#haymitch abernathy x oc

[theglamour-theterror]

old billboard of some haymitch guy. he won the 50th game.

[annwrites]

—bread & circuses

a whole lot of prayin' on the backside of a stage, scared to death. wondering what's next. the people who love me, they suffer the most. — haymitch abernathy x victor!reader ; .·:*⋄*:·.

Haymitch leans down, cupping your face in his hands, his eyes boring into your own. "I want you to hold my hand as hard as you can once we're on that stage, you understand me? Like you're trying to break it."

You nod, tears stinging your eyes, bile rising up your throat again.

He slides his hand down your arm then, taking your shaking one within his own, twining your fingers firmly together.

The music cue begins playing, Caesar taking to the microphone once more. You don't bother turning to look at the TV behind you to watch, instead choosing to stare at the stairs straight-ahead, trying desperately to stave off the potential of a full-blown panic attack again.

"And now, ladies and gentleman, the couple we've been waiting for for all evening—I know, I know," he says with a chuckle. "I saved the best for last, didn't I?"

The crowd begins to cheer.

He motions with his hand toward the right side of the stage. "Give a warm welcome for two of our favorite, and once again returning victors: Haymitch and Y/N Abernathy!"

You follow along silently beside Haymitch—your face immediately morphing, just the same as his when you take the stage, into one of bright smiles and soft laughs, the both of you waving happily to the roaring crowd, while you each blow kisses.

You take his instructions to heart, squeezing so hard it makes even your own hand hurt as your fingers press painfully against his own. But you don't relent, and he doesn't indicate for you to.

The two of you seat yourselves then, you smoothing the skirt of your ridiculously puffy dress beneath your bottom as you press yourself against Haymitch's side, crossing your legs, sliding your free hand atop his, wrapping it around your conjoined ones, praying to God that no one watching notices how it trembles.

Caesar leans back in his chair, resting an ankle over a knee, his arms lying relaxed on either side of him. "Has it really been a year?" He asks with a look of disbelief.

You keep your mouth shut while you allow Haymitch to do all the talking. You hate yourself for it—how much you put on him each time you're here; before cameras and microphones in general—but you'd learned long ago that letting him take the lead was the smart thing to do, when able.

Your husband shakes his head, grinning. "I know. Doesn't seem like it, does it? We were actually talking about a month ago—"

He looks at you with furrowed brows. "It was about a month ago, right, honey?"

You nod, looking at him adoringly, as if you have any idea what the hell he's talking about—are aware of the narrative or story he's about to come up with.

He turns back to Caesar. "About coming down here for a week or so for a short vacation before the place got busy, but then she came down with a bug—all that coal dust, you know—and I figured we'd better wait. We'd be back soon enough, anyway. No more would we get back to twelve and be turning right back around."

Caesar nods, then smiles. "Well, you know we're always glad to have the two of you in our great city! Right, folks?"

He looks to the crowd and just like a well-trained menagerie, they begin cheering and clapping, signaling their agreement.

He turns back to the two of you. "So, tell me, anything exciting going on back home?" He raises a brow suggestively.

You pray to God he doesn't say the words out loud—doesn't try to imply the question that you've hoped for years will never be asked: are you talking about children?

Haymitch grins, shaking his head, his fingers twitching against yours.

You know he's desperate for a drink then, so you slide your hand slightly up his sleeve, rubbing soothing circles with your thumb against his warm skin.

"Oh, this one keeps me on my toes, trust me." He looks to the crowd with a nod, his brows raised. "What I get for marrying a younger woman, huh?"

You scrunch your nose, pretending to snicker, hiding your face against his sleeve out of faux-embarrassment.

Not wanting to remain too long on such a topic, Caesar then turns to you and your grip tightens impossibly around Haymitch's hand. "Tell me, Y/N, where're you going to be dragging your husband along to? What're you looking forward to visiting again the most?"

You smile. "Well, all the shops, obviously," you feed him.

As a woman, what else could you want?

You shrug. "The fashion in our district is a bit lacking," you say sheepishly.

Haymitch shakes his head beside you, glancing to you with a raised brow and you meet his eyes with a mischievous look.

He raises his head from his fist—his elbow propped up against the seat—pointing to Caesar, then to you, then back to him. "Do you want to tell—"

You shake your head, laughing. "No, don't!"

"Oh, I think we should."

Caesar glances between the two of you, observing your exchange with furrowed brows. "What, what, what? Tell me what?"

Haymitch shrugs. "Well, since we're talking about wardrobe...you should've heard this one in the apartment before heading here to the studio."

You give a playful slap of his knee and the crowd laughs.

"Oh no! Wardrobe malfunction?" Caesar asks with a chuckle.

Haymitch flips his hair over his shoulder, pretending to mimic you in an interaction that never happened. "Honey, do you think Caesar will like my dress? Maybe I should have the stylist bring me that purple one instead. What about my hair? Do you think he'll like it? These shoes...I don't know that they really go."

He looks at you, but still speaking to Caesar, he says with a laugh, "Eventually, I went: sweetheart, which one of us are you married to here?"

The crowd roars with laughter, a few throwing whistles both your ways.

Caesar leans back, pretending to grimace as he looks at the camera, and then you chime in.

"Now, who was asking me what color I think Caesar might wear tonight so he could match his tie accordingly?"

He leans back in his seat, nodding shyly, raising a hand slightly. "Guilty as charged."

Caesar looks to the crowd with a grin. "Perhaps we'll have to further discuss fashion after the program," he says with a wink and those in attendance eat it up.

The interview doesn't last much longer, much to your relief, before Caesar finally bids the two of you farewell.

"We hope to see more of you during the Games and before your journey home. But, nevertheless," he says, taking your free hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it—you wonder if he feels it tremble in his grip—before shaking Haymitch's.

You both smile at the crowd, bowing, before giving them their big 'finale'. Haymitch releases your hand long enough to cup the back of your head, sliding his other to the small of your back and he dips you slightly, crushing his lips to yours.

You throw your arms carelessly around his neck, deepening the gesture and they go absolutely wild for it—their screams and applause deafening.

"Haymitch, help me!"

Katniss and Peeta both abruptly turn in your direction, watching as you try desperately to pry yourself out of the shimmering gossamer and tulle dress that is very much indicative of the latest Capitol style, which clings to you.

He immediately cuts short his conversation with a fellow mentor, shoving through a couple of tributes from the upper districts, ignoring the way they sneer at him.

Your designer is then told—with force—to move, and she watches in horror as Haymitch rips open the entire back of your dress, quickly shrugging off his suit jacket as he drapes it over your shoulders.

You turn around to him, trembling violently, tears streaming down your face as you stare up at him.

He takes your face gently—but firmly—between his hands, speaking words Katniss can't make out from where she stands across the way.

You then begin to nod and he presses a kiss to your forehead before sweeping you up and into his arms, carrying you out, mumbling that he'll 'be back' as he heads, presumably, up to the apartments.

"You think she'll be okay?" Peeta asks nervously.

Katniss doesn't reply as she begins to wonder if that could one day be her if she makes it out of the arena alive. And, if so: what's the point in even trying?

Katniss quietly pads out onto the balcony, coming to stand beside Haymitch, merely glancing to his flask before sliding her forearms atop the railing, looking out at the glittering city beyond.

He tips the container toward her, but she shakes her head.

He shrugs, taking a swig.

And then she speaks. "I always wondered about the two of you."

He raises a brow slightly, waiting for her to continue.

"The mentor who married his tribute—victor. I always thought the two of you looked obnoxious when you were on-screen." She pauses. "Now I get it."

"All I hear is that we managed to sell ourselves even to you." Another swig. "We have 'em all fooled. Including Snow."

She looks at him with furrowed brows. "What?"

He's quiet for a moment. "We didn't marry for love initially like we led everyone to believe, Katniss. That came later. Even if we don't always act like it, even now." He pauses. "You've seen it."

He looks to the flask in his hands. "She may understand it. Doesn't mean it makes it any easier on her when I'm..." He trails off.

She glances to him. "Why did you get married, then?"

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "I did it to protect her."

"From what?" She asks, turning to him, resting an elbow atop the railing, her other arm hanging limply by her side.

He shakes his head lightly. "When the Capitol sees a victor that they find...desirable...there are those that use their money—their influence—to take advantage. Because they can. Because no one is going to tell them no. Because those same victors can't. Not if they want to live."

He sneers, taking another long drink. "I heard the things they said about her even when she was in that arena. Fighting for her goddamn life. Men that just...they just saw her as a warm body for their beds. And I knew if she made it out of there, I was going to do what I had to to keep her safe. I know I'm not the best thing for her, but I'm better than what she would've been subjected to."

He shrugs slightly. "So we got married."

Her brows furrow. "Wait. You're telling me people here—in the Capitol—they—"

He turns his head, looking at her. "They're not above watching kids slaughter each other on TV, and calling it 'entertainment'. What makes you think they're above touching them? But we lie and we play pretend and we make ourselves out to have a fairytale marriage, and no one wants to be the one responsible for tarnishing it. So she gets left alone. She'd never survive—" He doesn't finish the statement.

The first time a man held you down and forced you would be the last. He knows that. Your mind is fragile enough as it is without adding such brutality to the never-ending list of traumas you've been forced to endure since the day of your reaping.

She grows quiet, simply staring at him. This place seems only to get uglier the deeper you look. It turns out it's all just a gilded façade, hiding unspeakable rot underneath.

"Haymitch," a quiet, sleepy voice calls from inside.

He turns, screwing the lid back onto his flask, watching you pad closer to the balcony, wearing a dark t-shirt of his.

"Are you coming back to bed soon? I want you to hold me. I can't...sleep here without you. You know that. I'm scared."

He nods, giving you a gentle smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm coming right now."

With that, he steps away from Katniss without another word, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your forehead, disappearing around a corner, which leads to your shared bedroom.

haymitch's only successful tribute to make it out of the arena alive—even if you hadn't intended to—the two of you married shortly after for your own safety, and have lived complicated lives, and in an even more complicated marriage ever since.

and then dawns the 74th hunger games.

the two of you had expected it to be like any other. another two tributes that you will have failed—further blood on your hands—before you returned home and tried to forget before the next year rolled round, forcing you all back into the arena—metaphorical or otherwise—once again. until one girl changes everything and you're both finally given something more to fight for than just each other.

headcanons:

reader desperately wishes haymitch would stop drinking, but does her best not to say anything about it. she understands. she just wants better for him.

her coping mechanism is usually just sleeping as much as possible via self-medication with incredibly strong sleeping pills. sometimes she stress-cleans haymitch's house—complaining at least half the time—sometimes until she makes herself ill. she just desperately wants a distraction from the horrid thoughts in her head. the memories.

haymitch & reader are essentially pros at putting on a performance for the public, but she falls completely apart once the cameras are off & leans heavily on him to get her through it.

katniss comes to her for advice, eventually, once she & peeta win the games, on how to make their 'love story' as believable as her & haymitch's.

reader intends to volunteer for katniss at the quarter quell reaping, before receiving a correspondence the night before, which is unaddressed, that reads 'if you volunteer, you will die'. it's unknown whether is was snow or plutarch who sent it.

reader & haymitch do genuinely love each other. and they're all the other has in terms of family. it's just not the healthiest relationship. extremely codependent & at times toxic.

[kahlanmars]

BAD FEELING part. 17

HELLO.

This chapter is a little filler but I think it's cute how Haymitch and Daisy try so much to stay away from each other... failing every time. Also, I ship Hayffie and I wanted to give a happy ending to Effie here too.

MASTERLIST

17. Candles for the wedding

After a brief moment in which you wanted to go away and never turn back, or you wanted to knock Marjorie’s door and then let her see your rage, or simply to go to Haymitch and talk more to him, knowing he wasn’t going to kick you out of his bed, you make a decision. You are Daisy Pinecone from District 12, and you are not going down for a man. You won’t let a man ruin your good mood. Even if this man is the most wholesome you’ve ever met. Even if the only thing you want is to be in his arms. Even if none of this is right.

Because none of this is right. You know, hell you know Marjorie is not in the wrong. She spent all her life hiding from President Snow because of Haymitch, and now she wants to live with him like he promised her. But that promise was made at sixteen, they were children, that doesn’t count.

