, then back at Haymitch. “Think they ever run out of things to say?”

He eyes them with mock suspicion. “I think they’re conspiring.”

You lower your voice, conspiratorial. “What do you think it’s about?”

“Probably how to annoy me.”

You nod solemnly. “Understandable.”

Haymitch glances at you again, his gaze lingering just a second too long. “You always like this after lemon cake?”

You lean your head back against the couch, smiling up at the ceiling. “Only when it’s good.”

He chuckles low under his breath. “Noted.”

The silence stretches again—companionable, unhurried. Your knees still touch. His arm stays draped behind you.

Next Part

[brnesblogposts]

it’s 1am and i Hve a job interview tomorrow but i can’t stop reading

Shoulder to Shoulder - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i fear that writing this series is beginning to consume my whole life, i graduated from my probation classes so now i just sit at home and write for hours on end😭 but this is my fav part so far hehe

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.21k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Some days feel heavier than others. Today presses down on your chest like the weight of a hundred unsaid things.

It started before you even opened your eyes. That thick, dull ache in your stomach that has nothing to do with hunger. That quiet, gnawing voice in the back of your mind, the one that sounds like your mother when it’s tired of pretending to be your own.

You sit at the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, fingers digging into your scalp like pressure might make the thoughts stop. It doesn’t.

They’re going to get tired of you.

Haymitch already looks at you like he’s waiting for you to mess up.

Peeta’s kind to everyone—it doesn’t mean anything.

Katniss puts up with you, but how long until she gets sick of your damage?

You close your eyes, trying to breathe through it.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

But it doesn’t work as well as it usually does. The thoughts come louder today, faster. And worse—some part of you believes them. That creeping fear that the more you let your guard down, the more visible you become… the more likely they are to leave.

You’ve been here for three months. Three months of finding comfort in their presence, in the slow rhythm of healing, in the strange softness of routine. And still, you feel like an echo in someone else’s house. Like a visitor overstaying her welcome.

Your chest tightens. You stand too fast, the room tilting for a second as you brace yourself on the doorframe. You think about going next door, maybe pretending like nothing’s wrong. But what if they can tell? What if today, they notice you’re too much?

You swallow down the rising panic and drift toward the kitchen, just to have something to do with your hands. The walls of the house feel too wide today. Too empty. Too quiet.

You don’t cry. But your throat burns with the effort of holding everything in.

The same thought repeats over and over: Maybe you don’t belong here at all.

You move through the house like a ghost, drifting from room to room with no real purpose. You wipe the kitchen counters even though they’re already clean. Rearrange the books on the shelf. Fold the same blanket on the back of the couch three times before you finally throw it to the floor and walk away.

You make tea and forget to drink it. It goes cold on the table while you stare out the window, watching nothing.

The sun climbs, then falls. You don’t step outside.

You hate days like this. Days where you can’t turn it off—can’t quiet that voice that tells you this is temporary, that the people around you are only being kind out of obligation. That they’ll get tired of the cracks in you, the way you flinch when someone raises their voice, the way you sometimes hesitate before you speak like you’re waiting for permission to exist.

You think about Haymitch’s gruffness, Peeta’s gentleness, Katniss’ steadiness. How easily you’ve started to slot into their world. How natural it’s started to feel. And yet—

You don’t trust it. Not really. Not enough.

You curl up in the chair by the window, knees to your chest, arms around your shins. The cushion beneath you is soft, too soft, like it doesn’t belong in a house you live in.

What’s wrong with me?

You’ve asked yourself that more times than you can count, but today the question lingers longer than usual. How can you be so surrounded by warmth and still feel this hollow ache? How can you laugh with them for hours and still feel like a burden when you leave?

You hate that part the most—that you can feel all the warmth around you and still question it. Still brace for the moment it’ll vanish. You feel like an awful person for that. For still carrying so much doubt in your chest when they’ve done nothing to deserve it.

They deserve better than someone who can’t stop looking over her shoulder.

Evening stretches across the sky. You watch it through the window, how the golden light slowly softens into blue. Eventually, the stars begin to appear—faint at first, then bolder, clearer.

You want to go outside. You want to sit on the porch, look up at the sky, maybe pretend for a while that everything’s okay. But a flicker of fear stops you.

What if Haymitch is out there?

You’re not in the proper state to see him tonight. Not when your mind feels like this. Not when the sight of him might knock something loose in you you’re not ready to confront.

So you stay seated, chin resting on your knees, watching the stars from behind the glass.

It’s not the same.

But it’s the closest you can get.

The knock that comes a few minutes later makes you flinch.

It’s not loud—more of a sloppy rhythm, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t quite steady on their feet. But still, it cuts through the silence like a warning.

You freeze in the chair by the window, pulse jumping. You already know who it is. No one else would come to your door at this hour. Not unless something was wrong.

You don’t move at first. Maybe if you just sit here, still and quiet, he’ll go away.

But then another knock. And a voice, gruff and unmistakably Haymitch.

“Did you die or something?”

You wince.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer, like he’s letting the worry leak through: “Haven’t seen you all day.”

You swallow hard, throat tight. The part of you that wants to stay hidden—curled up in this house, away from everyone and everything—pulls at you like a weight. But there’s another part, just as loud. The one that whispers he’ll hate you if you don’t answer. That this will be the moment he gets tired of you.

You drag yourself to your feet.

When you open the door, Haymitch is leaning against the frame, flask in one hand, expression somewhere between annoyed and relieved. His eyes sweep over you.

“Well,” he mutters, “you’ve still got a pulse. That’s a start.”

You force a thin smile. “Hi.”

He lifts the flask in a mock toast. “Nice of you to rejoin the living.”

You glance past him at the porch, then back. “Did you want something?”

Haymitch snorts. “No, I just enjoy knocking on doors at random while tipsy.”

You huff a breath. He’s still watching you too closely. You hate how naked you feel beneath that look.

“I can come back later,” he adds, voice less biting now. “Or never. If that’s the vibe.”

You hesitate again. Every part of you wants to tell him to go so you can retreat back into your shell, preserve the last bit of quiet you’ve clung to all day. But your fear answers for you before the rest of you can.

“No,” you say quickly. “You can come in.”

His brows lift, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. But he doesn’t push. Just steps past you into the dim house, his movements slower than usual, a little unsteady.

You close the door behind him, heartbeat still racing.

Haymitch drops onto the couch cushion like he usually does, elbow resting on his knee as he takes another sip from his flask. He eyes the room—untouched dishes in the sink, a half-eaten piece of bread on the counter, your blanket still crumpled on the floor where you threw it this morning.

“You’ve been in all day, haven’t you.”

It’s not really a question.

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just tired.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow. “Tired, huh?”

You nod, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t feel like going out. That’s all.”

He takes another sip, lets the silence stretch just long enough to make your skin itch. “You sick?”

“No.”

“Bleeding?”

You huff a dry laugh. “No.”

He leans back, propping one foot on the edge of the coffee table. “Then what, kid? House full of ghosts today?”

You stiffen.

You hate how easily he sees it. Like you didn’t even do a good job pretending.

You cross your arms, gripping your elbows. “Just wanted to be alone. Everyone gets like that sometimes.”

He hums. “Sure. Most folks don’t look like they’ve been trying to disappear through the floorboards, though.”

You flinch, just slightly. “I’m fine.”

Haymitch watches you, the usual sharpness in his gaze dulled by whatever he’s had to drink—but not enough to miss anything.

“Peeta said you skipped out on breakfast. Katniss looked like she was about to go hunting for you with her damn bow. Figured someone should check on you before they broke down your door.”

“I didn’t mean to worry them.”

“Didn’t try not to.”

You press your lips together. He’s not being cruel, but it hits anyway. You sit next to him, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. You wish he’d stop looking at you like he knows.

“It wasn’t anything they did,” you say quietly.

Haymitch tips his head. “Didn’t think it was.”

“I just…” You trail off, then shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

He lets the silence sit for a second. Then, “Still doing that thing where you decide what matters for everyone else?”

You glance at him, annoyed and grateful at the same time. “You’re drunk.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” He takes another drink, then gestures vaguely in your direction. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

You look away.

There’s a beat before he speaks again, this time a little softer—still scratchy, still laced with sarcasm, but something gentler underneath.

“You get like this often?”

You shrug. “Depends what you mean by ‘like this.’”

He gestures with the flask. “Thinking you’re a burden or that the minute you let your guard down fully, we’re all gonna turn on you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t say it,” he cuts in, “but I ain’t blind.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Haymitch leans back, resting his head against the back of the couch. “It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? Surviving long enough to wonder if the people who stick around are just waiting to leave.”

You swallow hard. “Yeah.”

His voice is quieter now. “That’s the worst part. You never really stop waiting.”

You sit with that. Let it settle.

Then you say, barely audible, “I hate that I still feel like this when everyone’s been nothing but kind.”

“You think kindness rewires a person?” He scoffs. “Please. If that were the case, I’d be a damn saint by now.”

That actually earns the faintest smile from you.

He glances over. “Glad you didn’t disappear.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “You say that now.”

Haymitch raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

You press your lips together, then add, quieter, “Give it time. You’ll get sick of me.”

He exhales through his nose. “I’d have to like people first to get sick of ’em.”

You huff something that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

A pause. Then, without really planning to, you say, “Some days I think I’m doing okay. That I belong here. That maybe I’m not just… taking up space.”

You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers.

“And then I wake up and it’s like—nope. That was a nice lie. Back to feeling like a mistake.”

Haymitch doesn’t move. Just takes a slow sip from his flask and looks at you like he’s hearing every word.

“Not sure how to stop feeling like that,” you admit. “Or if I even can.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you don’t.”

You glance up, startled.

He lifts his flask slightly. “Some things don’t go away. You just learn to live around them.”

You nod slowly, the tightness in your chest easing—not all the way, not even close, but just enough to breathe.

Then, trying to shift the weight just a little, you murmur, “You’re not as bad at this as I thought you’d be.”

Haymitch snorts. “I’m a delight.”

You snort too, barely. “A real ray of sunshine.”

“Don’t spread that around,” he mutters.

You rest your head on the back of the couch for a moment, voice softer now. “I won’t. Promise.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you notice—he doesn’t leave.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

You pull your legs up, wrapping your arms around them. The weight in your chest still lingers, but it’s settled now, dull and familiar.

“I didn’t mean to disappear today,” you say eventually. “I just… couldn’t.”

Haymitch glances at you but doesn’t interrupt.

“I tried to do things. Kept busy. Told myself I was fine.” You let out a breath, bitter around the edges. “Didn’t work.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re tellin’ me you didn’t solve your lifelong trauma with a productive day of pacing and pretending?”

You crack a smile, barely. “Guess I’m underachieving.”

He taps his flask against his knee. “We can’t all be prodigies.”

You let your head rest against your knees. The quiet that follows feels easier than the silence before. You’re still unraveling, but at least you’re not doing it alone now.

Haymitch shifts slightly, gaze flicking toward you again. “You think too much.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

He grins faintly. “Fair.”

A pause.

Then you ask, not quite meaning to, “Do you ever… feel like it wouldn't matter if you were here or not?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lets the question hang there, weighty and real.

“Every damn day,” he says finally. “Since I was sixteen.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to. Because you get it.

You both sit there for a while—two people shaped by grief, by things that don’t go away. Two people who know what it means to be haunted by the versions of themselves they couldn’t save.

Eventually, you shift a little closer, just enough for your shoulder to brush his.

He doesn’t move away.

And you don’t apologize for needing the contact.

For a moment, you let yourself just exist in that sliver of comfort.

“You ever think it’ll stop?” you ask quietly, still not looking at him. “Feeling like that.”

Haymitch exhales through his nose. “No.”

That makes you laugh, sharp and dry. “Comforting.”

He shrugs. “I could lie if you want.”

“No,” you say. “Don’t.”

He leans closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly into yours now. The contact is light, careful. His flask rests between his hands, but he doesn’t lift it.

“It dulls sometimes,” he says. “That’s the best I’ve got for you.”

You nod slowly. It’s not what you wanted to hear. But it’s honest. And right now, honesty feels better than comfort ever could.

“I hate that I don’t trust it. Any of it,” you murmur. “Katniss, Peeta… you. You’re all kind to me and I just—keep waiting for it to go away. Or explode.”

“You think we’re all ticking bombs?”

“No,” you say. “I think I am.”

That hangs in the air like something you shouldn’t have said. But it’s out now, and you don’t want to take it back.

Haymitch doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t throw a sarcastic remark at you like he usually would. He just presses his shoulder fully against yours, grounding you with the weight of his presence.

“You ever think maybe the reason you’re still here is ‘cause we’re all messes too?” he says, voice low. “Not in spite of it. Because of it.”

You glance over at him. “You’re saying we’re trauma bonding.”

“I’m sayin’ you fit better than you think, kid.”

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat. “I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m good at that.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, dry. “Me too. Real talent of mine.”

You huff a quiet breath. Then, “I think… I want to believe it’s real. The friendship. The way you all treat me. I just—don’t know how to let myself believe it.”

“Then don’t rush it,” he says.

You furrow your brow.

He gestures vaguely. “Just let it be what it is right now. Doesn’t need to be all or nothing. Doesn’t need to be permanent or perfect. Just… real enough for now.”

You glance at him, and after a long pause, you tentatively rest your head on his shoulder. He tenses for a second, like he wasn’t expecting it. But then he relaxes, just slightly, enough for you to stay.

“I used to think I’d never have people again,” you whisper as exhaustion settles over you. “That I don’t deserve them.”

Haymitch nods. “Lot of us think that.”

You glance up at him. “Do you?”

He gives a small shrug, your head lifting with his shoulder. “Sometimes. Then one of you idiots shows up on my porch or forces a dessert on me, and I remember I’m stuck with you all.”

You yawn into your sleeve, your voice slurring a little as you mumble, “Do you think I’m annoying?”

Haymitch barks a short laugh. “That the sleep talking, or is this a new spiral?”

“Both,” you mutter. “Maybe.”

“You’re definitely more tolerable when your words are half-melted together.”

You lift a hand and wave it vaguely. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

He smirks. “This is the closest I’ll ever get to seeing you drunk, I guess.”

“Mm,” you hum. “I’m way more fun than this when I’m drunk. I used to dance.”

Haymitch raises a brow. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

You let out a quiet giggle, half-asleep now. “Sorry, this show’s retired.”

“Tragedy.”

The room settles into a soft quiet, the kind that feels earned. You don’t speak, but you don’t move either. His shoulder is warm beneath your cheek, solid and real.

For the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re drowning.

Just drifting.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this happened?” you ask, your voice slow and drowsy against his shoulder.

Haymitch hums like he’s considering it. “I try not to.”

You smile faintly. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t like torturing myself.”

“Fair,” you murmur. “I think about it all the time.”

“What’s your version?” he asks. “The alternate life?”

You shrug, your cheek rubbing against the fabric of his shirt. “I probably would’ve married Dewydd. We’d maybe have a kid by now. Something quiet. A little house. Not being scared all the time.”

“Sounds… horrifying,” he says flatly, but there’s no bite in it.

You laugh softly. “Yeah, yeah. Domesticity, the real nightmare.”

“I wouldn’t’ve lasted a week.”

“You would be a good dad,” you say, surprising yourself.

He glances at you, startled, but doesn’t say anything right away. Just swallows, then mutters, “You’re half-asleep. Can’t take anything you say seriously.”

“Mmm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Still true though.”

Haymitch doesn’t argue. Doesn’t make a joke.

He just sits there, shoulder warm beneath your head.

You shift the smallest bit, tucking your legs up, and feel the weight of the day—of everything—start to fade.

“You’re not so bad,” you mumble.

“Thanks, honey,” his voice is softer now.

You smile. It’s small. Barely there. But real.

Your breathing slows. Your grip on the moment eases. And you fall asleep, right there on the couch, with Haymitch beside you—solid, silent, and still awake.

Next Part

[brnesblogposts]

Shadows of the Past - Soft Things Survive

omg okay i’ve been working on these chapters for the past week and debating if i want to post it or not but i finally decided to just say fuck it. even if nobody reads or enjoys this story i still get joy from writing it and this is the first time i’ve actually spent longer than a night writing a story so this is my pride and joy lmao. using different dividers than my usual ones to match the cover theme:)

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.49k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Six months after the Second Rebellion ends, you return to District 12. You don’t fully understand why—why you would willingly walk back into a graveyard of memories, why you expect to find anything other than ghosts. You haven’t set foot here since the night of the bombing. Part of you clings to the foolish hope that something, anything, survived. That the Capitol, in all its cruelty, might have left some part of your home standing. But you know better. The Capitol was never merciful. Not to District scum like you.

The train groans to a stop, and as you step onto the platform, your breath catches. The ruins of 12 stretch before you, a wasteland of ash and silence. The town square—once the cold heart of the district—lies in shattered remains. It was never truly a place of joy, at least not for most of you. It was where you were herded once a year to watch children be sent to die. Where Peacekeepers patrolled with sharp eyes and loaded guns. Where only the merchant families, with their fuller bellies and lighter burdens, found any sense of comfort. And yet, even here, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where life had tried to bloom.

Charred beams jut out from skeletal structures, the last remnants of homes and businesses that once held warmth, laughter, and whispered dreams of escape. The air is thick with the acrid scent of coal dust and smoke, the same scent that clung to your skin your entire childhood. You let out a choked laugh, realizing that the thing you once loathed—the ever-present reminder of your district’s suffering—has become a strange sort of comfort.

You pick your way through the wreckage of the train station, each careful step crunching over shattered glass and crumbling stone. The sound grates against the silence, an eerie symphony to the slow-breaking of your heart. You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t the absolute emptiness.

Then, your feet touch the cracked concrete of the town square, and the world tilts. The air is knocked from your lungs, and suddenly, you’re fourteen again. You’re standing among a sea of terrified faces, the silence heavier than any scream.

And you’re watching helplessly as Effie Trinket calls Fiza Prosser’s name.

The moment her name is called, it’s as if the world stops breathing with you. The air, thick with anticipation, turns suffocatingly still. The crowd freezes, a sea of held breaths and unspoken prayers, as if time itself has fractured. Your gaze snaps to Fiza.

She turns to you, her face ghostly pale, eyes glassy with terror. Her lips part, but the words barely escape.

“I— I can’t,” she squeaks, shaking her head violently, as though she can will herself out of this nightmare.

Effie’s voice cuts through the silence like a polished knife. “Fiza, dear, come on up!” she chirps, her tone bright and empty. Too cheerful. Too pleased to be calling a girl to her death.

Hope is a dangerous thing to cling to, and you know better than to let it fester. Fiza won’t come home. She’s too frail, her body a roadmap of every missed meal, every long winter spent starving in the Seam. Her father ran off years ago, leaving behind nothing but an empty space where love should have been, and her mother—too drowned in sorrow and liquor to care—was no savior. You used to beg your mother to let Fiza eat with you. Every time, it earned you nothing but scoldings.

Tears spill down her cheeks, and you brush them away with trembling fingers. Your own throat is tight, every muscle in your body screaming against the cruelty of this moment. But if you break, she’ll shatter.

“Hold your head high, even if you’re crying,” you whisper, cupping her face between your hands. “Wear your tears with pride. They do not make you weak.”

The Peacekeepers are coming. You barely have time to press a quick kiss to her forehead before you give her a gentle push forward. Her legs wobble like a newborn fawn’s, but she moves. She stands tall, her head high even as her fingers twitch with fear.

Effie claps her manicured hands together, beaming. “Aren’t you just the cutest little thing?!” she squeals, as if Fiza is some delicate doll instead of a girl marching toward her death.

A hot, pulsing rage surges through you. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms so hard they nearly break skin. You have never been one for violence, but in this moment, you want to tear onto that stage, claw your way to Effie, and scratch the paint right off her doll-like face.

The male tribute’s name is called, but you don’t hear it. You can’t. You’re too busy burning every detail of Fiza into your memory—her trembling fingers, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way the sun catches the tear tracks on her face.

The second the square is dismissed, you shove your way through the dispersing crowd, heart hammering as you storm into the Justice Building.