And yet, the timing is wrong. He waited for her, for her ghost, for twenty five years, and just when he tries to move on - with you, nonetheless - she reappears. It’s like fate, destiny or whatever is laughing on their face. 

You can’t avoid thinking bad things, like that she is not as beautiful as she was when she was twenty, but then again he is not either and this is a vile thought. You are better than that. Holly taught you better than that.

You go up, clean your face, even use a little of that eyeliner you and Effie stole, go to your class and you manage to keep your smile on and your chin up all the time. You have a great teacher for that. 

Then, you go to the class where you are Miss Pinecone and not just Daisy.

«When there's danger, you should always go to your parents. But if there’s a danger and you are at school, you could go under the tables for protection.» You say, trying to be cheerful. Today is the day they are going to rescue Portia, Annie, Cinna and the others, and of course Peeta. So Coin told you to give the kids a lecture about dangers. That doesn’t scare you at all.

«But, Miss Pinecone, what if I don’t find my mom?» A little boy, Alex, asks you. He is from the seam, and he is seven or eight, not more. He has tons of brothers, like four or five. He is adorable, very skilled in maths. 

«I think you could come to me.» You don’t think this through, but what can you say? If he doesn’t find his family you want him to come to you, a trusted person, instead of a stranger.

«Thank you, Miss Pinecone.»

You manage to keep the charade until dinner. It’s easier with the kids, the little ones always try to make you see that and tell you this, and the hours flow. The older ones are eager to learn.

But now that you are alone, you can’t help but be sad in the cafeteria, surrounded by your friends except for Effie, who waits for Portia, and Finnick, who waits for Annie. That gives your group freedom to talk.

«I can’t believe him. He left you!» Lora is shocked, her wide eyes bright open. «For an old woman!»

«Well she is not old, she’s 41.» You protest, but then you remember Lora is nineteen. Compared to her you are an older woman.

«You are not going to pout all the time, right?» Perla is more direct. You love her, but she reminds you of a younger Johanna Mason, a victor from years ago who is now part of the rebellion. Perla is kinder, but she doesn’t hold back answers. 

«I’m not pouting.» You protest.

«Yes you are. There are parties, you know? The guards invited us sometimes, we should go.» Yes, you are. You can’t help it. He is not even there at the moment, probably in a room with Katniss waiting for Peeta. Or he is with her. 

You can’t live thinking he is with her every moment. 

«There are more important things, right? I’m worried about Portia. I really care for her. And for Peeta. And Cinna.» You desperately don’t want to talk about it. They seem to understand that, because they take the bait to change the subject.

«Do you think Finnick and Annie will get married when she is rescued?» Lora asks. You have to admit Finnick Odair has been a crush in your teenage years, for all of you. Thinking of him as a married man, even now that he is real, is weird. But he and Annie are so cute, he always talks about her like she is the moon and he couldn’t live without her, he almost didn’t want to live anymore when he found out she had been captured. They had to give him a rope to make knots out of it, to calm him down, but a very, very small rope. 

«That’s what he promised.»

You are about to answer Perla when a voice comes from the other room.

«They are coming!»

You change looks, because you don’t know if you are allowed in the first room, but you want to hug Portia so you run. If you are not allowed, someone will stop you, but that doesn’t happen.

They don’t have a quarantine, you had it because your group was the first after a long time in District 13, but now they think you are safe. So everybody is free to hug everybody, and they are all crying. 

You come into the infirmary room and you see Finnick who’s holding Annie like she could disappear in a moment, and Effie in Portia’s arms. 

«Portia!» You run into her and you let her hug you tight. «You are here!»

She just nods. She is not her best self, but she was probably tortured (now that you think about it, you shouldn’t have run into her, maybe you scared her) but she is here now, she can get better. You’ve never seen her without her Capitol fuss. She doesn’t have her blonde wig, and her hair is shaved. She is thinner than before, and she has bags under her eyes. It’s clear something bad happened in the city. 

Katniss is there, she is holding Cinna, but she is not happy. Cinna is in the same situation as Portia and Annie, and Haymitch, close to her, seems pissed off.

«What happened?» You dare to ask, conscious he wouldn’t scream at you. 

«Joanna Mason, Mags and Peeta are still in the Capitol.» 

Fuck. 

The mission was for everybody, but mostly for Peeta. He is the other side of the Mockingjay, the unfortunate lover, the lover boy. People like him more than Katniss. He is useful for the revolution.

But most importantly, Katniss loves him. Maybe she doesn’t know it, maybe she also loves Gale, but the look in her eyes at this moment proves that. 

«Will they come back for them?» You whisper to your mentor, but you don’t want Katniss to hear that. He shrugs and he looks at you, he is furious.

«If I have a say in the matter, yes.» 

He goes out of the room, and you follow him in the corridor and stop him with a hand on his wrist. You have to be careful. He could have reacted in a very bad way, you don’t stop him like that, you know better. But he must have sensed you, because he doesn’t push you against the wall or strangle you like you are an enemy.

«I’m sorry.» You whisper again. 

Peeta is like a son to him. Everyone knows he and Katniss are really similar, they have the same mind, same origins, same attitude. But they care for Peeta. Peeta is cunning, smart, intelligent, but also kind, generous, and has a good heart. With the family he has - he had, you have to remember - Haymitch has become a father figure in the last year. He didn’t want to get attached, you are sure of it, but once again he failed in that.

He sighs. He is calculating, you see his brain fuming. You bet he is telling himself he can’t be vulnerable with you, not anymore. 

«Just a minute.» You help him, and you put your arms around his chest. He relaxes a little against your touch. 

«He is seventeen.» He reminds you. «Seventeen, and he is being tortured. They are torturing him. It is my fault.» His voice is strong and still, but you sense he is desperate.

«How is it your fault?» You lift your eyes up to watch him better. «It’s the war, Haymitch. You are doing your best to keep them alive.»

«’M doing a hell of a good job.» He is shaking now, of course he wants a drink to cope with his guilt. They are criminals, this is not a way to cure ad addiction, but maybe there’s a good side of that. Maybe he is rid of his addiction. 

«You are. Look at all this, it’s mostly thanks to you. And Cinna, and Plutarch, but the Mockingjay is here because of you. Katniss is safe because of you. And Peeta will be too.» You stroke his hair. «I am so, so sorry. But I didn’t give up on you. You are still their mentor. You saved them.»

You feel stupid, you can only say that you are sorry. A week ago you would have kissed away his doubts, but now it’s not yours to kiss. Now Marjorie can handle that, you don’t have any right. 

«Don’t be sorry.» He murmurs and instead of letting you go he tightens the grip. «Are you okay? Portia is back.»

«Yes.» You flash a smile to him, he loves Portia too. «I’m good, I was worried for her. Felt guilty too.»

«Look at us, covered in guilt.» He tries to laugh, to lighten the moment. «I must admit it looks better on you.»

You blush. You only want to kiss him, but he is not yours to kiss anymore. He is not yours anymore. «Everything looks better on me.»

«I really can’t argue with that.» His eyes are on your lips. 

At this point you are supposed to kiss, this is what you do, but you can’t right now, not after Marjorie. «You should go back. Katniss needs you.» 

«Yes. Katniss needs me.» He gives you a kiss on the cheek, his lips lingering a little too long on your face to be an incident. «Thank you, Sweetheart. I really needed that.»

«That’s what friends are for.»   

You stay in the corridor, alone, until he disappears. 

Turns out Finnick really asked Annie to marry him as soon as she was saved, and now you have a wedding to prepare. They are absolutely lovebirds, Finnick walks on air and he has a grin that never leaves him. Annie is haunted by the tortures and her past, but she is cooed by Effie and Portia, and she seems content most of the time, when she doesn’t cry for Mags. You never met Mags, but on television she looks like a grandmother, sweet and tender, and you know she raised Finnick and Annie. They decided not to wait for her, but they will have a traditional ceremony with her when she will be rescued.

You don’t know what the ceremony in District Four is about, but it must be their version of the Toasting. In your District the toasting is the real marriage ritual, when the bride and the groom make a fire together and toast a piece of bread. You really hope for them it’s not a toasting ceremony because you have heard his bread is made of seaweed and very, very salty.

The wedding preparation is actually very cute. You and Effie, with the help of Perla and Laura and other people from District 13, decorate the main room with flowers and ribbons, as well as nets and corals you manage to find in the library. It’s still grey, but a little less grey and it’s absolutely a win. 

«I’ll dress Annie, can you stay here?» Effie asks you, and you nod. You actually like to decorate. It takes your mind off of things. But what you really want is to put candles in the higher shelves of the main room, so when she walks through the room she will be followed by lights. 

You put the candles up with the help of a staircase. Then you just have to light them up. When you are about to reach the top, though, your feet slip and you go down. 

You survived the Hunger Games and a revolution just to hit your head and die trying to decorate a cafeteria.

«Dear heavens!» You think you’ll get hurt, badly, but you realise you didn’t touch the ground, someone saved you. 

And who could have been. Of course it’s him. How the fuck it’s him it’s a mystery. 

«Are you following me or something?» You sough, still shaken by the fall. You risked it. 

«Thanks, Haymitch, you catched me.» He mocks you with a grin that is not supposed to be here, since he saved you from death or at least a big injury. Again. 

«…Thanks. But were you following me?» You know you should go back to your own feet, but you are a weak girl and it’s comforting to be in his arms, bridal style. And you pretend to yourself you didn’t see Marjorie eyeing you from the other side of the room.

«A little. I was looking for you, I wanted to borrow you a book, and then I saw you lighting candles in the most dangerous position ever invented and… I know your level of balance. It’s none.» You scoff at the comment, but then you hear again the main word of the sentence: books. 

«A book? Yes!» You are too excited, it’s not proper. Not anymore. «I mean, that's thoughtful… thought?» A thoughtful thought. And you are a teacher. No wonder you didn’t have a licence before the war. 

«Yeah I mean, it’s mine and you didn’t steal it so maybe you won’t like it.»

«It happened once or twice…» You pout. Just because he loved to kiss away your pout and if you have to go down bad then he must too. But when his eyes linger too much you are the one who snaps him out of his misery. «So? The book?»

«The book, yes. It’s about a girl who goes to work for a guy as a maid and the guy has secrets in the attic. It’s ancient.» He quickly explains. 

«Is he a bit of a dick?» You challenge him.

«Kinda, yeah.»

«Some things never change…» You smile, proud of your little joke. «What’s the name of the book?»

«Jane Eyre.» 

«I studied that at school. I think I’ll like it, thanks.» Could you give him a little kiss on the cheek? Probably not. Especially when you are still in his arms, it’s not quite friends' behaviour. But you still do it because Inez - Marjorie - has not been right to you. «How come we are underground and you still smell like the woods?» You half murmur to yourself, but he smirks.

«It’s a talent. I'll give it to you at the wedding?»

«I can't, they allow us to have actual dresses at the wedding!» You can't conceal your excitement. You really want to take off the grey jumpsuit. You don’t have a dress, but you eyed some curtains that nobody will miss. 

«Tomorrow then.» He offers.

«Tomorrow it is. Haymitch, can you… let me go?» You are sure you are starting to make a scene, wrapped in a hug in the middle of the cafeteria after the big scandal and the “break up”. 

«Yeah, of course.» He lets you go and you practically disappear in front of him not to deal with the consequences of your thoughts. He does the same. It would be comical if you didn’t have your heart broken.

You go to your room to sew the dress for the wedding, and you open the door without any thinking, just to be welcomed with a gasp.

Effie Trinket and Portia… you don’t know Portia’s surname, all you know is that they are wrapped in a hug and they are kissing. Effie is kissing Portia. Portia is kissing Effie. None of it makes sense.

Effie is the one who was upset finding out about you and Dianna. She was shocked, like she never occurred a girl could love another girl. You know in the Capitol they didn’t discuss these sort of things, like in the District. 

On the other hand, if someone deserves love is Effie Trinket. She hates District Thirteen, everybody here is stupid and hates her, so she needs allies. Friends. Lovers. Everything she wants. She’s one of the kindest people alive. You really love her.  

«I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!» You yell and you close the door behind you, just to re-open it slower. You don’t know what to do, you can’t go in and you can’t go out. «Do you want me to leave?» You ask. 

«Stay, darling girl.» Effie speaks after a while. Her voice is filled with awkwardness, and you want to tell her that everything is fine but you don’t know how to do it without worsening the situation. «Well…»

You enter. They are on Effie’s bed, and they look like teenagers caught in the moment. They are so cute.

«You two are in love?» You ask, trying to contain your excitement. You know you are being improper and you are probably embarrassing them, but you are so happy for them, so happy for Effie. Oh dear heaven, what if it was just an experiment? What if Effie is in love and Portia is not? You didn’t think before talking.

«No, I mean… it was kinda the first time, so…» They share a look. Maybe they are not in love yet, but they have chemistry.

«So I blocked it? I’m so sorry! I’ll go!» 

«No! I think we could go to…» Portia dismisses it. She talks slower than before the revolution, and she always seems a little puzzled, but she is better now and you think she’s improving.

«To my room! I think we can go to my room.» She finishes it.

«No, I’ll go!» You protest, but Effie pinches your shoulder.

«No, please. Let us go.»

«…Ok.» You surrender. 

You go back to your sewing, wondering what the hell just happened.

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[deliontower]

to love is to destroy | h.a | prologue

Paring: Haymitch x Giselle Carmine (oc)

summary: the games don’t end at the sound of the last cannon, they don’t end at all

word count: 672

warnings: a lot of talking about what happens to victors after the games, mentions of death and injury, mentions of vomiting, drinking and mentions of drug use, angst, fluff (very small). All warnings will be mentioned before each part

a/n: Again I was inspired by @nebulablakemurphy and they’re amazing Haymitch fic! There way of expanding the world is mind blowing and I can’t recommend it enough, divider by @cafekitsune

This may or not be deleted and rewritten as an x reader. I wanted to try out an old so i can be more descripted about the MC

HUNGER GAMES MASTERLIST

Ladies and gentlemen The winner of the 55th hunger games, Gisella Carmine

She woke up gasping, the now cold bath water splashed onto the tile floor, the sun was high in the sky, afternoon, the reaping. Swearing she climbed from the tub and wrapped herself in a towel. The night before the games always left her with little sleep, at one point she gave up and ran a bath. 

It wouldn’t be long until the cameras and the people arrived in the square, Haymitch would need waking from his white liquor induced sleep. 

Reaping days were the hardest days to get through, for both of them. Haymitch drank and forgot. She cooked and she baked and she tried to forget.

A dress had been sent days before, every year a new dress would come and once she reached the capitol, a whole closet  awaited her. The dress hung from the curtain rail in her room. A golden collar embedded with gems and diamonds looping to make open shoulder sleeves, the dress was made from red velvet and hit the floor.

She ran her fingers through her hair, detangling the curls until they looked good enough for all the eyes of the capitol to see. The bags under her eyes disappeared after she rubbed some of the magic cream the capitol sent. 

As she passed the downstairs toilet, she heard Haymitch heave and cough, his skin was pale and wet. Carefully she knelt beside him, even more careful not to get anything on her dress. She laid her hand on his forehead, “It’s almost time”.

Haymitch wobbled back on to his ass, his back against the wall, he reached inside his dressing gown pocket for his flasks, he took one big gulp, “nice dress”.

Gisella rolled her eyes, taking the flasks from him, swallowing a mouthful, it burnt all the way down and sat in her empty stomach unhappily, then she took another drink. Normally she never drank, but when the games began things were different.

“How long do we have?” he asked, slowly standing. “Five minutes maybe? Not long enough to shower” she laughed, standing too.

“Enough to drink” he smiled sluggishly and took the flask back. 

She went into the kitchen and made herself eat some bread she had brought from the baker the day before, it helped settle the nervous waves cursing through her body.

It would be a waste to try and get Haymitch to eat so she left him be and waited.

Haymitch was late.

Mayor Undersee and Effie Trinket, murmured to each other, worried about the missing mentor. Gisella kept her eyes forward, blocking them out. Looking to all the faces of the children dreading the moment she would send two in the games. 

The clock hit two and the mayor began his usual speech, about the history of panem and how things ended the way they were today. From the uprising, to the fighting and finally ‘the peace’. The peace of course being the games. Then he reads the list of district 12 winners, only two are living. To her right, Gisella hears Haymitch mumble and wobbles up the steps. She fixed on her seats as he fell into his.

He looked confused when the crowd applauded at his name,he threw his arms around Effie, who barely managed to get away from him. All of Panem will carry on seeing 12 as a laughingstock. Haymitch as the same old drunk and Gisella as the one who does all the work.

Mayor Undersee took his seat again, then the pink haired Effie rose and took to the centre of the stage. If Gisella had to guess, Effie was looking to step up to bigger and better districts, 12 is the bottom of the pile. 

Old memories flash in her mind, wishing she drank more in the morning, she looked past the square, past the people and to the green hills outside the districts and remembered happier times with her grandfather.

“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute”

two

[weerose]

A MARTYR'S EMBRACE

SHIP: HAYMITCH ABERNATHY X OC

SUMMARY: Three years as a Victor and Mentor has left Haymitch Abernathy apathetic but as the tributes for the fifty-third Hunger Games are drawn, he finds himself unwilling to allow District Twelve's female tribute to be reduced to the role of a lamb for slaughter.

[clinquaant]

A WORLD ALONE / Act I: 9413

9 • 4 • 1 • 3, "nine die one live"

One has a ninety percent chance of dying, and only a ten percent chance of surviving.

— Chinese Numerology

ao3 / pinterest / spotify / wattpad

[dorkofclanlavellan]

Haymitch Abernathy Masterlist

Preferences

To be added

Headcanons

To be added

Drabbles

To be added

Ficlets

To be added

One Shots

To be added

Fics

Luck is a Funny Thing (Haymitch x OC) Haymitch's Darlin' (book!Haymitch x fem!OC)

[random-writerings]

Full Name: Grace Merino

Nickname: Gracie (only by Haymitch)

Face Claim: Rosario Dawson

Age: 18 (52nd HG); 41 (75th HG)

District: 10

Family: Parents (deceased)

Occupation: Tribute; Victor; Mentor; Rebel

Skills: Sheep-herding; Dog Training; Survival Skills; Basic Weapons Handling; Cunning

victoria aut mors series // Playlist // Cover

[countrymusiclover]

Are You District or Capitol?

Ariyne Abernathy, unknown daughter of Haymitch and Effie Trinket. She manages to stay out the Capitol's grasp until the Quarter Quell. Under President Snow's thumb she feels trapped until she meets Finnick Odair and he becomes her most loyal allie aside from her father.

1 - Unexpected Reaping Day

2 - The Capitol Darling

3 - Looking for an Alliance

4 - Just Ariyne and Finnick

5 - Capitol Interviews

6 - Let the Games Begin

7 - The Games - Day One

8 -

????

Comments really appreciated ❤️

Tag list ( send an ask in my ask box to be added ) @lemonluvgirl @virtualsweetsdreamer @emma-andrea1 @voiddylanobrosey @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @agentxx92 @melvia-ito

[thelittlestladylikesthis]

The Pink Rose, part 2

Part Two- July 4th, 74 ADD

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x reader 

Word count: 2,778

Warnings: drinking, references to sex, threats, implied PTSD

**** Almost all characters and parts of the storyline are not my original creation and are credited to Suzanne Collins.

Effie Trinket stood out like a sore thumb in District 12. Her face was caked with white foundation, colorful lines, and lipstick in classic Capitol style. Piled on her head was a large, curly wig with a pinkish tint. To complete her ensemble was a spring green suit with matching high heels. The only thing that didn’t match was the extremely uncomfortable expression on her face as she stood outside Haymitch’s house.

Not long after being interrupted, [Y/n] emerged from the house and was immediately met with a look of disapproval from Effie. [Y/n] tried to avoid eye contact as she bit her lip, feeling like a schoolgirl awaiting a lecture from the teacher. 

Effie stared her down as if waiting for an explanation until the front door swung open and out came Haymitch, bottle in hand. 

“Can you be sober for one ceremony?” Effie trilled angrily.

“I was sober for a ceremony and once for a ritual,” Haymitch said calmly before taking a swig from his unlabeled bottle.

“Oh really? When was this?” Effie scoffed.

Haymitch licked his lips and then looked down at Effie before saying in a very serious tone, “I was sober at my own reaping ceremony, sweetheart; and as for the ritual,” he quickly kissed [Y/n]’s cheek and smacked her rear playfully, “You just got a front row view of that one,” he laughed.

Effie scoffed in disbelief and marched ahead of them impressively quick. Once she was a reasonable distance away, [Y/n] punched Haymitch’s arm.

“I can’t believe you said that to her!”

“She barged into my house without knocking,” he raised his voice to imitate Effie, “It’s just bad manners,”

[Y/n] then got close enough to Haymitch that she could smell the liquor accumulating on his breath, “Well Mr. Abernathy before you get too drunk, was it a ritual or just a moment of lust?”

He gulped, “Can I say both?”

[Y/n] narrowed her eyes and gave a suspicious half-smile, “That’s acceptable,”

After one last peck on the lips, they returned to their respective houses and readied their appearances for the Reaping Ceremony.

*     *     *

Two hours later, Haymitch, Effie, and [Y/n] made their way to the square for the Reaping. [Y/n] dreaded this every year- and from the smell of Haymitch, he did too. The sickening, sweet scent of Effie’s perfume and the pungent odor of alcohol on Haymitch made for an interesting cloud around the trio.

“I have a good feeling about this year,” Effie said awkwardly, breaking the silence.

“You’ve been saying that,” [Y/n] grumbled, “All morning; tsk, a reaping ceremony- that’s like saying a funeral gala,”

“Oh stop it!” Effie hissed at the same time Haymitch laughed.

District 12’s square was decorated with happy banners that were an unsettling contrast to the sad grey buildings and grim feeling in the air. There were camera crews already situated on the rooftops like gargoyles. This allowed the Capitol to efficiently observe the people of the district under the guise of the televised games.

[Y/n] and Haymitch were seated on the stage. Other districts had rows of chairs for their victors, or at least a cluster. In District 12, they had 2 seats for their living victors, an empty one in memory of the only other victor from 12, one for the mayor, and one for Effie. Haymitch began to slump in his chair- [Y/n] understood the alcoholism, but she really could’ve lived without the public drunkenness on days like today. She sat in her chair and tried to ignore the snoring and muttering from next to her. With a flat affect on her face, [Y/n] watched intently as the youth of District 12 filed in. Only comparable to the livestock she’d seen in District 10, the 12- to 18-year-olds filed into the roped areas and were sorted by age. Like animals set for slaughter, [Y/n] thought, how fitting. The families of the youth lined the square, waiting intently to learn who would be saying goodbye to their children. [Y/n] pursed her lips as she noticed two men off to the side setting bets for whether the names drawn would be from the Seam or not. It was in poor taste- but she knew they weren’t necessarily wrong. Those from the Seam were the poorest in the district. The more times one entered their name, the more tesserae they got. The oldest siblings from the Seam appeared as tributes more often than not- taking the odds out of their favor by supporting their family the best they could. 

The final touches were brought out to the stage. Two large glass orbs with an opening in the top of each; the contents were slips of paper with the names of eligible tributes. One orb was full of the names of every male 12 to 18, and the other was full of the names of their female counterparts. The town clock struck two and the mayor approached the podium and began to read the history of Panem. The history [Y/n] had heard what seemed like a million times before. Disasters- natural and man-made- plagued the land formerly called North America. The war ravaged the land and finally, it all ended, and up rose Panem. Panem: a Capitol and 13 Districts. Then more war, the Dark Days, the loss of District 13 via revolution, and finally current-day Panem. Only one small twist- Panem got the Hunger Games. [Y/n] scoffed quietly as the Hunger Games was referred to as a “pageant”. 24 young people, 1 male and 1 female from each District stuck into an arena to fight to the death until 1 lone victor remained. [Y/n] sighed at the thought of her own hands having killed someone- four someones to be exact. Haymitch got out having killed two- but the Capitol didn’t like his style so they killed his family and his girlfriend. Forgotten by most, [Y/n] had angered President Snow with her post-games interview- coincidently, her mother, father, and four siblings all died of some mysterious illness that no other household caught.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” the mayor finished before pausing, “And now a moment of silence in memoriam of the lost and celebration of the victors of District 12: Lucy Gray Baird, Haymitch Abernathy, and [Y/n] Bellwood,” He gave a nod to [Y/n] and a short half smile- a smile that said “sorry I have to keep bringing this up” rather than “thank you”. The crowd briefly hesitated before giving an applause. The applause sounded like no one knew what they were clapping for. 