“Fiza Prosser,” you demand breathlessly, locking eyes with the first official you see. “I want to see her.”

“No time for goodbyes today. We’re running behind.” He doesn’t even look at you. Just turns away.

Something in you snaps. You want to scream, to claw at him, to beat your fists against his back until he acknowledges the cruelty of what he’s just stolen from you. But all you can do is stand there, frozen, empty, unable to cry.

You don’t move until your father comes. He picks you up like he did when you were small, cradling you against his chest as he whispers soothing words you can’t even process.

And for the first time since her name was called, you let yourself sob.

Time shifts again, and you’re twelve years old, standing in the town square, watching Dewydd Comey climb the steps of the stage. Your first love. The boy with soft gray eyes and a smattering of freckles you used to trace with your fingertips. Everyone called it puppy love, something fleeting, something childish. But love doesn’t fade just because the world refuses to take it seriously. What you felt for him then still lingers, untouched by time.

Your goodbye in the Justice Building is one of your most cherished memories—despite how god-awfully painful it is.

The moment you step into the room, you throw yourself at him, and he meets you halfway, crushing you against his chest. His arms lock around you so tightly that your ribs ache, but you don’t care. You bury your face in his shoulder, your sobs coming in broken gasps, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. His hand moves up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes, whispering reassurances he doesn’t believe. You should be the one comforting him, but you can’t. Your grief is selfish, swallowing you whole.

He gently pulls back just enough to see your face, his fingers trembling as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His storm-cloud eyes search yours, memorizing. His fingertips trace the curve of your cheek before cupping it, warm and soft. You press into his touch, desperate to burn the feeling into your skin. A small, keening sound escapes you as your gaze drinks in every last freckle, every tiny imperfection, terrified that someday they’ll blur and fade in your mind.

“I’m gonna win and come back to you, okay?” His voice is steady, but his eyes betray him, glistening with unshed tears. “Then we can finish school, get married, and I’ll take good care of you.”

You nod against his palm, biting back a wail.

“Promise?” Your voice cracks, the word barely escaping as you see his lower lip quiver. His shoulders sag, his breath shuddering. He bows his head, his hand slipping from your cheek.

You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, to hold on just a little longer. His tears fall freely now, streaking down his cheeks, and the sight of them unravels something deep inside you. He doesn’t have to say it—you see it in his eyes. He knows. He knows he won’t come back.

You take a shaky breath, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. Neither of you has ever kissed anyone before. Not each other, not anyone. You always talked about saving your first kiss for something special. For when you were older, when you had time, when the world wasn’t so cruel.

But there is no more time.

A sob tears from your throat as you surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. It’s clumsy, wet with tears, full of fear and love and everything you will never get to have. His hands find your waist, anchoring you together for just a second longer.

Then, the door swings open.

A Peacekeeper’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade. “Time’s up.”

Dewydd and you barely manage two more frantic kisses before the Peacekeeper wrenches you away, their grip bruising around your arm.

“Don’t forget me!” he cries, his voice raw and broken as the door slams shut between you.

You never did.

You take a shaky breath, but it does nothing to steady you. Pain lances through your chest as the past fractures around you, dissolving like ash in the wind. You are twenty years old, standing in the graveyard of your childhood. Every memory you have is buried beneath the rubble of homes and businesses, scattered like remnants of a life that no longer exists.

Tears streak down your cheeks as you step forward, each footfall heavy with ghosts.

Dewydd and you dance through the remnants of the Fall Festival, your laughter twirling between the ruins like autumn leaves. The festival had once made the town square almost beautiful—lanterns casting golden light against the cold, music drowning out the ever-present hunger in your bellies. But now, the echoes of your joy only deepen the hollowness inside you. That night was his last Fall Festival, and you hadn’t known. Hadn’t cherished it enough.

You pass the half-standing remains of the mayor’s house, and specters of Fiza and you flit by in your periphery, your breathless giggles carried away by the wind. You were just children, running through the streets of a district that had already doomed you, too naive to understand how cruel the world would be.

The merchant section appears next—once untouchable, a world of goods you could never afford. Fiza, Dewydd, and you used to press your noses against the shop windows, dreaming of stepping inside, of running your fingers over silks and pastries and gold-tipped fountain pens. Now, those once-grand storefronts are nothing but scorched skeletons, their vibrant colors reduced to soot-streaked debris. The dreams you had here are as dead as the district itself.

You force your feet toward the Seam, bracing yourself for the devastation you know awaits you. But nothing could have prepared you for this.

Fiza’s house, or what’s left of it, is the first thing you see. A single doorway beam stands defiantly against the wreckage, a marker for a home that no longer exists. Your fingers graze its surface, splintered wood biting into your skin, and suddenly you can’t breathe. A sob rips free from your throat, shaking you to your core.

Then you see them.

The charred skeletons of a family, their bodies half-buried beneath the rubble of their home. Your stomach lurches, bile rising fast, and you stagger away just in time to vomit onto the broken earth. The acrid taste burns your throat, but you barely notice—you can only stare at the bodies.

You keep moving, though your legs tremble beneath you. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. More bodies. More homes turned to dust. Your cries dissolve into the wind, lost in the sea of death that stretches before you.

You find Dewydd’s house.

His parents are still inside, their bodies burned but unmistakably entwined, wrapped in each other’s arms in the remnants of their bedroom. Your breath catches, your stomach twists violently, and you clap a hand over your mouth as another wave of nausea surges through you. You tear your gaze away, but the image is seared into your brain.

Then, your house.

The second your eyes land on it, your body betrays you, and you retch onto the ground, emptying what little is left inside you. The foundation is all that remains, a shattered skeleton of a place that never felt like home.

You take a step forward, then another, but your knees buckle the moment your feet touch the foundation. Shards of glass and jagged stone slice into your skin, but you barely feel it. Your mother’s voice rises in your head, a low whisper at first, growing louder with every breath until it drowns out everything else.

Useless. Pathetic. A burden.

The words scrape against your skull like rusted nails, twisting and warping until they are all you can hear. Your eyes land on a hand protruding from beneath a massive slab of cement, fingers curled slightly, frozen in time.

You don’t know when you stand. You don’t know when you start running.

All you know is that her voice follows you, chasing you through the ruins of the Seam, its venom echoing off the broken walls. Your foot catches on a loose rock, nearly sending you sprawling, but you manage to keep going.

Your lungs burn. Your ribs ache.

You only stop running when the echoes finally fade.

When you finally stop running, you double over, bracing your hands against your thighs as you struggle to catch your breath. Your lungs burn, your ribs ache, and your entire body trembles from exhaustion. For a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart in your ears.

Then, silence.

As your breathing evens out, your eyes drift upward—and you freeze.

The Victor’s Village stands just ahead, untouched by the destruction that swallowed the rest of District 12. A chill seeps into your bones.

Every house is pristine, their exteriors unscathed, their windows gleaming as if the fires of war never reached them. It feels wrong, like a cruel illusion amidst the ruins. While everything else has crumbled to dust, this piece of the Capitol implanted into District 12 remains eerily whole.

You take a step forward. Then another.

A flicker of light in one of the houses catches your attention. Your brows knit together as you inch closer, your fingers hesitantly curling around the gate’s handle. You push it open, wincing as the rusted hinges screech through the stillness. The manicured lawns and cobblestone paths feel like relics from another world, a world where people lived in comfort while the rest of you starved. You barely notice the front door of the illuminated house swinging open—until a voice startles you.

Next Part

[brnesblogposts]

haymitch abernathy | no peace

words: 1.7k warnings: 18+, hurt/comfort, public punishment (inspired by gale's whipping in catching fire), mentions of alcohol and drugs, pain, pain, pain, blood, injury, just a lot of whump description: Disobeying the Peacekeepers comes with punishment. Haymitch is the one to protect you, sitting at your bedside and helping you through the agony.

You kneel because it’s all you can do, just as all the residents of the Seam can do is watch it happen. Beside you, the little girl who you’d leapt in front of just a moment ago sniffles and cries for her mother. You think you know her as the daughter of one of the coal miners, but you don’t see either of her parents anywhere now. Likely, they’re at home, waiting for her to bring that stolen wedge of cheese before they starve. Now, it lies on the floor at the Peacekeeper’s feet, dirtied by the sooty ground and laid to waste. 

“She’s just a girl,” you say again — plead. You’re met with a blow across your face, one that knocks you to the ground. Though it steals your breath, you only grunt, determined not to show weakness. It’s what they thrive on, but you are not weak. Not for this. 

The crowd gasps in shock, but nobody steps in. Nobody can, not without twice as terrible a punishment. 

When you rise onto your elbows, the Peacekeeper grabs your chin, teeth bared. “Well, I sure hope she was worth the twelve lashes you’re about to get. Let’s see how heroic you feel with your back in tatters, shall we?” 

He drags you over to the whipping post, your knees scraping against the cobbles, heart pounding in your ears. The girl is crying, but you glimpse a neighbour pulling her away. Good. His focus is on you, and that means she’ll get to go home today — without food, but safe. Perhaps one of the onlookers will take pity, find something to fill her belly. God knows she looks like she needs it, joints jutting out of grimy, freckled skin. You know that hunger; the type that aches in every bone, burns right through your insides. Her tiny frame wouldn’t survive the lashes, but you will, so you let the Peacekeeper rip off your shirt and bare your back to him when he asks, another of them approaching to tie you up with rope that immediately chafes your wrists. 

“Please,” the little girl is shouting, but she’s far away. 

You grit your teeth when you hear the whip crack against the floor. Focus on the rows of feet surrounding you, as though counting the holes in the miners’ boots might be enough of a distraction and you won't feel it. 

Except it isn't and you do. The whip tears over your spine and you can’t keep from letting out a scream this time, entire body shuddering as though it can’t quite settle into this new pain. The Peacekeeper counts with every lash: one, two, three. By the fifth, you can’t hold yourself up, slumped against the pole as hot blood trickles down your skin and gathers at the waistband of your trousers. The shoes blur and tilt with the rest of the world, and you wonder how you’ll work tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. You hope the girl isn’t looking. You wish nobody was looking. 