Haymitch sat up and yelled something unintelligible. Effie flinched away from the sudden sound and [Y/n] sighed. Effie’s face looked like a mother who almost could not tolerate any more of her child’s outbursts. [Y/n] put one hand on Haymitch’s shoulder and whispered calming words in his ear- he sat back down and put his face in his hands. The mayor then redirected the attention of the people to Effie.

Bouncy and bubbly, Effie almost danced to the podium and beamed as she gave her catchphrase, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Her pink wig has gone slightly askew- not noticeably- but [Y/n] knew Effie well enough to tell. Effie kept talking in her unnecessarily happy tone about how honored she was to be there (which no one believed). Suddenly, Effie proudly said, “Ladies first” and waltzed over to the glass orb with the female names. She dug around and pulled out a slip of paper. Despite the over 8,000 people in attendance, you could’ve heard a button hit the ground a mile away from how quiet it was.

[Y/n] gulped- which child was she going to be forced to give advice to and lead down the glitzy, demeaning path of the Capitol to their death in an unfamiliar arena surrounded by strangers who want to kill them?

“Primrose Everdeen!”

The crowd grumbled with displeasure- Primrose must be a young tribute- an under-14. Districts typically dislike it when the young ones get picked. [Y/n] finally spotted her- a tiny, thin girl with blonde braids was slowly creeping up the aisle between the groups. Her face was completely drained of whatever color it once had but she still looked sick at the same time. Her arms were rod straight at her sides and her hands were balled into little fists. [Y/n] could almost feel those little fists grabbing her insides and twisting them. Watching the little ones die was always the hardest- it was never fair for them. [Y/n] bowed her head slightly so any emotion she showed wouldn’t be televised.

A cry choked out from the crowd “Prim!” and every head whipped towards the source.

“Prim!” the girl shouted again. She pushed- with minimal effort- through the sea of 16-year-olds and into the aisle where Primrose was. The peacekeepers were so shocked that the older girl was able to make it all the way to Primrose at the base of the stage. The older girl pushed Primrose behind her and shouted “I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”

The crowd rumbled with whispers as if this girl had just committed some great scandal. She hadn’t, but the last time District 12 had a volunteer was well before [Y/n] was ever born. Technically, once a tribute’s name has been drawn, any eligible person of the same gender can step forward to take their place. This was commonplace in Districts like 1 and 2- sometimes 3. But in the outlying Districts of 9-12, this was almost unheard of.

“Lovely!” Effie beamed, “But I believe there’s a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um- uh ...” she faltered, finally experiencing what it’s like when your mouth acts faster than your brain.

The mayor interrupted her, “What does it matter? Let her come forward,”

As soon as it was clear that the volunteer had been accepted, Primrose became hysterical and began to scream.

“No, Katniss! No! You can’t go!” Primrose screamed as she wrapped herself around the older girl.

The older girl- Katniss- had a pained expression as she tried to remain calm “Prim, let go,”

[Y/n] thought these girls must be related or at least indebted to each other in some way. Her eyes happened to glance up at a camera and her thoughts turned to how the citizens of the Capitol would be eating this up as they watched the dramatic scene unfold. However, the other victors could see the emotional situation as a weakness. Yes, this Katniss would be marked off as another easy target from 12 to pick off from the start. [Y/n] thought the presumptions and attention may not be bad for Katniss.

“Let go!” Katniss shouted as a tall young man quickly came forward from the 18-year-old group and pulled Primrose off Katniss’ back. He picked her up off the ground as if she were a doll and Primrose began to thrash as he carried her away.

Katniss slowly made her way up the few steps to the stage as Effie beamed, “Well, bravo! That’s the spirit of the Games! What’s your name?”

“Katniss Everdeen,”

Effie’s face lit up at that dramatic tidbit, “I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her

to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!”

Effie was the only one to clap.

The square became silent. Not a soul in 12 dared to show even a fake approval of what they had just witnessed. District 12 was always allowed the short end of the stick and [Y/n] thought it a credit to the District when they collectively acknowledged the unfair position they’d been given. No one clapped. Suddenly, an older woman touched the three middle fingers of her left hand to her lips and then held it out to Katniss. One by one, more and more people joined in the salute until nearly the whole square had their hands up pointing at Katniss. [Y/n] was shocked and had never seen such a display of collective respect for anyone out of District 12. [Y/n] had seen this salute at a funeral once before- it was an old and now uncommon gesture of the district. It is a sign of thanks and admiration typically given to one who is deeply cared for.

Appropriate, thought [Y/n]. Welcome Katniss Everdeen. Welcome to the Hunger Games. Goodbye Katniss Everdeen. Say goodbye to District 12 as you know it.

[Y/n] gasped as Haymitch suddenly staggered across the stage and threw an arm around Katniss “Look at her! Look at this one!” he shouted, “I like her! Lots of ... Spunk!” he beamed almost as much as Effie had. He removed his arm from Katniss: “More than you! More than you!” he pointed to the nearest camera. He continued to shout until he stumbled so far forward that he fell off the stage and sprawled out drunk and unconscious. 

Effie groaned with displeasure. [Y/n] massaged between her eyebrows with her thumb and pointer finger as she gave a deep sigh. Katniss impressively placed her hands behind her back and stared into the distance as two peacekeepers moved Haymitch away with a stretcher.

Effie could always be counted on to break the silence- even if it wasn’t required.

“What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It’s time to choose our boy tribute!” 

She floated over to the second glass orb and pecked a name slip out.

“Peeta Mellark.”

There was no dramatic family interference this time. Just a classic, somber silence as the stocky, blonde young man of 16 made his way up to the stage. The realization of his name being selected slowly moved across his face. Effie probed for any other volunteers, but no one stepped up for young Peeta. 

The mayor routinely concluded the ceremony by reading the Treaty of Treason to his District. Upon conclusion, he prompted Katniss and Peeta to shake hands. The two 16-year-olds turned to face the sea of people looking up at them as Panem’s anthem began to play on the loudspeakers. A minute later, Peacekeepers marched the newest tributes through the front door of the Justice Building and out of sight.

*     *     *

[Y/n] followed the small procession into the justice building and a peacekeeper pointed her to a room down the hall. When she entered, she noticed a large translucent vase full of pink roses. This made her freeze where she stood. She suddenly became very hot and her heart began to beat a million miles a minute. She’d once told Cesar Flickerman that she enjoyed the color pink and that it was difficult to find in District 12. But [Y/n] knew these roses were not for her enjoyment; they were a warning to behave herself. 

Haymitch was fast asleep on a dusty gray sofa against the wall. They’d left him in a seated position with his head slumped back. [Y/n] thought his neck would probably ache when he woke up. She glanced back at the roses and felt the tears well up in her eyes. She tried to brush them away as she walked towards the sofa and sat down- she couldn’t be weak or look as if she’d cried before meeting the tributes. Haymitch startled awake at the feeling of someone sitting next to him. He looked at [Y/n] with glassy eyes and smiled a drunk, awkward attempt at a smolder. 

“Just go back to sleep,” [Y/n] chuckled softly, “You’ll need to meet the tributes later,”

[Y/n] knew Haymitch would enter the stage of “functioning drunk” after a nap. He would be able to interact and remember longer snippets of what happened, but he would still be drunk nonetheless. 

[Y/n] put her feet up on the sofa on each side of Haymitch. He stretched out and laid his head down on her chest, immediately falling back asleep. She looked down at him and began to stroke his hair. She smiled to herself at the thought that they’d been intimate only hours earlier. So much had happened in one day. She’d been caught naked with a man by Effie Trinket; a girl volunteered as tribute to protect her sister; the Capitol threatened her with flowers; and she realized she had fallen for Haymitch Abernathy.

Masterlist

[hungergameshyperfixation]

Okay so let me be cringe and free but I’ve had a little ‘project’ idea for quite some time about making wiki-adjacent things and one totally specific thing on my mind has been ships.

Not just like shipping in a meta-fandom way (which that interests me too, but that’s another convo for a different day), but in an “individual ship appeal” way.

Like, using a Hunger Games specific example: Everlark. Everlark (Katniss x Peeta) has been analyzed literally ever since the books came out, but still.

Anyways, all this to say, there will be a ‘shipping’ themed post sometime hopefully soon(??)

(I will be EXCLUDING any pro-shipping things. I do no want to discuss that, so please do not mention any minors/adults or anything the like)

(Some of these are super niche and I don’t expect a lot of various answers, but I wanted to list out nearly every possible ship with Haymitch) ↴

[kahlanmars]

BAD FEELING part. 8

HIIII, I did have some troubles with the story but I'm here now!

MASTERLIST (parts 1 - 7)

8. The Interview

*gif not mine*

You wake up sweaty and crying. 

A murderer, you are a murderer, you are a killer, you are a monster. 

«Haymitch!» You scream, panic in your voice. He comes close and hugs you tight, allowing you to kiss him through the tears. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t cuddle you like you are a kid, but he stays there.

«I’m sorry I woke you up.» You whisper, when you are calmed down a bit. Gosh he had the roughest night and he has to console you.

«Nonsense.» He replies, but you know he is tired, his eyes are baggy and puffed and his hands are trembling. 

«You were having a rough night and I…» He stops you with a kiss. 

«And you cleaned up my mess and stayed with me. Stop. This. Nonsense.» 

You shut up and kiss him again. You feel guilty because you get to kiss this amazing guy and that man is dead, but most of all you feel guilty because you don’t. You tighten his embrace and pepper kisses on his face. It’s weird how different he can be at night. 

You are not feeling guilty because the man you killed was a violent rapist. One less in the world. You murdered him and now he won’t assault other victors. And you were protecting the people you loved. You were protecting them. You repeat that to yourself like a mantra.  

«Are you feeling better?» You ask him with a concerned look on your face.

«Yes, sweetheart, I feel better. Sleep, we have a rough day ahead of us.» 

You would really want him to know you understand. You may not get completely what he experienced, but you get what an addiction is. He is severely traumatised. 

You are in love with him. You may be dead in two days and you are in love with someone for the first time, and you know Holly wouldn’t be pleased - a grumpy man fifteen years older than you. But if a miracle happens and you win the games (the only chances are whatever happened to Annie Cresta, maybe), you are sure you want to spend the rest of your life with him.

He doesn’t get to say a word about it.

Today is the day of the interview. Today is the last day you have to pretend to be a perfect princess to survive. 

You just decided.

The preparation team comes in the morning, so you make sure you are in your room and not Haymitch’s and you wait for them to arrive. Everybody is still sleeping, Katniss and Peeta included. 

«Girl, hi! You were so good, a TEN? We may have a winner this year!» You hear Portia’s voice and go to hug her. You don’t think Twelve will have a winner this year, you are probably dead already and you can’t even mention Clark winning it, but what could you say? “No, I’m gonna die”? No, you have to play pretend. 

«I’ve thought of something pretty special for you.» She can’t contain the excitement from her face. 

«I’m in your hands.» You assure her. 

The next two hours are fully dedicated to preparation and when you get to look yourself in the mirror you remember how happy you were the first time someone made you this cute. Sure, you hate the Capitol, but you can’t help it, you love fashion, dresses and make up. Just not as much as you love, you know, staying alive.

Your raven hair is silky smooth, your eyes are painted with silver glitter but the dress is what is really stunning. Blue and silver, with diamonds on the shoulders and the neckline, long lace sleeves and a massive gown. You look like an ancient goddess of nature, not a twenty-four year old tribute.

«You are a princess!» Portia is behind you, looking at her masterpiece. You don’t know who the interview will be, but there is no doubt the dress will be remembered.

«You think so?»

«Are you ready? We have to go or Effie will blame it on…» Haymitch appears in the room but soon his words fade. «Me.»  

«Do I look good?» 

He just nods until you are in the elevator, for Portia’s sake probably. Still, you are selfish and you really would want him just to scoop you up and kiss you in front of everybody. This is impossible, you know that. 

«Do I look good?» You repeat, even if your friends at home would say against it. This is not a great technique, being utterly in love - in lust - with someone who can clearly notice it. You should play hard to get, maybe? But then again most of the people don’t die in two days, so you feel no shame in saying that you really like him. 

«If only this elevator wasn’t transparent.» He winks at you and then, probably after a few words in his mind, he places a hand on your back.

«What would you do, mentor?» You grin, you can’t help it but flirt with him, especially on something that you like so much like the dresses.

«Teach you a few things, sweetheart.» 

«Don’t call me sweetheart if you don’t want to kiss me!» 

He stops you before you could go for a cuddle, because he knows you too much. «After, in the penthouse. I will be in the audience and Effie and Portia will be with you on the sofa.»

You bright up at the mention of your escort. «Do you think Effie will like the dress?»

«You are gorgeous, it’s impossible not to love it.» He says, clearly annoyed. 

«Good. But to be fair she is gorgeous-gorgeous, like naturally a goddess so I don’t think it counts.» 

He rolls his eyes. «I don’t even want to know if I need to be jealous.» 

«You should just keep an eye on us.» You joke. 

Turns out you are not that ready for an interview.

«That I don’t mind.» He kisses you on the cheek, and in a moment you are ready for the interview.  

You are a little ashamed of yourself for being scared. You love people, you love talking, and you actually like being Panem Sweetheart when they don’t talk about puking to eat more or bullshit like that. You wanted to be a teacher, you are not exactly an introvert. 

Then why are you so nervous? 

You want Effie or Portia, they would bring you up. In situations like these you always want your friends. 

You really, really tried not to think about your friends at home, because if you think about them you wonder if they watch you, if they have food for the month, how are the kids at school and the one you babysit. You miss Madge, the major’s daughter. She is a little younger than you, Katniss’s age, but you two bonded while you cleaned the major’s house. 

Now is not the time to think about it, Daisy.

«So, District 12. Do you miss home?» Caesar asks. This year he has a purple wig, less beautiful than last year’s one. He is in front of you and he still manages to look like he's on television. No wrinkles, no flaws, very Capitol. It’s kinda scary.

«Of course I miss home, I miss the children. I wanted to be a teacher, and I’m a babysitter. I was.» You correct yourself with a bright smile. «But I discovered I like dresses and fashion.»

«Really? Not many tributes say thay!» Yeah, maybe because we are dragged here to slaughter each other. 

«Oh well, Caesar, I have to say that Capitol City surprised me, but the people are very nice!» Liar liar. The only nice people in the Capitol are Effie and Portia, and from what you saw, Cinna. But of course you can’t tell that to Caesar Flickerman, Panem's most beloved showman. «And thanks to my escort, Effie Trinket, I now know what it feels to be pretty.»

If President Snow got to threaten Effie because of you he is aware you love her so much, so for what it’s worth you want her to have the recognition she deserves.

«You seem very fond of your escort.»

«Yeah, I mean, Effie is a genius, and so is my mentor, Haymitch Abernathy. I wouldn’t have been able to have a ten without them, I have a chance thanks to them. And to Portia, who designed this beautiful dress!» You really want Effie to be happy, but you feel like you have to mention your entire team. You can see Haymitch in the audience, nodding at you. 

«Oh, and this beautiful dress is for someone in particular? Like a suitor?» 

«Not exactly. No, mom, I don't have a boyfriend!» You look directly at the camera, and you hear that the people in the audience are laughing. Good. «But I do like someone.»

«A boy from your district?» Caesar leans towards you, like you are gossiping in the market. You play along. 

«A man from my district. The most awesome and handsome and intelligent man I know.» 

«So you have to win for him.» He takes your hand. As much as you despise Capitol City, you don’t think Caesar Flickerman is a bad person. He is really trying to make you look good, maybe he is like Effie, simply livin’ in luxury, not aware of what happens in the districts. 

«I will win for me. But yeah, I think he will be a good bonus!»

You are quickly dismissed with a lot of claps. It went well. 

You want to go to the penthouse, but Clark is there and truth to be told you don’t even want to listen to him, your interview went well and you just want to go back to relax for the last time, but of course your mentor and escort are not only yours, so you have to wait on the sofa with Effie and Portia.

«You are a talent, girl! When you will be out of the arena I will make you a star!» Effie is not delusional, so she must be a real hopeful woman to say when and not if. Or maybe she really loves you. You hug her tight, just in case, and she gives you a kiss on the cheek like Haymitch did before.

«If I win for a miracle I want to become a dressmaker.» You decide. Not a fancy one, just for the district. You like clothes too much. 

«I expect nothing less, darling girl.»

«Will you be my first model?» 

«I will be honoured.» 

She smiles at you. You made the right decision earlier, you couldn't risk her. Not Effie.

«Let’s watch Clark, then you have to tell me about this man of yours.» 

You roll your eyes - everybody knows you and the other tribute don’t get along, there’s no point in deny it - but stay there to be with them.

«So, Clark, tell us about you. You are from District 12.» Caesar tries really hard to make the guy shine, but all the answers Clarke gives him are dry, laconic and terse. You know he doesn’t want to be there, not shit, you are not really fond of interviews on your last day on earth either, but sponsors could be watching. Doesn’t he want food, supplies and medicines too?

You don’t listen to what he says until he tells Caesar something which catches your attention.

«I don’t think I will win, if I have to be honest.» Liar. He is arrogant and you can see it in his eyes, maybe that’s the strategy he decided with Haymitch. To be… you don’t know what’s the word, pathetic?

«Oh c’mon don’t say that! You are strong, you have a fit body, don’t be humble!» 

You know before he could open his mouth that he has an asset. It’s written all over his bloody disgusting face. 

«Well, it would be easier if my fellow tribute didn’t sleep with our mentor. Really helps with the sponsors.» 

Fuck. You are gonna kill him.

[deliontower]

to love is to destroy | h.a | one

pairing: Haymitch x Giselle Carmine (oc)

summary: the games don’t end at the sound of the last cannon, they don’t end at all

warnings: cannon hunger’s violence mentions, alcohol use and mentions of vomiting, angst, fluff and swearing

word count: 1k

a/n: I hope this is at least half decent and someone enjoys it

one

HUNGER GAMES MASTERLIST

Katniss thought of how little of a chance the tribute of 12 had. Haymitch who was always drunk and Gisella, the heart of stone. . Each reaping she arrived beautifully dressed and detached. 

The ever happy Effie Trinket had led them through the train and to the dining cart. Haymitch was nowhere to be seen, and Giselle hadn’t spoken to them yet, all she did was scribble away in the notepad in front of her.

Beside her Peeta Melark, the boy with the bread. Looked as defeated as she felt.

Supper came, rich meats, green salads and thick soups, followed by chocolate cake. In the middle of the meal, Effie makes a comment on them having manners while the ones from the year before ate with their hands.

Giselle remembered feeling hunger like that, she remembered being so hungry she ate worms from the ground. Whatever was left for that skinny girl from the steam, eat the rest of her food with her clean manicured hands. 

When the food had been cleared away and Effie had trodden off to watch the news, Giselle closed her notepad hard, causing the two tributes to look up. “We should talk plans,” she said, tapping the table. Peeta looked to Katniss , then the door and finally back to his mentor, “Shouldn’t we wait for Haymitch?”.

She pressed her lips together hard, then spoke. “Haymitch won’t be…..be ready until morning ... .maybe the afternoon”.

“He doesn’t care enough to join us?” Katniss asked.

“Or is he too drunk to join us?” Peeta followed up with. 

The mentor stared at them both, they were both holding back laughs, she was frowning. “Haymitch will hopefully join us tomorrow. If you’d like to drag him from the bar go ahead, I gave up trying that years ago”.

“I miss supper?” Haymitch wobbles his way into the cart, he frowns at the empty table. Katniss and Peeta still hold in their laughs. Then he vomits onto the floor, falling into the mess. 

She drops her head into her hands and sighs, when she looks up, Katniss and Peeta are hauling Haymitch to his feet. He slurs something she can’t make out. “STOP” she yells, running after them, “I’ll take him”. She throws his arm over her shoulder, balancing out the new weight. He hides his head in her hair, his breath trickling her neck, Katniss and Peeta look at them blushed and confused.

In all the years of watching the games they had never seen, Haymitch and Giselle so much as look at one another, even at the reaping she had looked away when he wobbled up on stage. Haymitch’s vomit soaked clothes were pressed against her clean, expensive gown. “Go on. We’ll carry this on tomorrow” she ordered them waving her hand.

Striped down in her underwear she knelt beside the tub. At first Haymitch didn’t notice the water but finally, his eyes were getting clearer and then he smiled. “Hi sweetheart”. She laughed pushing his hair back. “You’re an idiot”.

“Love you too”. He linked their fingers together, with his other hand he touched her cheek, “What are the kids like?”.

“They think you're a drunk and I’m a bitch”. 

He laughed, hauling himself out of the tub, “What else?” 

She shrugs, “I didn’t get to that”, she sat on the edge of the bed, “They look capable I guess”. 

The train kept on, under her feet she could feel the silent engine. Every year it was the same, she tried not to care, having locked her heart away a long time ago. But once night fell it was impossible to hide away. 

Haymitch got down on his knees before her, “I wish I didn’t make it” she breathed.

“I’m glad you did,” he tells her. 

She smiled, touching his cheek, it had taken years for love to grow, years for them to like one another. All the softness in him had been hacked away by the time she won the games. Then she was an angry child, angry at the world from taking the only family she had left.

Eventually Giselle found a seed of softness in Haymitch and it grew until it cured the anger that had taken root in her heart.

That love could only be expressed in private, where they were safe from threats and blackmail. But here right now on the silence train, she loved him.

 “flight or fight? That’s what it comes down to once you’re in the arena”

Haymitch had shown up mostly sober. Katniss and Peeta were waiting.

“If you pick flight then we need to start the narrative that you’re weak and not a threat until it’s too late. I personally think it’s a longshot but longshots have worked before”. She said.

“And fight?” Katniss asked.

“Fight” she smiled, “is where we find where your skills are and work on them . People need to know what you can do but we’ll go more into that when you’re assessed on your own”.

Old tapes showed both mentors had fought, Haymitch winning at double the odds, Giselle a skinny girl from the steam had shown fight no one expected.

When they had reached the capitol, Katniss and Peeta were sent off to be prepped, a team was waiting for Giselle too. Her curls were braided with gold ribbon into a low bun, golden paint was seamed across both eyes. 

She wore a white dress shirt that reached her upper thigh, over the top she wore a golden jacket with cream lace.  

When Giselle found Haymitch again, he had been bathed and dressed in a dark green suit, the colour of summer leaves. Seeing him she almost broke out into a smile but remembered who she was. The heart of stone. 

Passing a waiter she picked up one glass, swallowed it whole then replaced it with a full cup. 

“Haymitch” she greeted him. Victors and capitol citizens watched, possibly hoping for a fight. 

“Giselle,” he nodded. “Ariadne out did herself”. She shrugged at the statement, slipping on her drink. The trumpets began to play, Haymitch held out his hand, “We can’t be late”.  She gave her stiff shoulders a roll before taking his hand, “We wouldn’t want that”.

[moonslesbology]

no because finnick saying that annie grew on him when katniss asked if he always loved her basically tells me “no it wasn’t her who grew on me, I grew on her” 

this is me adoring the idea of finnick basically having a small crush on annie when he’s little and her being annoyed at him until after her games when the only person who can get her out of an episode is finnick

it wasn’t annie who grew on finnick, finnick grew on annie and helped her grow 

[dorkofclanlavellan]

Luck is a Funny Thing - Prologue

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x OC

Warnings: Anxiety, mentions of alcohol abuse

Haymitch practically shushed everyone, albeit unnecessarily, as the District 8 reapings came on. They hadn't turned their attentions away from Capitol projections ever since they boarded the train. Peeta was keeping track of which Victors they'd be facing in the Games.