Before the seventh, a new voice chimes in, footsteps scuffing against the stone behind you. You don’t need to see him: his voice is enough for you to recognise who is trying to rescue you. 

Haymitch. 

“All right, all right, don’t you think you’ve proved your point?” he’s saying with that usual hint of a slur, because you can’t remember the last time he wasn’t drunk. It’s the only reason you’re friends. He buys your liquor, enough that you started watering it down a while back both because you don’t want to enable his addiction and because it gives him reason to come back more often, even if it’s to yell at you about the quality of your booze. 

“The sentence for attacking a Peacekeeper is twelve lashes. Step aside, or join her,” the Peacekeeper warns. 

Attacking a Peacekeeper. You barely touched him, only pushing him back before he could hit the girl. 

“Leave it, Haymitch,” you manage to force out. You taste blood and realise you’ve bitten through your tongue, but it’s impossible to feel it with your back on fire. “Let the man finish. No Peacekeepers, no peace, right?”

Your sarcasm is rewarded with another whip, right across both shoulder blades. 

Seven.

“Stop it!” Haymitch orders. There’s something rich and husky in his voice. Desperation. There you were thinking he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. You'd be surprise if you could muster the energy. “You wanna punish someone, punish me. How about we see what happens when one of the Hunger Games victors gets all bloodied up in the street, huh?”

Silence. Likely, the Peacekeeper realising who he is. District 12's only victor. You squeeze your eyes closed, dreading that Haymitch might actually take the lashings for you. The only thing you could bear less than this.

“Victors aren’t exempt from the rules,” the Peacekeeper decides, but his voice is no longer as stiff and certain as before. “And Seam scum like her certainly aren’t.”

“Maybe not, but what would everyone think, seeing Panem’s hero at the hands of a Peacekeeper? You sure that’s an image Snow would want associated with his precious Games?”

A scoff. “I don’t care about Panem’s heroes. You have nothing to do with this, so step aside.”

“She’s my wife!” Haymitch claims, causing another wave of shock to rattle through the crowd. And through you, because like hell you are. But he’s lying to save you, and you don’t know why. “I won’t let you do this to her. So whip me, or let us both go. What’ll it be?”

The moments that follow are excruciating, and you can do nothing but pant as the cool air hits your ruined skin. Finally, a Peacekeeper comes before you to cut through your bindings. You’re about to fall back onto the stone when two arms wrap around you, your soft whimpers landing in their chest. 

“All right, sweetheart. I gotcha now.” He picks you up, then whispers an outpouring of sorries when his arms scrape against your wounds, drawing another agonised keen from you. The sky is cloudy and grey above you, and it’s all you can do to stare at the clouds as he walks with you, each step jolting another rush of pain through your body. 

“Gonna getcha all cleaned up,” Haymitch soothes. And then he’s shouting for someone, for Asterid, and the sky is replaced by the wooden beams of an old house. 

Immediately, orders are shouted: clear the table, get the morphling, lots of gauze. You’re set down on something hard and clutch at Haymitch’s shirt desperately. His face swims over you, blue eyes glassy yet alert. More alert than they’ve ever been before. 

“Can you roll off your back for me, sweetheart? That’s it.” His hands are at your sides, anchoring you as you try to take the weight off your injuries. Everything is slippery with your blood and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t anything, because it hurts. You must say as much, because his hand smoothes over your hair. “I know. I know. Gonna get you something for it, okay?”

“It’s going to be worse, just for a moment. We need to clean your wounds,” a kind voice, Asterid, warns, and then it is. You imagine fire all around you, and somewhere distant, hear your own screams. Haymitch’s hand stays in yours as he holds your convulsing body down.

“Can’t you get the damn morphling first?” Annoyance bubbles in Haymitch’s tone. 

“I can’t find it!” a younger, more flustered voice says, the sounds of riffling breaking through the cotton wool in your ears. Must be Asterid's daughter, Prim. She's barely younger than the girl outside; she shouldn't have to see the mess the whip has made.

And then you must pass out, because suddenly, you’re rising from fog, body heavy and pain dulled, and Haymitch is in a chair by your side. Your blood is on his shirt, you notice, and his hand is still holding yours on the table, thumb smoothing over your knuckles in a way that is both gentle and rough. 

“Hey. There y’are. Welcome back.” 

Moving makes you hurt again, and he shushes you when you cry out. “Stay put for now, okay? Wounds are still open.”

“Where are we?” Your voice is almost as hoarse and slurred as his. 

“Asterid’s house. She’s getting you all cleaned up.” 

“Did… did they stop? Did the girl get away?” 

He brushes the hair off your forehead. “She did. Made sure she got some food in her belly, too. Jesus, what were you thinking, getting in between a fight with a Peacekeeper like that?”

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” 

“Never damn well is.” 

“She was just a girl, Haymitch.” Anger rises to the surface, breaking through layers and layers of pain and sedation. 

Haymitch sighs. Leans his elbows on the table so his face is inches from yours. You wonder why it brings you comfort to smell his alcohol-laced breath, to feel it across your skin, to have his crooked nose graze yours. So gentle compared to the whip and yet it still leaves you shuddering. 

And yet his words are serrated as ever. “I know. But if you could find some sense of self-preservation, that’d be great.”

You shake your head, lids growing heavy again. You’re still conscious enough to point out, “You didn’t seem to have much of any, either, jumping in front of me like that. Calling me your wife. How long ‘fore they realise that’s a lie?”

His brows knit together, fingers drawing absent circles into your arms. “Shut up and get some sleep.”

Somehow, you find it in you to smirk. “‘Cos I’m right?”

“‘Cos the morphling’ll wear off soon, and it’s gonna hurt like hell.” Then, he softens. "And because you're a little right."

And you dread it, that first part. You can already feel the flames charring the edges of your consciousness, trying to take over again. Chin dipping back onto the table, you squeeze Haymitch’s hand tighter. He’s all you have here. No family to come sit with you, no friends who’ll take care of you the way he has. He's stupid for it, for putting himself in the crossfire, but it means something. Right now, you don’t know what, but you’ll figure it out. Maybe. If he’ll let you. 

“You gonna leave?” You sound so small, and it leaves you regretting asking at all. This isn't you. You get by on banter and jabs, not... this. Not vulnerability. The scars might heal, but you won't be able to take back the things you've given to him today. Shreds of yourself you didn't know existed.

He shakes his hand; strokes your hair again. “Gonna be right here when you wake up, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” 

With the morphling humming through your veins and his gentle, soothing touch taking your mind away from the pain, you drift back into a restless, uncomfortable in-between. 

One where he is here, and for that alone, the agony is almost worth it.

[brnesblogposts]

That's your wife? sunshine version

Dr. Jack Abott x f!attending!wife!reader

summary: You started working as a pediatric surgeon at the PTMC about a year ago and people have not yet figured out that you and Jack are married because your personalities are very different

obviously a little inspired by dr. Doug Ross fighting with parents (does anyone else think dr. Robby is kinda like Mark Green?)

slightly angsty, but mostly fluff

mentions child abuse

reader gets hurt but not too badly

masterlist | thunder version

You'd always loved working with kids, working as a nanny during college and volunteering at different foster facilities. You had gone to med-school with the goal of becoming a pediatrician and after many years of internships and residency you had landed a job at UPMC Presbyterian. You'd had loved it there for years, but about a year and a half ago a position had opened at PTMC, with the chance to become Chief of pediatrics in a few years.

Initially you had wanted to turn it down. You had worked in the same hospital as Jack years ago as a resident, but had left when you kept being referred to as "Abbot's wife", instead of people seeing you as a doctor in your own right. Even though you'd kept your maiden name they seemed to link your medical abilities to your husband, and you hated it, so you'd always worked in a different hospital since then. You'd worked too hard on your career to be okay with being treated like that. Jack had been sad that you couldn't drive into work together anymore, but he respected your decision and fully supported your career.

Jack had convinced you to take the job at PTMC in the end, agreeing to keep your marriage secret except for a select few. None of the staff had questioned it so far and working at PTMC had been great. You loved the pediatrics team and the chances you had been given by performing new and exciting surgeries.

You especially loved being the on-call pedes surgeon every couple of shifts, consulting down in the Pitt. With PTMc being a level 1 trauna centre a lot of interesting cases were brought in every shift.

You knew everyone's name in the ER. They thought it was because you put in a lot of effort to get to know them, but you secretly knew because Jack would gossip about his staff with you. So not only did you know their names, but you knew that Javadi had a crush on Mateo, and Trinity had her eyes on Garcia. Sometimes you were the one delivering gossip to Jack, because you brought his nurses coffee and pastries which meant they told you everything.

Besides the treats, they liked you because you were always bright, happy and just incredibly good with children. You could calm down even the kids that McKay had trouble with. You had bright patches with dino's on your coat and had stickers for a ton of specific interests, ranging from cars to animals to TV-shows. You'd given Whitaker a sticker to soothe his feelings on more than one occasion and carried a special pack with some of Mel's favourites.

No one in the Pitt had even entertained the thought that you, with your bubbly personality and ever present smile, could be married to their very own anxious, demoralised and borderline suicidal attending.

You had spent that morning in surgery, fixing up a kid's lungs from a major pneumothorax after a consult in the Pitt. You'd been alerted that the child's father had arrived in the pedes' waiting room and that he had been asking for you.

You took a deep breath and turned the corner with Kiara right behind you. "Mr. Morgan?" You called out. A man raised his head at you and you nodded for him to follow you out of the waiting room.

"Your son's nursery brought him in this morning, he had a fever and was complaining of pain in his chest and back. We operated on a collapsed lung this morning. It was collapsed because of trauma, and it was so severe we could not treat it without surgery. We suspect someone kicked the boy in his ribs. I was called in for a consult by the doctors in the ER, and we found several old injuries during our assessment. Bruises and sprained ribs. Burns on his leg. It appears to us that the child has been hurt over a longer period of time."

You tried to control the anger in your voice. Your place was not to judge the man, but to help his son, but you were having trouble keeping yourself in line.

"This is Kiara, she is the social worker that is tied to the Emergency Department. She's been with your son since he was brought in. We want to have a conversation with you, and then child protection services and the police will be here to investigate further. There might be a reasonable explanation for all of this, but we are legally obligated to make a report and involve the police. Could you follow me into my office please?"