But 8 was her District. And Haymitch had a mantra repeating in his head. 'Don't let it be her.'

No one knew what the pair meant to each other, having kept their relationship as secret as possible. Although relationship may not be the right word. They were friends, they sought solace in each other's arms whenever they were in the Capitol, and they harbored feelings they dared not name for each other. Feelings they didn't even profess to each other.

Once the damned escort for District 8 finally stopped yammering, Haymitch actually held his breath.

He didn't have time to feel guilty for the relief he'd felt when Cecilia's name was called. Because a mere beat after, her voice smoothly and calmly called out, "I volunteer."

As the camera moved over to the Victor, only a few years Cecilia's junior, Haymitch was being swallowed by various emotions. Anxiety, worry, grief, rage towards the Capitol, and even anger at her for volunteering. He didn't want to lose her. He's lost too much already.

He threw the nearby bottle of whiskey, snatched up the next bottle, and stormed out of the car as she and Woof were being announced.

He was cursing and grumbling as he stormed to his own train car, determined to be drunk before the next District's reapings aired.

"Damn it, Chantilly. Can't you just leave well enough alone for once?"

[laceswan]

The Spirit of Fate

The Smiling Princess, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5

Finnick Odair x fem!dancer!reader

What if the equivalent of a Disney Princess was thrown into the Hunger Games? Sylke is optimistic and has an affinity for all that is gentle and sweet. What happens when she is placed in an arena and forced to kill or be killed?

Fluff and angst, strangers to lovers, T/W: canon-typical violence

Epilogue is out!

Finnick woke up with a startled gasp. With eyes wide open he was now incredibly aware of all that was touching his body. He could feel the suit from the arena clinging to his body, the cold air and the mask on his face, and a bandage on his arm. Looking around, he saw the inside of a jet much like the one had taken to get to the arena. Beetee and Katniss were in a similar position, lying on mats on the floor with bandages and wires monitoring them. Behind a frosted glass door he heard voices. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to the door. Inside, he found Haymitch and Plutarch sitting by a table and talking.

“You’re up.”

“I am. Where are the others?”

Plutarch stepped closer. There was sadness in his expression, but Finnick had half a mind not to trust it.

“Snow got to them before we could, there wasn’t any time.”

Finnick leaned against the table, his head hung low and defeated.

“Alright… what about Sylke, where’s she? Are we headed to the house or-“

This time it was Haymitch that spoke. He placed a hesitant hand on Finnick's shoulder.

“Finnick, I’m really sorry.”

Terror painted across Finnick’s face.

“We sent some people, but by the time they got there…”

Haymitch trailed off as Finnick sunk into his body. He let his body fall onto a chair, but had it not been there he would have just ended up on the floor. He assumed the worst. His hands flew to cover his mouth and muffle the little cries that came out. He’d already suffered her death once before, why again?

“Do we at least have her body? I want… I wanna give her a proper burial.”

His voice was shaky, but this was what needed to be done. He needed at least to say goodbye.

Haymitch looked to him with utmost pity.

“Son, she’s alive. They got her.”

And suddenly her death felt like a blessing. Burning emotion seized his body. It wasn’t even rage, nor terror, just pure anguish.

“No, no! You told me-you promised! You promised we would get her out!”

Haymitch sighed.

“I made a lot of promises. We’ll send a rescue team when the dust settles.”

Finnick nodded. His whole body was still stricken and trembling with agony, but he wasn’t one to throw a tantrum; especially not when he knew firsthand the nuances of covert operation in the capitol. Katniss, however, was a different sorry. When she heard about Peeta she did everything Finnick’s impulse had urged him to do. She screamed and shouted, even attacked Haymitch. She clawed and batted at him like a desperate animal, repeating that he made a promise, that he was a liar. Finnick could only watch, for once feeling pity, as well as understanding. Ten years ago, he would have done exactly the same.

When they landed in District Thirteen, Finnick, Katniss, and Beetee were sent to the infirmary. The lightning strike had presented some complications to Finnick’s health, so they dressed him in a white gown and admitted him to a small room with a thick glass door until he recovered. The room was probably white too, clinical and pristine, probably cleaned by the hour. But right now, it looked like it was coated in mustard gas. The lights buzzed with a sort of iodine yellow hue, washing the room in an ominously warm colour.

During his recovery, they allowed him few personal items-not that he had many to begin with. He was however, able to get some rope. When he was awake his mind would race. There was nothing to do, nothing to keep him distracted, his only task was apparently to recover. He could at least keep his hands busy, tying and untying the same couple ropes until there were blisters on his hands. It helped to move his hands, but not enough. Every second, his head was flooded with thoughts of her. Perhaps he had brought this on himself, refusing to think about her for so long in the arena, simply because there wasn’t time. Now, he had all the time in the world, and it felt wrong not to think of her at every moment. They were keeping her alive, he was sure of that much. They wouldn’t give up their leverage so easily. Was she in a similar room, white and cold with a similarly racing mind? We’re they hurting her? Or was she still just some pretty thing in a cage? Was she able to dance? A bittersweet smile came to Finnick’s face when he pictured her dancing. He saw her in a room just like his, in a gown just like his, dancing barefoot around the room with her eyes closed. It brought him comfort, the idea that she could perhaps maintain at least a little joy. But of course, thoughts of her dancing were followed by a much more somber and unfortunately likely possibility. In his mind, Finnick couldn’t help but wonder if they were restraining her. He saw her strapped fo a bed much like the one he had in the infirmary, struggling and begging to be given even a moment of freedom to move. He at least had that privilege. He could pace, sit on the floor, even dance if her wanted to. What if she couldn’t? Such questions plagued him mind. The span of morbid possibilities refused to be ignored, and so he listened to that dangerous voice. He fell into a spiraling rabbit-hole of ways she might have been hurting, only further enabled by his present utter inability to help her.

It affected his health too. The doctors called it a parasympathetic stress response, but all he understood was that it felt like shit. He was always tired but only sometimes able to sleep, he experienced phantom pain in random places, and everything took longer to heal. The time he spent in the infirmary was miserable. It was miserable for Katniss too. She had a nightmare once and came into his room. That night was perhaps his lowest point. It was when death looked so welcoming, so lovely a fate to experience, if only it would come sooner. The only thing that kept him alive was knowing the capitol wouldn’t let her die. He refused to die if she was still alive and hurting.

Katniss somehow recovered much faster. Finnick was a little jealous, that she was able to keep living her life even when Peeta was in the capitol. She was discharged, and not long after, Coin called everyone to hear a speech, which included those admitted in the infirmary. Finnick stood with the doctors and other patients, making a little patch of white in a sea of grey. Coin announced that Katniss was to be the face of the rebellion, and that in exchange for that, there were some “concessions”. Specifically the extraction the the victors held hostage in the capitol. The crowd began to clamor at the mention of Peeta’s name. They shouted and exclaimed, rejecting Peeta’s rescue. Katniss made her way over as Johanna’s name was announced.

“Finnick, I made the deal for Sylke too.”

Coin’s voice boomed through the hall.

“…and Sylke Fairinan”

Their was utter silence at her name. Some people looked a little confused. Finnick was just a little shocked himself as well. He never quite thought of Sylke as a victor. Hearing her name, her full name, announced like that to a crowd made her feel like a public figure, a celebrity, someone with an image and a life they hide from the world. But to him she was just Sylke, that’s what she’d always been. He hadn’t even heard her last name in ten years. She was always just Sylke, the angel that occupied eternal space in his mind and heart.

“Once freed, they will be granted pardon for any and all crimes committed against the rebel cause.”

The crowd once again resulted into vocal dissent and anger. A worries look quickly came to Katniss’ face. Finnick tried to console her, knowing the two of them were the only ones with loved ones hostage in the capitol.

“Good.”

She looked to him, concerned and clearly unsure of herself.

“That’s good, Katniss.”

For the first time in a long time, there was a small smile on his face. There was hope again, however small.

“If Katniss Everdeen fails to fulfill her duties, the deal will be off.”

That look of fear and heartache returned to both of their faces as the people filed out of the hall. It occurred to Finnick as he made his way back to the infirmary that his spirits were rather fragile now. That night, when he was alone, words couldn’t help but escape his lips. Even with Coin’s speech, hope was hard to hold onto. Finnick sat on the floor of his room, leaning against the bed with his head hung low.

“Angel, how do you do it? How do you stay smiling? I’m trying, I promise.”

His voice was quiet, speaking words meant only for him and someone miles away.

“I’m so tired.”

He cried quietly to himself, though did eventually drift to sleep there on the floor.

Finnick recovered slowly. While Katniss was filming propos and being the Mockingjay, he was in the infirmary. He wallowed, but with every day came a little more hope. Katniss and Beetee sometimes came to see him, bringing news of the rebellion’s plans. Smiling got easier, as did picturing Sylke dancing. The idea that she would be alright seemed more and more true. When the phantom pains and memories of Sylke finally became manageable, he traded in his white gown for a grey jumpsuit.

The whole of thirteen gathered one night to watch Katniss’ new propo. He was horrified by the bombing, he was angry with Snow for uncountable reasons, what he was not was triumphant. At the end, the symbol of the mockingjay came onto the screen accompanied by a message. Join the fight. The crowd chanted their celebration like they won a war. That sort of victory song always felt misplaced to Finnick. Blaring horns and happy voices when people lie dead on the battlefield. People showering him with gifts and congratulations just after someone died in his arms. But that was what the propos were meant to do. He looked to Katniss beside him, and she had a similar look of confusion and discomfort.

“You don’t like hearing a fight song at a funeral, huh?”

She turned her head to look at him. He continued, reminding her and himself of what they needed to remember.

“The more people on our side, the closer we are to Sylke and Peeta.”

She nodded. No matter how icky it felt, this was what needed to be done.

The days passed with incredible monotony. Every day was exactly the same, the same schedule, the same people. The only variety came in the form of news, speeches, broadcasts. One night, Finnick visited Katniss in her room and they watched Peeta’s interview. He was crying, and he looked terrified. Finnick in a way envied her, for she able to see Peeta’s face and know that he was at least physically healthy. But he also knew that the pain of seeing him say everything they couldn’t believe in was a whole different world of pain and confusion. In the short time he knew Peeta, the subject of rebellion or even government never really came into conversation. It was the same with Sylke. Perhaps that was the worst part; that what Peeta was asking of Katniss and the rebels seemed entirely possible. From where he was standing, he just wanted the violence to stop. He was most certainly being fed information, being manipulated by the capitol, but the root of his argument was something understandable. It was almost reminiscent of Sylke’s words in her interview so long ago. She was never one for violence or combat. Ever since the beginning, she favoured diplomacy, kindness, and compromise. Finnick couldn’t help but wonder if Peeta’s words were even that treacherous. They were currently entrenched in desperate times, and thus desperate measures were called for. But later, they would need people like Peeta, like Sylke, to remind them of the value of compassion. Finnick made a small promise to himself, that he would try to be one of those people, at least when the fighting was over. If they managed to win, he was going to try to be like her. To be kind, to have mercy, and to offer grace.

The next day, he went with Katniss to hunt above ground. It was calming for both of them, getting to move and use the skills they had honed for years. That familiar feeling of a trident sinking into flesh, the thwip of an arrow as it flies through the air, it brought them comfort. They did eventually sit down too.

“I’m glad we were able to come out today. I think you needed this after last night.”

She nodded.

“I don’t like watching those broadcasts, but I can’t look away. He’s so different already. What are they doing to him?”

Finnick was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t know. I think that’s the worst part.”

“It is. They could be telling him to say all that stuff and threatening to kill him, or maybe they’re actually convincing him it’s true. I don’t know what’s better.”

“I don’t think there is a better. It’s all bad when it comes to Snow.”

She murmured agreement. They were quiet again, listening to the birds and the rustling trees. Nature has such an ability to soothe, with her ambient noise and dappled light. It made them feel safe enough to talk.

“Is it bad that I just want this to be over? Sometimes I think he’s right, that we should just give up. At least then I could see him again.”