Mr. Morgan stood still in the hall. "You're saying you got the police involved?" His face grew red with anger. You raised an eyebrow, apparently the man was more worried about getting caught than trying to deny the accusation.

Kiara stepped in. "Yes, as the doctor explained, we have to report suspected cases of child abuse. I can talk with you about the next steps, so we can ensure this all goes smoothly for your son."

Mr. Morgan took a step towards you, his breath touching your cheek. He smelled of stale coffee. "You reported this to the police?" He asked again. You nodded, trying to step backwards to create distance. He grabbed your wrist to stop you. His voice grew louder. "I'll raise my boy however the hell I want to raise him. A nosy bitch like you has no say in it. Fucking whore of a doctor who thinks she's all that. Bet you've never raised kids of your own. Where is my son! I'm taking him home!" A bit of spit reached your face from the intensity of his outburst. Several people had poked their heads out of doors in the hallway, alarmed by the raised voice. You felt nervous by the way this was enfolding so you tried to deescalate the conversation once more. "Sir, the law in Pennsylvania states that I have to report you. If you've hurt your child, these are the consequences. There's nothing I can do about that. Your son is what we are worried about here, he's just had surgery because of his injuries. Let's try to talk and see what we ca-."

You felt the punch before you could have seen his fist flying at you. He was a big man and the force of it knocked you to the ground. Your hands flew up to your face, holding your nose. "Fuck." You groaned. You tried to inspect your nose, which, in hindsight, was a mistake, because you missed the foot that came flying into your ribs. A second kick landed soon after.

Kiara cried out next to you, calling for help. A group of nurses came flying in, grabbing mr. Morgan and pulling him off of you. You groaned and turned on your side, trying to breathe. Panic was taking over.

The chief attending came running up, assessing your nose and ribs with soft fingers. The touch grounded you and you tried to steady your breathing. You didn't say much, the pain in you body and the anger that was circling your mind keeping your throat closed.

"I need you to talk to me dear," she whispered. "Does this hurt?" You groaned. "Right, you need an x-ray so we can see what's going on. Let's get you down to the ER. Let's call 'em to let them know we're coming. Somebody get a gurney!"

You felt your heartbeat pick up as she mentioned the ER. Your fingers brushed her arm as she shouted orders. "No ER, please." You groaned at her. "I- I'm fine. Doesn't hurt that bad, I promise." You winced as you tried to put a smile on you face. "Try to convince someone else on that. I'm not keeping you out of the ER just so you can keep your husband in the dark." You groaned, again. "Don't call him. He'll worry. I'm fine." Your attending smiled at you. "Don't worry, I'll leave that to dr. Robinavitch. I would rather not be the one to tell you husband we let you get hurt while working."

Robby, Langdon and Whitaker were waiting in front of the elevator. They took over the gurney when the doors opened and rolled you into one of the rooms. Langdon tried very hard not to hurt you further and assessed your face carefully. You still winced when he brushed your left eye. "Sorry." He whispered at you. Robby was poking your ribs in the meantime. You turned you head towards him.

"Robby," You started, "You didn't call yet, did you?" He nodded and poked a particularly sore spot. "Let's asses first, I'll call him after." You whined at him. "Don't, Robby. He'll just be mad, I'll tell him when I get home." Robby looked at you sternly. "We'll talk about this later." You pouted at him and let Langdon inspect your face again. "Yes dad." You murmured. Langdon couldn't help a laugh escaping him.

Half an hour later you were working on convincing Robby not to call Jack. Your ribs were bruised and you had a massive black eye, but the CT's showed no breaks in you face or your ribs. It did hurt like hell though.

"I am a patient now, Robby, I do not give consent to cal my emergency contact and I am perfectly capable of making that decision right now." Robby nodded fiercely at you. "Yes, those are very pretty words, and very true, but the matter of the fact is that Jack will kill me when he finds out you are in his ER and I did not call him. My life's on the line here, not yours. It's bad enough that Gloria's coming down to investigate, I can not handle an angry Jack on top of that." You almost felt sorry for him.

"I just don't want him freaking out. I'll tell him when he comes in, then he can immediately see that I'm fine." Robby sighed at you. "That won't stop him from killing me and Dana." You grimaced back at him, pain pulsing through your bruises because of the movement. "He won't kill Dana, he'll hold you responsible."

Robby threw his hands in the air in surrender and was called away by an incoming trauma, leaving you alone.

You had planned to stay in the ER bed for another hour to make sure you had no concussion, but five minutes before you wanted to leave the curtain around your bed was ripped open.

"I was going to bring you a coffee upstairs and when I arrive one of the nurses tells me you've been knocked down by a parent and you're in the ER. And when I asked when it'd happened, they told me it was over two hours ago." Jack's face was angry. You opened your mouth to argue but where interrupted.

"So, let's see how you're doing" Langdon stepped in through the curtain and was shocked to see Jack standing there. "Dr. Abbot," Langdon called out, "What are you doing here so early? You shift doesn't start for an hour and a half. Is there a big trauma coming in?" Jack turned, still angry. "Where's Robby?" He demanded. "He's in curtain four, I think. He's been screaming to Gloria about hospital security for the past thirty minutes. But what are you doing here, do you need to discuss something with dr. Robby?" Jack grunted. "Bring him here." You winced at his tone. "Jack, come o-" Jack turned towards you. "Don't. Langdon go get Robby." Frank was confused. "He's in four with a patient. Why can't you just go to him? I've gotta check up on this patient." Jack turned fully towards him and Langdon could see the fury in Abbot's eyes. "Because my wife was brought into the ER this afternoon, and dr. Robinavitch did not contact me. That's why."

Langdon looked around the Pitt. "Your wife was brought in? When? I don't see an Abbot on the board? Where is she."

Jack pointed to you and you grew red.

Langdon opened his mouth but no sound came out. Whitaker kept looking from you to Jack.

"That is your wife?" Langdon gasped after a moment. "She's here all the time! How did you never tell us?" Jack shrugged and gently pushedsome hair out of your face. "Not like you ever asked." You leaned in to his touch. "You can hover around, but let Frank take a look at my face please." Jack's finger brushed your eyebrow. "I can do that. I don't want a resident working on my wife."

You took his fingers and pulled them down, kissing them softly. "Langdon can take care of it. Just sit tight and hold my hand. I'm fine Jack, I promise." You could see some of the worry leave your husband's face. "Sit down. We'll ask someone to cover your shift so you can take me home after. You can make me dinner and we'll hang out on the couch all evening, all right?" Jack resigned and took a seat next to you on the gurney, stroking your thigh with his free hand.

Langdon discharged you a couple minutes later and you managed to get Jack out of the Pitt without bumping into Robby. Jack was still mad that he had been blindsided, but he knew your injuries weren't bad. He'd promised you he'd be screaming at Robby tomorrow, but you were pretty sure you could get him to forgive his friend before then.

Tomorrow was going to be confronting enough, by then the entire hospital would know that the bubbly pediatrician and the grumpy ER physician were married.

Jack helped you into his car and leaned over you to fasten your seatbelt. "Jack," you told him when he was satisfied it was on tightly, "I'm not a kid, I can fasten my own seatbelt." Jack looked up into your eyes. "I know you're not. But you're my wife and I want to take care of you. You scared me darling. I was just going to take you a cup of coffee and I find you in my ER. That's something out of a nightmare. That elevator ride down was the longest of my life. I know you're going to be okay, but I was really terrified for a second there. So just bear with me while I treat you like you're made of glass, all right? It'll make me feel better about it." He walked around the car to get into the driver's seat.

You smiled at your husband. "So, did you abandon the cup of coffee in the pediatric ward or did you have the foresight that I would still want it." Jack fastened his own seatbelt and turned to you. "I did abandon your coffee. So I'm guessing our first stop on the way home is to get a new one?" You nodded at Jack. "You bet. Let's go, husband of mine!" He started the car and took another peek at you, glossing over your face to make sure you were all right. "I love you, my wife."

[brnesblogposts]

they should invent a me who is not exhausted by simply being alive

[brnesblogposts]

bucky knit a hat for alpine 😕😭

Alexei and John totally gave up after they couldn’t finish an entire sweater in 10 minutes

[brnesblogposts]

Yelena, in a high voice, holding Barbie: Hey, Ken! I was thinking about going back to school and starting a career!

Ava, in a deep voice, holding Ken: Nonsense, Barbie. You’re staying home and having my kids.

John: What the fuck are you two doing?

Yelena: Playing systemic oppression.

[brnesblogposts]

Walker: Alright, everyone, we meet in the dining room at twenty-one hundred hours!

Bob: [Raises hand]

Walker: Nine o’clock.

Bob: [Lowers hand]

[brnesblogposts]

summary: you have an awful boss, jack is sick of it.

jack abbot x reader

warnings: swearing, pushing down emotions, bottling things up. toxic bosses.

a/n: this is sooooooo self indulgent (yikes). readers boss is based on my boss and my current working conditions. i hate it there. i just want to do the job as advertised which was: put reports together and file audits with the government. unfortunately there is no jack to take care of me. im gonna spend years in therapy talking about how this guys power trip messed me up.

he’s finally home. the dayshift he swapped with robby so that he could have a proper weekend with you really kicked his ass but none of it matters anymore because he’s home, you’re home and will be awake for once. not that he doesn’t enjoy coming home to you in a peaceful slumber, but this just feels different, he will get to debrief his day with you over dinner and not in a fleeting moment while he’s trying to stay awake and you’re heading out the door for work.

except you are no where to be seen. at least not where he thought he could expect you at this time of the day. not in the living room, the kitchen, or on the back patio taking in the end of the day sunshine. “babe?” he’s calling for you as he walks down the hall to the bedroom.

he opens the door and his heart sinks seeing you still in your grey blouse and black pants curled on the bed. he hears a sniffle and he’s heading over to you as fast as his feet will take him. he takes a seat beside your legs on the bed and reaches out to brush your hair out of your face “what’s wrong?” you sniff again “nothing, just a bad day.” he rubs his hand up and down your arm. “that’s not nothing” you turn so you can look up at him. you’re eyes are red rimmed and filled with the tears you were trying to hold in, the few tears that have fallen have made your lips all puffy. jack isn’t a violent man but he is ready to find who ever made you cry and punch them. “come here” he’s pulling you up by your arms and into his. he knows you hate crying in front of people so he can feel you holding your breath so that you don’t fall apart completely. he feels a few stray tears against his neck that probably fell when you blinked or shut your eyes. he doesn’t say anything just rubs a hand up and down your back while the other holds onto your hip.

you pull your head out of from his neck and look at him. your tears are gone but your eyes still have some greif behind them. “i’m sorry” he can’t help his frown and he cocks his head to the side. “for what?” you look down avoiding his gaze for a second and lick your lips. “i’m sorry that you need to pick up the pieces when i fall apart.” he blinks and lets your words sink in for a second. “this is falling apart? you were probably five minutes out from pushing it all down by yourself.” you let an amused breath out of your nose at that. jack rubs your shoulder. “i don’t want you to push down your bad days, especially not for my sake. it’s not a good thing to do.”

the lump in your throat hardens again bringing tears to your eyes. you let out a squeaky “mhm” not trusting your voice at the moment. he cradles your head and pulls you in again and this time you actually fall apart. you let the sobs rip through your chest and make your whole body shake in his arms. he just pulls you tighter.

your breathing evens out and you pull yourself out from his chest for the second time. you run your fingers over the wet spot on his shirt. “i’m sorry” he grabs your wrist and places a kiss on the palm of your hand. “please stop apologizing because there is nothing to be sorry for.” you nod at him in understanding.

“so how was your day?” you try to change the subject. he shakes his head at you like he’s scolding a toddler. “no. we aren’t skipping past this. what happened today?” you take a long inhale and exhale. “the usual, my boss.” ah yes your boss. the arrogant asshole who thinks the world revolves around him. jack feels himself straighten up at your admission. he really doesn’t like the guy, and after today he might even say he hates the guy. “your boss doesn’t usually make you curl up and cry.” he states.

“yeah i think this was just the tip of the iceberg. he makes sure to let the whole team know if i do something he doesn’t like, in a way that is just so humiliating, he spends all day in meetings and then when it’s time for the meeting i set to go over what i need for him to sign off so i can actually do my real job he cancels. he waited until the last possible minute to send over the reports i needed to edit and print, then tells me he needs 100 copies of the report printed and packaged before he leaves for the day - which you know is always early while i stay late to clean up his mess. oh and i had to go pick up his suits from the tailor and his lunch on my way back in. i didn’t even get a five minute break today, and when i finally go to maybe stand up for myself to my other supervisor they basically brush me off saying there isn’t much the firm can do because his clients bring in the most revenue. oh and he’s letting the articling students treat me the exact same way he does, all the other admins in the office tell me they don’t do anything for anyone other than the partner in their departments. they just do the regular filing and normal office work. they think it’s insane how much i have to do for him, and the managers and now the students. it’s really just all demeaning, i feel like a secretary from the sixties, next thing is he’s going to be slapping my ass or something on the way out of the office. okay, wow sorry enough ranting” yeah jack hates the guy today.

“quit.” he says not even second guessing it. “what? jack i can’t quit. i need the job. i need the money.” you shake your head at him. “do you? i would love it if you let me properly take care of you. i know you like working, but let’s find you a job that doesn’t suck the life out of you, and while we do, it would be my dream come true to finally have you as my kept woman. the money is no issue.” you smile at him. “you are actually something else, you know?” he gives you a little playful wink. “please you would be doing me a favour, because if i ever see him again i might punch him, and if i break my hand it would be really bad for my career.” you think about it for a second. “yeah okay fuck that place. i will put in my two weeks on monday.” he laughs at that. “finally. now get changed i’m taking you out to celebrate”

[brnesblogposts]

baba awe baba sweet baba omg

- me about 49 year old man

[brnesblogposts]

Both Arms Cradle You Now

Image is not mine; credit goes to who owns it. Title is inspired by the song Forwards Beckon Rebound by Adrianne Lenker

Story Summary: The reader deals with self-doubt that is made worse during a family holiday. This realization puts a strain on the two and their blossoming relationship, but only time will tell if it’s meant to be.

Content Warnings: 18+ Only, Angst, angst, angst, and more angst, long dialogue, verbally abusive relatives, depression, and anxiety. If you struggle with any of the above that may be a trigger, please read with caution. GN Reader who has gastroparesis. No other physical descriptions.

Word Count:5.3K

Jack Abbot Masterlist Read Part 1 Here

----------------

Jack Abbot has been a constant in your life since that moment you fell asleep on your couch with him next to you. You protested that he didn’t need to spend so much time with you, but he was persistent.

The two of you would still go out during the week, but he was around a lot more, and you didn’t know if it was because he had some “Doctor Sense” and knew you were getting ready to have a flare-up before you did, or what.

Surely, he has better things to do than watch a grown adult. That thought crosses your mind a lot; you feel like you’re taking time away from him that he could spend doing literally anything else. But you can’t help but be apologetically thankful for the time he has put into being with you. 

It’s a cool and wet autumn afternoon. The streets were vibrant with life as people flocked to stores for last-minute preparations for the upcoming holidays. Along the livelihood of the city, a new, local sandwich/soup shop opened up right by Jack’s apartment, and he insisted on your day out to go to the place. He heard good things about it from his co-workers, and he wanted to try it out with you. 

“So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” You question as you blow on your soup to cool it off. 

“Working,” Jack replies while he sips his coffee.

“Oh, that’s a shame, but I guess medical episodes don’t stop on account of the holidays.” You say as you stir your soup.

“Actually, things get worse during the holidays.” He rests his chin in his hands as he carefully watches you.

“Really? I did not know that.” You say as you take another spoonful of soup.

“Every season, there’s a rise in certain cases. From Thanksgiving until the new year, we’ll have a lot of people coming in thinking they’re having a heart attack, and nine times out of ten it's indigestion.” He huffs through his nose. 

“Oh, I guess a lot of people can’t help themselves to all the delicious food…” Your gaze trails off as you remember that this will be the first holiday where your diet has significantly changed. Before your hospitalization, you could get away with eating what you normally ate, but maybe that’s what triggered the severe flare-up in the first place.

The distant look in your eye is enough of a telltale sign that you are silently grieving your previous life. 

“Hey,” Jake catches your attention as he reaches for your hand. “It’ll be okay. You know what to do.” He sends you a reassuring smile. 

You return his smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He pulls his hand away, and you’re already missing the warmth he provided. “What about you? Are you doing anything?”

“I’ve got family in Maryland. My parents and I are heading down there on Wednesday.” You reply with a weary look on your face. 

Jake gives you a thoughtful nod. “Be careful, and enjoy your time.” 

“Thanks, Jack. You be careful too.” You give him a sad smile. 

-----------------

Your mom, Melissa, is helping you pack your belongings for the trip to your aunt’s house in Crownsville, Maryland. “Did you make sure to tell Aunt Claire to have something set aside for me?” You question your mom as she helps you fold shirts. 

“I told her every time I talked to her.” She replies as she stuffs a shirt into your suitcase.

“Thank you. I called her a couple of times, too, but I feel like she brushed me off.” You say as you move onto your pants. 

“I’m sure she didn’t.” Your mom reassures. 

“I hope so…” you mumble under your breath. 

Claire is a prima donna who doesn’t like change; she threw a hissy fit when your other aunt said she and her family wouldn’t be coming down for one of the holidays because her youngest son was sick. She complained to your mom for hours about how they ruined the family get-together. 

Her husband—your Uncle Joseph—passed away during COVID, and her attitude has only gotten worse because of it. Melissa seems to think it’s because she realizes life is short and you need to spend as much time as you can with loved ones. You and your dad don’t think it’s that complicated; the two of you think she’s an ass and has been since you’ve known her.

------------------

“You heading out?” Megan questions as you and your mom walk into the living room, luggage in tow. 

“Yeah, you take care, okay? Enjoy your break and Thanksgiving.” You say as you pull her into a hug. 

“Oh, I will!” Megan giggles as she excitedly thinks about her break from work. The two of you pull away, and you bid your roommate one more goodbye. 

When you leave the apartment complex, you see your dad, Richard, is checking the tires in his truck one last time before you all take off. “Hey, honey.” He greets, still crouched down to check the tire pressure. “You have everything packed? Didn’t forget your medicine?” He asks with a grunt. 

“Don’t worry, Dad. Everything is accounted for.” You pat your luggage. 

-------------------

Thanksgiving evening, and Jack has already seen so many patients. Despite his busy night, his mind drifts to you and what you’re doing. Little does he know, you’d rather be back home with him and Megan. 

--------------------

The kitchen is full of delicious food brought by everyone in your family; the smell alone is enough to make your mouth water, and everyone is happily filling their plates, everyone except you. 

“What’s wrong?” Your dad leans down to whisper in your ear as you look at the food with concern. 

“I can’t eat any of this…” You whisper as you feel tears sting your eyes.

The food before you consists of turkey bathed in butter, corn in more butter, stuffing, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, and rolls. 

“Fuck.” Richard mumbles. 

Realizing you’re holding up the line, you grab a spoonful of stuffing and a dinner roll. 

Aunt Claire looks at your plate with confusion as you sit at the table. “Is that all you’re going to eat, sweetie?” 

“It’s all I can eat…” You bow your head in embarrassment; you knew this was going to happen. 

“What do you mean? We all went through a lot of trouble to make this dinner.” She curtly replies. 

Your head snaps up at her. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. We went through a lot of trouble to make this. The least you could do is eat a little bit of everything.” 

Everyone halts their movements to listen to the developing argument. 

“You were told numerous times by me and Mom to have something set aside so I could eat it.” 

She huffs in annoyance “I have a very busy schedule; you can’t possibly think that I or anyone else has the time to make you a separate dish.” She crosses her arms and gives you a disapproving look.

“Claire…” Your mother starts, but she raises her hand. 

“No, what makes you think you’re so special? We all have our problems. Your cousin Diana is a diabetic; you don’t see me going out of my way to make sugar-free dishes.” Diana has a wide look that says she doesn’t want to be involved in this.

“I never said I was special…” You trail off, tears now falling down your eyes. 

“Claire, that’s enough!” Your dad yells. 

“I’m not finished. This whole condition of yours.” She waves her finger in a circle to emphasize you. “Which I’ve never heard about until everyone started taking Ozempic.” 

“I am not!” You scream in defense, face red, as angry tears continue to fall. 

But she gets louder than you, “Has been a burden on this family!” She finally finishes her tirade.

Your breath hitches in your throat as your dad throws his fork on the table. The loud noise causes everyone to go silent as your family stares in shock. “Is that what you think I am? A burden?” You choke. 

“That’s enough!” Your dad’s baritone voice screams through the dining room. “Grab your coats, we’re leaving.” Your dad huffs as he leaves the table. 

Claire stands in a hurry to stop your dad, but he’s already gone to the guest rooms. “You can’t leave! What about dinner?” She hurriedly questions. 

“Claire, Fuck. You!” your mom shouts as her hand swiftly connects with Claire’s cheek. She clutches her red cheek as she stares at your mom. 

“You’re not my sister…” she murmurs as she turns away to grab her belongings. 

Your family stares at you, and you turn to them, specifically towards Claire; “I may be a burden to you all, but at the end of the day, I have to live with the condition.” And with that, you follow after your parents, ready to leave your distant family behind. 

-------------------

Jack felt something was off in the air as he had a moment of quiet in the ER. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was causing the unease, but he felt like it might have had something to do with you being away from him for too long. 

J: Just checking in. How’s Thanksgiving?

Three dots appear and disappear, then reappear, only for your response to be “It’s fine. How are you?” 

Now, most people wouldn’t think twice, but Jack isn’t most people. The battle of the three dots went on for far longer than your short answer. 

--------------------

The car ride back to Pennsylvania was quiet except for the low hum of the radio, your dad’s angry huffing, and you and your mom’s crying. 

Your mom turns around to face you. “Y/N, I need you to look at me.” She softly beckons through her tears. 

Your tear-stained face meets her equally teary one; “You are not, and will not be, a burden to anyone. Claire is just a bitch.” Your mom reaches for your hand, and you lazily take it. “Do you understand me? Your father and I will never think that way, ever.” 

“We’ll always have your back, kiddo.” Your dad says, looking at you through the rearview mirror. 

You mumble a yes, but you don’t believe her; the damage to your psyche was already done. 

“Good, we love you; you know that, right?” She tearily cocks her head to the side. 

“Yes…” You mumble again. 

“Alright.” She sniffs and turns back in her seat. 

The soft buzz of your phone disrupts your thoughts, and when you look at your phone, your face pales. Jack wants to know how Thanksgiving is going. 

You type out a response, delete it, and type out another. You don’t want to burden him with your family issues, and now that you think about it, you already have burdened him: the constant check-ups, the meet-ups, all of it was because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself, right? Your mind is a flurry of debilitating thoughts as you realize the entire time Claire was right; she had solidified your previous beliefs. 

---------------------

You never went back to your apartment; instead, you wanted to be in the company of your parents, because if you went home, then you’d have to burden Megan with your early arrival and explain everything. 

When you carry your luggage to your room, you see that nothing’s changed: the teal painted walls every kid wanted to have, the bedsheets from your teen years, trophies from school, and silly childhood crayon drawings your parents hung up once you left. Maybe coming back home was a mistake; the room is a relic of time that doesn’t belong to the person standing in it anymore. 

The plush bed you sit on is exactly like you remember it, and instead of happily chatting with your friends on the phone, you're crying about how your life used to be. 

The ringing of the landline in the living room causes you to freeze, quieting down to listen to the conversation. 

“It’s Claire.” Melissa huffs. 

“Let it go,” Richard replies. 

The ringing stops, only for it to start up once again. 

“It’s her again.” Your mom mumbles. 

“Fuck this. She’s not going to complain about our only child, and then try to worm her way back into our lives!” Your dad replies as the ringing comes to an immediate stop; he pulls the phone cable out. 

“We’re not going back for any more holidays.” Your dad sternly orders. “We’ll have them here. Just the three of us.” 

“That sounds perfectly fine to me.” Your mom sighs in relief. 

--------------------

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Your mom asks from the doorway, watching you pack your luggage again. 

“I would if I could, but I’ve got to work Saturday.” You reply. As much as you hate working weekends, you think it’ll do you some good to get your mind off what transpired. 

“Okay, you’re always welcome here.” She answers as she pushes herself off the door and comes over to hug you. 

“I know…” You sniffle into her shirt. 

--------------------

The ride back to your apartment is silent as you and your dad listen to the radio. When he pulls into the complex's parking lot, he turns to you: “You going to be alright, kid?” He scans your face; he’d turn this vehicle around if you asked him to take you back home. 

“I’ll be okay, Dad.” You lie to him; you don’t want to worry him about the fact that the wound is still fresh. 

“Okay.” He looks at you, somewhat unsatisfied with your answer. 

---------------------

He helps carry your luggage up to your apartment and helps you settle back in. 

“Don’t hesitate to call if you need us.” He kisses you on the head and leaves you behind. 

With a sigh, you look at your phone and see a few missed calls and messages from Jack. 

Y: I’m sorry, I got really busy. Didn’t mean to ignore you.

You set the phone on your nightstand and go to take a shower to wash any remnants of that night away. 

----------------------

Jack stares at the message you sent; he asked if you wanted to meet up with him Monday evening, and your response caused his heart to sink. 

Y: Maybe another time. I’m tired and I have to work on the weekend.

He’s going to give you the benefit of the doubt, but this is unlike you. Instead of pushing further, he turns on the playlist he made with your songs and listens to them to feel close to you.

---------------------

Weeks go by without seeing Jack, and you hate lying to him, but your brain is eating away at you. 

This is for the best. 

You’re just holding him back. 

Who wants to take care of you? 

Every text he sends asking to meet up is met with, I’m sorry, I’m busy. Or, I’m sorry, I have to work late. 

It’s easier this way; maybe he’ll forget about you. 

“Okay, what’s wrong with you?” Megan asks as she crashes down your door. “I never see you anymore, and neither does Jack. Wait, did you guys have a falling out?” She asks as she sits next to your lying body. 

“I wish it were as simple as a falling out.” You murmur. 

“Then what happened? Wait, Doctor McDreamy didn’t ask you to move in and have twenty babies with him? If so, don’t be upset because you dodged a bullet.” She suggests with a playful lilt, but her words are more serious than anything.

For the first time since Thanksgiving, you chuckle. It’s not a hearty one, but it’s loud enough that you found her words amusing. “No, my stupid Aunt…” You close your eyes and take a staggering breath. 

“Do I need to beat somebody’s ass? I’m not afraid to go to jail.” Megan punches the air to show she means business. 

“My mom already did.” You lowly chuckle. 

“Good, Melissa stays on business. But seriously, what happened?” 

You begrudgingly explain to Megan the Thanksgiving incident, and she looks at you with pity. “God, I’m so sorry…” she whispers as she looks at your glazed-over eyes. “Is that why you haven’t been meeting up with Jack?” 

You nod your head as you choke a sob. “I think you need to talk to him. He’s a doctor, he’ll understand.” She pats your knee. 

“I can’t.” You cry as you curl in on yourself. 

She wraps herself around you; “You know everything she said is a lie, right? I’ve never once felt burdened by you.” 

She isn’t looking for an answer as she holds your trembling body; she needs to make sure you know that she loves you and will continue to love you through the good days and bad days. 

--------------------

Jack didn’t know why you were suddenly so busy. He has your schedule memorized to a “T,” but a multitude of scenarios run through his head. 

Did you get a new job? 

Were you tired of hanging out with someone 19 years older than you? 

Did you get a boyfriend? 

Did something happen over Thanksgiving? 

He didn’t want to push you into telling him what’s going on–he figures you’ll speak when you’re ready–but he needs to do something. 

“You okay, brother?” Robby asks as he stands next to the brooding man on the hospital roof. 

“You remember that person I was meeting up with every week?” He asks as Robby nods. “It’s been essentially radio silent since Thanksgiving.” He says as he watches the sun rise on this chilly autumn morning. 

“Hmm, that’s a tough one.” Robby rubs his chin in contemplation. 

“Yeah…” 

“My advice, if you really want something, chase it.” Robby pats him on the back as he recalls his relationship with Heather Collins. 

“The question is, do they want me?” Jack turns to look at the taller doctor. 

“Space is all you can offer, my friend. Time will tell.” Robby replies as he stalks off towards the roof door to head back downstairs to start his shift. 

Jack quickly types out a message and sends it without a second glance. 

J: I’ll stop bothering you because it seems like you’re busy. I’ll be here when you’re ready. 

--------------------

You stare at the message with tears clouding your vision. It pains you to do this to him, but in your warped mind, you keep telling yourself that this is for the best. 

-------------------

Jack doesn’t see the three dots; the only sign of acknowledgement to his message is read 8:07 am. 

He pockets his phone, and heads back downstairs, ready to leave and sleep the day away.

--------------------

By some twisted way of fate, you find yourself back in the ER, but this time Megan is the one on the bed, and you’re in the guest chair. 

The resident treating Megan is a woman named Doctor Ellis. “So, what do we have here?” She questions your blonde friend. 

“Well, I was cutting up some peppers for dinner, and the knife slipped and I cut my hand,” Megan says as she shows Dr. Ellis her bloody hand and the accompanying dish towel that was previously light blue. 

“That’ll need stitches. I’ll get you patched up.” Ellis remarks, but the door opening and the curtain swinging back cause everyone to look up. 

Your face pales as you see the man you’ve been avoiding standing before you. His eyes flicker to yours for a second, but he immediately looks over at Dr. Ellis and Megan. “What do we have?” He gruffly asks. 

“A 28-year-old female presenting with a laceration on her left hand caused by a knife. The patient is experiencing mild discomfort and moderate bleeding. No other symptoms.” Ellis presents to her attending. 

“Let me take a quick look.” Dr. Abbot grabs a syringe full of saline out of a cabinet and dons gloves. He carefully rinses the wound with the cool liquid, so as not to tear any potential clots. “It’s deep, but Doctor Ellis will get it stitched for you.” He remarks as he doffs his gloves and leaves the room.

You look longingly at his retreating figure with sadness; he acted as if you weren’t there, but it’s what you deserve for giving him the cold shoulder for weeks. 

“Did you eat, Y/N?” Megan asks as Dr. Ellis gathers supplies from the cabinets. 

“No…” 

“There’s a vending machine somewhere. You better grab something; you don’t want to get sick from not eating.” She dryly laughs. 

“Okay…” you mumble as you get up from your chair and leave the room.

---------------------

You angrily fish in your wallet for change as you mutter to yourself. “This stupid, goddamn disease.” One quarter in, “I eat and get sick.” Another quarter, “I don’t eat, and I get sick.” Last quarter goes in, and you punch in the button that accompanies a pack of crackers. “I’m so fucking tired.” You slam your fist into the plexiglass casing of the vending machine. 

“I take it that the vending machine deserved that punch?” A familiar voice asks from behind you. 

You pause and turn your attention towards Jack, standing behind you with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable face. 

“Something like that.” You mutter. 

“I think we need to talk.”

“About?” You play dumb as you reach down to grab your crackers, but you don’t want to eat them. His comforting presence is now replaced with dread, and you feel nausea set in. 

“Don’t do that. You know what this is about.” His gaze is staring right at you, like he’s trying to read you, and it makes you uncomfortable; you find solace in your shoes for a second before he beckons you to follow. “Come with me.” He walks away, leading you from prying eyes. 

-----------------

The family room is reserved for grieving family members and the social worker, but this is the only soundproof room in the ER, and it’s the best spot Jack could think of to get you two in private. 

“So, you want to tell me what’s been going on?” He crosses his arms as he bores holes into you as you try to make yourself smaller. 

“There are more important things to worry about than me.” You mumble. 

“I digress. It’s pretty worrying when someone I consider a close friend shuts themselves off.” Friend, that word cuts deeply, but you don’t show it. Jack is in the same boat; he internally cringes at the use of friend. That night on your couch was the night he promised to be there for you, but he won’t play this game of cat and mouse for much longer; for the sake of his sanity, he needs to know where you two stand. 

His arms uncross as a sudden thought crosses his mind. “You’re not being abused, are you?” 

You scoff, “God, no. You’re the first guy I’ve talked to in months.” You lean back on the couch and cross your arms in defiance. 

“Then what is it? I just want to help you.” He extends his arms ever so slightly and turns his palms to face you; a subtle gesture that his arms are open; you just have to fall into them. 

“Maybe I don’t want your help. And that this is for the best.” Your lip quivers. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Jack questions as his heart shatters, he’s prepared to leave all of this behind, depending on your answer. 

“No, you were perfect…” You choke. 

“Then what is it? I’m just trying to understand you.” He looks at you with sadness in his eyes. 

You stand up in anger, “Because I’m a burden!” You scream at him. 

He frowns at your huffing figure. “I am interfering with your life! You have better things to do than hang out with me all the time. Am I just some pity case for you? Do you do this with all of your patients, or just those you feel bad for?” 

You’re spiraling, and he knows it, but you don’t let him speak: “It’s easier for both of us if we just end whatever this was.” You gesture between you two. 

Completely ignoring that last statement, he has no choice but to intervene; he places two hands on your shoulders. “Who said you were a burden?” Jack asks as he studies your face. 

“Why does it matter because it’s true?” You hide your hands in your face and cry. 

Instinctively, Jack pulls you into his chest and lets you cry. “You’re not a burden…” He mumbles into your hair. “And no, you’re not a pity case. I’m upset you even thought that in the first place.” 

“According to my aunt, I am.” The dam broke, and the flood is pouring out. 

Jack pushes you away. “What?” He looks at you with concerned fury on his face. 

“Thanksgiving, my mom and I had told my aunt countless times to set aside something for me to eat. She didn’t, and got pissed when my plate consisted of stuffing and a dinner roll. She called me a burden because of my diet…” You turn away from his piercing gaze and continue to cry into your hands. “I didn’t want you to worry. But I became so depressed at the thought that I was ruining your life that I pushed you away and inevitably made you worry. I’m so sorry, Jack.” You ramble as you cry. 

The wall he built to prepare for this conversation came tumbling down, and he understands why you became so distant. “I never did any of this out of pity.” He reaches for your hands and pulls them away. “I did it because I love you.” 

Your lip wobbles, but you turn away, “Don’t say that…” You cry. 

“I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it.” 

You hesitate, “You deserve to be with someone who you won’t have to take care of. Someone who’s healthier. I have a long list of complications that can arise from this.” You say as you finally meet his gaze. 

“Then we’ll get through them together.” He reassures. “I made a promise to you that day on the couch that I'd be there for you. And if you fly too close to the sun, I’ll be the one to catch you.” He thumbs a tear away from your cheek. “Don’t shut me out.” He pleads. 

You throw yourself into his chest and cry; the tears from your eyes stain his scrub top. “I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.” He reassures as he rubs your back. 

With a shuddering breath, you pull away, “I’m so sorry for everything.” You wipe your eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize.” 

“I do; that wasn’t fair to you. My aunt had fucked me up so bad, that she solidified thoughts that were already present.” You scan his face for any signs of resentment, but his eyebrows are furrowed in concern. 

“I’ll remind you every day if I have to.” He cups your cheek, and you lean into his touch. 

“It’s pretty shitty that your aunt said that, though. Please tell me you stuck up for yourself?” He asks as he pulls his hand away to grab one of yours. 

“I did, and my mom got a good hit in. My dad probably put a dent in her table, too, with how hard he threw his fork down.” You dryly laugh. 

“Good,” He chuckles. “Can I take you out tomorrow morning? And please don’t say you have to work. I think we both need it.” He adds as he scans your face for any sign of disinterest; he’s almost afraid that you’ll pull away from him again.

“I just so happen to have tomorrow off. Just let me know when to get ready.” You give him a small smile that lasts for a second. 

------------------

It took you a while to pull yourself out of your depressive rut, but Jack was with you every step of the way. The routine you two had curated in the hospital room was back and stronger than ever. The only difference is that you’re not in the hospital, and you’re technically dating. 

Your mom called you one evening to tell you that Claire had apologized, but you weren’t in the realm of forgiveness. You made it abundantly clear that you wanted no parts of her or Crownsville, Maryland, again. Your dad was proud of you for sticking up for yourself and thanked you for never wanting to set foot in that town again, something he’s been adamant about since going there for the first holiday. 

------------------

It is Jack’s turn to host dinner tonight; it’s nothing too grand, but it’s more thoughtful than Claire’s dinner. He’s not much of a cook, but for you, he’s willing to learn. The Gastroparesis friendly shrimp stir-fry he made was surprisingly delicious, and the fact that he was willing to work with your diet brought tears to your eyes. 

“You’re crying.” He points out. “If it’s that bad, just say so.” He chuckles. 

“It’s not; I’m just emotional because of the thought put into this meal.” You choke back your tears. 

Jack grabs your hand and rubs his thumb along your knuckles. “It wasn’t that difficult to make, especially when recipes are readily available on the internet.”

“I wish everyone thought that way…” You look at him and pause for a second, “Jack, I love you. You deserve to hear it now rather than later, especially with what I put you through.” You smile. 

“You're worth it…” He looks at you with adoration in his eyes. 

---------------------

The soft noise of the TV fills the living room as you two sit in unspoken silence. You’re lying with your head on his chest, watching the program that’s on, as he traces abstract shapes on your back, paying attention to you and ignoring the TV. 

Nobody needed to say anything else; Jack’s actions alone were enough of a reassurance to you. He fulfilled his promise, and he intends to keep fulfilling it. 

The warmth of your body, the soft buzz of the TV, and your steady breaths are enough to lull him into a shallow sleep. His soft snores are an indication that he’s fallen asleep under you.

You stir slightly to look up at him, careful not to disturb him. “You probably can’t hear me, but that’s okay. I guess I just want to say thank you again, and for not giving up on me when you could have easily done so.” You take in a shuddering breath. “I made a huge mistake by keeping things from you, but I was so scared…” You lean your head down onto your crossed arms for a second to suck in air. 

Raising your head once again, “I know better now. And I just want to say that if you ever need to talk about anything, I won’t run away, like I tried to get you to do.” You reach your arms around his torso and squeeze ever so slightly, as you press your ear to his chest again to listen to his heartbeat. “If you’re ever tired and want to rest, you can count on me to be there with you every step of the way…” You sigh.

“...I’ll be your wings.” You murmur as you remember the first day he came to visit you. 

Jack woke up the moment you shifted around, but he didn’t open his eyes as you began your speech; he wanted to hear what you were going to say without any interruptions. His heart swelled at your words; your promise being similar to his, and he smiled at your declaration of love. 

Taglist: @livingavilaloca @pear-1206

[brnesblogposts]

Something something Jack Abbot coming back from a long shift to catch his pregnant wife still asleep in bed wearing his clothes and sleeping on his pillow to catch his scent. He comes towards the bed and instantly rests a hand on her belly, caressing her stretched frame with his thumb and feeling the gentle flutters of kicks against his palm. He smiles then, coming closer to talk to his baby, gently so he doesn’t wake his wife up from her deep slumber. He tells his daughter what happened at work, what he saw & did in faint whispers, and when he feels gentle fingers running through his graying curls, he looks up to see the love of his life mirroring his tired smile, giving a hushed “good morning.”

[brnesblogposts]

Ava: *derogatory* ugh, men.

Yelena: *in agreement* men…

You: *very much in a relationship, but always a girl’s girl* yeah- yeah… –MEN–!

Alexei: *always being supportive* YEAH, MEN! WE HATE THE MEN.

Bob: :(

You: not you, baby.

Yelena: not you, Bob.

Ava: oh no, never Bob.

Bob: :)

Bucky: umm..??

Ava: not you, Bucky.

Yelena: oh , no, Bucky would never.

John: what about me, guys?

Ava: ….

Yelena: ……

John: :|

Alexei: *still grinning, not realizing he was not included*