“I don’t think that’s bad, Katniss. I think it’s human.”

She looked unsure of herself.

“You miss him. And you want to be with him, so you can know he’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Do you want it to be over?”

“Of course. I just want to know she’s safe. That safety could come with a ceasefire, or with victory.”

“Yeah. But a ceasefire means she goes back to that mansion.”

Finnick clicked his tongue and tilted his head in agreement.

“And that’s why I’m here. If we win, we wouldn’t just be safe, we’d be happy. I want her to be happy.”

Katniss smiled.

“I think I could be happy with him.”

They spent a few more hours talking in the forest, confiding in each other as the only other people who could relate, who knew this special sort of pain. Their afternoon in the forest was a nice respite, but they did eventually need to return to the concrete rooms under the earth.

After the attack on the dam, another interview was broadcast. Peeta called it inhuman, begged her to stop. He looked so genuinely terrified. But what he was scared of was unclear. There was something just behind the camera, something that instilled and powerful fear in him.

“They’re coming, Katniss. They’re gonna kill everyone. And in District Thirteen you’ll be dead by morning-“

The broadcast was cut off as he was dragged away. Sirens began to blare, people filed out to level forty. If there was panic in the air it was hard to detect. People were calm and orderly as they rushed down the stairs, perfectly trained soldiers. That is, until water rained from above and the lights went out. People screamed, ran, let go of order in favour of getting to the bunker. People would scream each time a blast hit. When the night grew quieter, no one slept. They just kept waiting for the cracks in the ceiling to widen, for the walls to cave in and for death to arrive. Finnick sat in one of the beds, fiddling with the gold bangle instead of rope, which he had given to Katniss during the bombing. She had looked like she needed it more than him. In the quiet of night, Katniss walked over and sat beside him.

“He’s taunting me, using Peeta to punish me. I didn’t understand until just now, watching that stupid cat.”

“Yeah. That’s why he took Sylke too.”

Finnick sighed before continuing.

“After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act. We all expected you’d continue that strategy. But it wasn’t until Peeta’s heart stopped and he almost died that…"

He looked at Katniss directly, hoping to convey just how sincere and vulnerable this conversation was for him. This sort of openness wasn't exactly natural to him, but it needed to be said, and right now, she needed to hear it.

"I misjudged you. You love him. Anyone paying attention can see it.”

“How do you live with it?”

“I’ve been doing it for ten years. For five of them I thought she was gone. I did the whole self-pity thing the first time around. I had nightmares-I still do. But you learn not to give in to it. It gets easier.”

She listened, nodding her head ever so slightly.

“But then it happened again. And it takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart, you saw how long I was in the infirmary. But if Sylke taught me anything it’s that little joys can keep you alive. They kept her sane in that house, and they’ve kept me going down here.”

Katniss didn’t say anything. They sat in silence for a while, and once Finnick started nodding off, she went back to her sister and mother.

In the morning, she was gone and thirteen was buzzing with action. Finnick was sitting, anxiously waiting for something he could do to help. Beetee was working through the capitol’s electronic system or something, there was a rescue team setting up, and all Finnick could do was watch. He had signed up to be on the team, but as a refugee and not a soldier, they informed him that he couldn’t. By nightfall they finally had a job for him. He was going to be a distraction broadcast so they could jam the whole system, and the team could safely get it. He stood on a pile of rubble and white roses, with stagelights warming his skin.

“This is Finnick Odair, winner of the 65th Hunger Games. I’m coming to you from District 13, alive and well. We’ve survived an assault from the capitol. But I’m not here to give you recent news. Instead, I’m here to tell you the truth. The truth about the capitol.”

He continued for what felt like forever, indulging in his whole story, the one he only ever told Sylke. The story of how after he turned sixteen, he was sold like a commodity to socialites in the capitol. That he wasn’t the only one, and if you refused, your loved ones were killed. That there was one girl who was dead to the rest of the world, but Snow brought her back just to sell her.

“Remember Sylke Fairinan? She was your princess. You dressed her up in fancy gowns and gold tiaras before she went into the arena. I felt her die in my arms. And then they started her heart back up and sold to the highest bidder. Lycan Indigo. He kept her like a doll, locked in a mansion for ten years. She’s alive. You kept your princess in a gilded cage. And what's worse, after ten years in that place, after slowly learning to find happiness there, you've taken her from it again. President Snow is holding her hostage, to taunt me. He is not the kind man he shows himself to be.”

Finnick kept going. He revealed Snow’s history of poison and assignation, the reason behind his heavy perfume, the bloody sores in his mouth, every secret he knew was a secret no longer. As he spoke, one or the people behind the camera spoke up.

“Okay, you can stop.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, it looks like they’re broadcasting Katniss now.”

Finnick nodded, unsure of what was going on. They went back down to find everyone looking incredibly distraught. He and Katniss sat in a room, silent, waiting for news. He once again had the rope in his hands, tying and untying knots to keep his hands busy. He had to think she was safe. He had to. Cause if he considered for even a moment that she wasn’t, he’d fall apart again. When Haymitch opened the door, their eyes show up.

“They’re back.”

All that needed to be said for them to get up and sprint to the landing area. Johanna was the first one they saw. She was gaunt, her head shaved, but a smirk was still on her face. And then he heard it.

“Finnick? Finnick!”

That voice he hadn’t stopped hearing for ages, but only ever in his head. Her name fell from his mouth involuntarily, quietly questioning if it was real as he ran towards the source of her voice. Later, people would tell him that they said each other’s names perhaps a thousand times in that single exchange. He would notice later that she looked weak, her hair was longer and had lost some of it’s shine, and that despite all that her spirit had in no way dimmed. Her eyes had lit up when she saw him walk in the room. And suddenly, it was as if there was no one in the world but the two do them, crashing through space to reach each other. They collided and lost balance, slamming against a wall, but they stayed there, clinging into one being. Indivisible. He whispered like he didn’t believe it.

“You’re safe…”

She pulled her head out from his embrace to look at him, nodding with a smile. Whether they were smiling or laughing or crying, even they didn’t know. Words fail to describe the joy, the relief, the wonder of being back together. When heart rates slowed and the dust settled, they finally spoke. Finnick had a smile the magnitude of which hadn’t touched his face in far too long.

“Hi.”

“Hi. It’s been a minute.”

As though they were one being, they burst into simultaneous and gentle laughter.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, I’m okay. They beat me up a little, but I’ll be alright.”

“They what?”

Finnick’s voice was hoarse, breathy. He knew that they would do that, and yet in that moment he couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that someone would ever want to hurt her. Not even Mr. Indigo did that. But her smile clearly wasn’t gone. With a voice laced with affection, she put a hand against his cheek and reassured him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You guys got me out before they started my ‘treatment’. I’ll be just fine, I promise.”

“We should get you to the infirmary.”

“Okay.”

Still refusing to stop touching her, Finnick scooped her into his arms and carried her himself to the infirmary. On the way there, her head was nuzzled in the crook of his neck.

“I was right, you know.”

“Hmm? How?”

“I knew you’d come back to me. You didn’t win, but you didn’t have to. I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did. You were right to hope.”

She laughed to herself, closing her eyes. Even with her sunny disposition, her body was clearly exhausted.

“Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

As her body melted further into his and her breathing slowed, he continued walking. They didn’t put her in a room, apparently her condition wasn’t that bad, so she would only need a bed for a few days. Mostly bruises, a couple of open wounds, but nothing bad.

When she woke up, she found herself in a cold room devoid of colour. For a moment, she wondered if it was a dream. Sitting up, she looked around. Finnick wasn’t there, and neither was anyone else. The curtains were drawn. Had they moved her to a new place? We’re they starting her treatment? She hastily removed the IV from her arm, leaving the patch with the needle and luer connector, but no tubing. Whatever they were pumping into her needed to stop there.

“Johanna? Peeta?”

Silence. She heard faint chatter from just outside, doctors or scientists getting ready. Hesitant feet touched the ground. Her fingers brushed against the thin fabric of the curtain. Fear kept her from grasping it. What would she see on the other side? There was hope in her still that she was safe, that she wasn’t in the capitol anymore, but what if she was wrong? What if she was still there, destined to be Syren Indigo? What if she was wrong to hope?

“Hello?”

She heard footsteps. Fearing the scolding that might come should they find her out of bed, she laid back down and put the IV back against the luer connector, though not actually placing it inside. Hopefully she’d be able to fool them. The footsteps got louder. It wasn’t necessary, but she wasn’t ready to face them yet, so she relaxed her body and closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She heard metal rings scraping against a pole as the curtain was opened.

“Sylke?”

That was his voice. She wanted to open her eyes, see him, but what if it was a lie? What if this was the start of her treatment? She heard how it started with Peeta. They played him altered clips and all sorts of things. What if this was one of those?

“Oh. You’re still asleep.”

A chair was pulled up, and someone sat down. A warm hand smoothed out her hair. She took a long inhale. No perfume. The hand then gently rested on hers. She knew that touch, and it made her flinch. But still terrified, she kept her eyes closed. The technology of the capitol could do anything.

“Sylke? Are you awake?”

That was his voice. He sounded so real. Even if it wasn’t him, couldn’t she take a look? Even if it was fake, couldn’t she see his face again? That voice of temptation was so loud. What would be the worst that could happen? They were going to wake her up anyway. Slowly, hesitantly, she opened her eyes. And there he was. With those lovely green eyes staring right back at her.

“Hey, Angel. How are you feeling?”

She frantically searched his eyes, before looking to everything else around her. His eyes looked right. His face too. He was in a grey jumpsuit. Everything else was grey too. Behind him was what the curtain used to cover. It looked like a hospital. It was quiet, but not deadly silent. It didn’t look the same. The walls weren’t pristine white, they were concrete. The lights would flicker every now and then, nothing seemed quite perfect like it was before.

“Angel? Is everything alright?”

She looked back at him with terror in her eyes.

“Are you real? Are you really here?”

He moved closer to her, with nothing but love and affection in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m real. We’re safe. We’re in thirteen, remember?”

“We are?”

“Mhmm. You’re in the infirmary right now, but they said you can be discharged in a day or two.”

He looked at the IV lying unconnected at her arm, and plugged it back in with a chuckle.

“That is, if you actually listen to the doctors and take the meds they give you.”

She smiled, a sad, bittersweet smile.

“How come you unplugged it?”

“I… I thought I was in the capitol. I thought they had moved me to start my treatment.”

“You said that earlier too. What treatment?”

“I’m not entirely sure, I didn’t hear all of it. But Mr. Indigo… when he visited me-“

“He came to see you?”

“Yeah. Almost every day for maybe an hour, he’d come in and talk to me, make sure they were treating me well, he even snuck in a couple things for me once. More recently he started mentioning the treatment. Said he talked to the doctors and convinced them to let me get the help I needed, so I wouldn’t be starting fires in my room anymore. And he said it would make me a real Indigo if I wasn’t already. I remember the words.

‘Syren Indigo. Got a nice ring to it, don’t it?’

I heard what they were doing to Peeta. I figured they’d do something similar to me. He wanted me to be his daughter.”

“Oh Sylke…”

The words to be said evaded him and he was left with only actions. He stood up and walked over to the bed, gesturing that she move over. She did, and he crawled under the covers, holding her close in his arms. His embrace was warm, comforting, familiar.

“Finnick. I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want to forget.”

He held her even tighter, placing a kiss on her head.

“You won’t, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. You remember how to waltz?”

She looked at him with a grin.

“Of course.”

“Then get up.”

He got out of the bed and offered his hand. The moment she took it, he placed a hand on her waist, pulling her close. With his other hand, he grabbed the pole on wheels from which a bag of saline fluid hung. Sylke rested her hand by his neck and with the other room Finnick’s hand, holding the pole as well.

“Do you remember?”

“I couldn’t possibly let myself forget. Not when I still owed you a dance.”

And with that, they swayed about the section of the room she had been allotted. It was just like she taught him that night, all those years ago. One, two, three, brush, one, two, three, brush. Swept up in the music they heard in their heads, the dance continued. He spun her around, lifted her off the floor, and always right on the downbeat. It ended when they let go of the pole and it rolled too far away. Sylke felt a sharp tug at her arm and the imaginary music stopped.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just maybe we should be more careful."

“Sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.”

Sylke laughed, wrapping her arms up by his neck.

“We both did. Once I’m out of here, we’ll get to dance properly.”

Finnick nodded.

“Soon.”

Finnick did eventually have to leave and resume his schedule. Sylke went back to sleep, clutching a pillow in his stead. Slowly but surely, a new world faded in. Her limbs were blocky, solid, and utterly incapable of movement. All that she had control over was her eyes, glancing around. In her periphery, she was able to figure out what exactly she was. She was a marionette, strung up on a stage. In the audience, right there in the front row, we’re the cold, wolf-like eyes of Mr. Indigo. He was watching her, with a hideous, inhuman grin. And then the music started. It was plucky, out of tune, like a harpsichord left untouched for ages. And she began to dance. Her arms and legs flailed about, and her torso was yanked up and down. She couldn’t open her mouth or even breathe, and yet somehow she kept moving. This dancing cage of hers moved without life or spirit. It had no bones, no muscle, only string that extended up into the vague darkness above.

Sylke didn’t wake up screaming or yelling. Her eyes merely flew open, tears already pouring down her face. Sniffling and quietly sobbing, she sat up and clutched the pillow in her arms. Johanna, from the neighboring bed, spoke up. Her tone was harsh, unsympathetic.

“What are you crying about?”

“I-I just had a bad dream.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Mr. Indigo. He was looking at me, and I just…”

Words dissolved into sniffles. Johanna just laughed. There was venom in her voice when she spoke.

“Your scared of him? Seriously? That man visited you almost every day. He was so good to you-“

Heartache emerged from her throat.

“He loved you!”

A whimper escaped from Sylke and she clutched the pillow even tighter.

“But he…”

“He what? I heard him talk about you, he had nothing but love for you.”

"Please don't say that..."

She kept going, words flowing like a river from her mouth, with no hesitation or tact.

“Are you really that ungrateful? Everything he did was for you…”

She paused for a moment, a devilish smile growing on her face.

“… for his little Syren.”

“Please, just stop…”

Sylke took a shaky breath, shifting to look at Johanna straight on.

“I never asked for his love. I know he’s the reason I’m still alive, I know that it could have been worse. But that man took my life and made it his.”

The shaking stopped. Sylke regained her composure. She stood up and walked to Johanna’s bed, sitting down next to her. Their time in the capitol made them quite familiar with one another’s hardships. Sylke knew exactly where these words were coming from. She knew why Johanna was hurting, she knew that when one has no one, even unwanted love seems desirable. And so she spoke gently, hoping her empathy would be understood as such, rather than pity.

“Mr. Indigo didn’t love me as a person. He didn’t care if I was happy, so long as I provided entertainment. That’s not how you’re supposed to love someone.”

Johanna nodded, saying nothing. She knew she overstepped, she knew her words were impulsive. And now suddenly she felt a little guilty. Sylke had appealed to her humanity with just a few sentences.

“I know. It just hurts, you know?”

“I know.”

Sylke murmured more validation, placing her head on Johanna’s shoulder. She wanted to say that Johanna had friends here, people who loved her, but decided to let it be quiet. She’d say it some other time.

Sylke’s wounds took very little time in healing. She only needed to stay in the infirmary until the larger wounds had closed up, which didn’t take long. Really, they only worried about the cut on her side. She remembered when it was made. The blade was jagged and dull, dragging across her skin at a snail’s pace, over and over again. They asked her with every stroke what she knew. Of course Finnick hadn’t told her about the plan, she barely even knew he was a rebel. But they kept going. First there was a raised line of red, where the skin was raw and irritated. The blade tore further into her skin, but drew no blood. They grabbed her arms with and iron grip and threw her back into her cell, earning her a couple bruises. Once there was a film of yellow scabbing, they took her back out. Slowly, and again with the questions, they peeled it. With the layer of platelets gone, blood dribbled out of the wound. The flesh beneath was tender, and they took advantage of that. She answered each question honestly, but they didn’t like what she said. And with each answer they didn’t like, she received another swipe against her side with the jagged blade. Eventually, they gave up on trying to get information out of her. Sometimes they would try again, but never to that degree.

Now, she had a bandage wrapped around that area, gently changed and cleaned every couple of hours. The doctors were kind here, always making sure it was alright to touch her and asking if the bandage was too tight. Under their care, the wound closed up in no time. By then, all of her smaller cuts and bruises left only fading scars. Soon, she was given a drab grey jumpsuit and assigned to new quarters. It was a small room not unlike the infirmary in style. There were two small beds and a table between them, one bed for her and the other for a roommate. After guiding her to the room, the nurse previously assigned to her shut the door, leaving her alone in that room. She did not hear the click of a lock. Her schedule was to start tomorrow, for now she could settle in and find a place in the room for any personal items. Of course she had none, but curiosity led her to peak at her roommate’s. Everything was neat, folded, as though it was never lived in. The only signs of a human’s stay there were a couple of items on the table, seemingly the only personal items this roommate of hers had. Perhaps they were a refugee as well, with only a moment to have gathered items of sentimental value. Or perhaps residents of thirteen simply didn’t value material possessions all that much. Considering the lack of decor and personality in all parts of the place she had seen, that was in fact the case. Sylke allowed herself to fantasise for a moment about who this person might be. A coal miner from twelve? She had always wanted to see a forest, maybe they could tell her about them. A soldier from thirteen? One who had trained their whole life for combat, for revolution, and now finally had the chance to prove themselves? Or perhaps another refugee from the capitol. What if she knew them? What if one of the few people she was able to meet in the capitol had been a rebel, one who took a chance one night and ran away? They could exchange life stories, maybe become friends. But none of those turned out to be true. On the table, she found a golden bangle and a short bit of rope, neither of which told her about this person. She sat on one of the beds, hopefully the unoccupied one, and waited. She wasn’t tired, she’d slept plenty in the infirmary. So she sat, waiting for something to happen. The door slid open to reveal her roommate.

“Finnick?”

He chuckled.

“I asked them to put you in as my roommate, I didn’t know they’d actually do it. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Everything’s healing well, so I they discharged me this afternoon. I do still have to keep it bandaged, but the wound is much smaller now.”

“That’s great!”

He walked over to the bed and stood before here, a smile adorning his face.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here with me.”

She leaned into his touch as he caressed her cheek. The words “I love you” were not needed in that moment. There was a mutual understanding of affection, one that had been there for ten years. Though not entirely true, retrospect and nostalgia had a way of convincing both of them that it had always been this way, that this familiarity and affection was present since that first night they met. In some ways this was correct, there was always a connection. But the comfort in it had developed over time. Insecurity was able to fade away, they became more familiar with the other’s habits. And yet wonder was not lost. There was still a glimmer of shock, of flustered joy in moments of affection. Things between them weren’t perfect, but they were damn well close to it.

Sylke’s task in thirteen was to help in the kitchen. The food was boring, seasoned only with salt, and they often stirred in powders of vitamin supplements or something of that nature, because the people down here rarely saw the sun. She spent her days standing beside people she found to be kind, talkative in comparison to the Indigo household staff, and generally pleasant company. Life was certainly monotonous, but that was something she was used to. At least now, she wasn’t alone. During mealtimes, she would serve the food, watching everyone eat and chat from afar. On occasion, she would sneak away and sit by Finnick, but that often got her scolded by someone who cared far too much for rules. At the end of the day, the whole facility would get dimmer, and she would be back in her room with Finnick. The beds were made for one person, but they made it work for the both of them. In the mornings, she would wake up before him, needing to go and prepare breakfast. His arms held her tightly, unwilling to let go.

“Finnick, I need to go.”

His voice was deep, raspy, and barely awake.

“I don’t want you to go.”

She giggled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. His eyes were still closed, but a satisfied grin appeared on his face.

“Fine. Two minutes, and then I really have to go.”

He groaned, considering her offer, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Okay.”

Running his fingers up her body, he attempted to feel for her face, too tired to open his eyes. His touch was gentle and yet possessive, still unwilling to let go. Once he found her jaw, he pulled it closer and planted endless kisses on her face. At some point, his eyes fluttered open. He was confronted with the image of her smile, a little tired and a little exasperated, but undeniably lovely.

“You’re beautiful.”

A little colour came to her cheeks.

“You know, you can’t keep me here forever. Do you want food today or not?”

He let a sigh as she got up from the bed.

“Alright fine, I concede. Just one more kiss though.”

She laughed, leaning down to peck his forehead before leaving. Once alone, Finnick’s mind couldn’t help but fantasise about waking up with her every day, and not having to rush off somewhere.

The explicit concept of marriage had come up only once or twice in their five years of exchanging letters. Far more common was talk of a hypothetical life they would have one day. A wedding was implied, but never really stated outright. Instead, they talked about days without urgency, when they could lie in bed for hours, dance in the kitchen instead of cooking, fall asleep on the beach, and all of this simply because they wanted to. But as the danger of revolution increased, both of them began thinking about the specifics of that vague life together. It didn’t take Finnick long to understand that he wanted to marry her. He mentioned it one night when the room felt quiet and too awake.

“Hey,”

“Hmm?”

“Would you want to get married? I know we’ve talked about being together, when it’s all over, but what if we did it now?”

She looked to him with wide doe-eyes.

“Now?”

“I mean here, in thirteen. Before anything happens-before anything possibly could happen. Just in case.”

She took a moment to think, sinking into his chest. If she had been falling asleep before, she was wide awake now.

“Okay. Just in case.”

“Yeah. That way if something happens, I’ll have been married to you. Another thing to help prove to the world that you’re here, and that I’m yours.”

She lifted herself to prop her head up on her hand, smiling at him. He soon followed, staring lovingly back at her.

“I like the sound of that.”

She placed a kiss on his lips.

“But nothing’s going to happen to you, okay?”

That was partially a lie. There was a reason they were doing this, a risk, and they both knew it. But after everything they’d been through, fate had to be in their favour. It would simply be wrong, to have done all of this, just to lose their happily ever after.

She reassumed her position lying on his chest after that, speaking softly to him, but also to herself.

“I used to picture my wedding, you know. When I was little, I had this image in my head of a white dress and a castle and a ballroom, like in the fairytales. I didn’t know who would be my prince or princess charming, but I knew that I’d love them. That was always the best part. I know we won’t be in a castle, but in a way it’ll be exactly like how I dreamed of as a child.”

He was falling asleep by that point. She lifted herself to look at his peaceful face. He looked calm and safe, lying next to her like he was sure, like everything in the world assured him, that this is where he was supposed to be.

“I love you, my prince.”

Plutarch explained that the wedding was going to be filmed. “To show the capitol that we’re alive and well” he said. Because of that, they were allowed all sorts of luxuries that thirteen didn’t usually permit. The hall was glowing with amber light and greenery they brought in from above. Finnick was dressed in a lighter grey than usual, with sturdy fabric that hugged his waist but got a little looser at the shoulders. He was also given something of a cape, but it only covered one shoulder. He looked somewhere between a soldier and a duke. For Sylke they made a dress fit for a princess. White of course, a colour held with some disdain in thirteen. The skirt was long and full, trailing behind her every so slightly when she walked. It was simple, no layers of tulle or golden jewelry to match, but it made her feel like herself, entirely herself, which was really all it needed to be. It felt like all of her, nothing held back or exaggerated for anyone.

She made her way alone down the aisle, smiling at the man ahead, the destination toward which she walked. He took her hands in his, this time with no iron bars between them. She looked into his green eyes, like she had so many times before, and everything felt right in the world. There was no sunlight or gentle breeze, no magnolias or birdsong, but there didn’t need to be. He was here, looking back at her with all the love in the world. When it came time for her to say her vows, she had very little prepared. She spoke truthfully, freely, saying everything that her heart told her to say in that moment.

“My darling Finnick. I’ve said to you before that I believe in fate. We were just kids when we met, and even then, I knew my story was tied to yours. I promise to love you, to cherish you, and to be by your side for the rest of happily ever after that fate allows.”

The smile on his face grew before he took a breath and said his vows.

“Sylke, my angel, you have my heart, as you always have, for all eternity. Whether together or apart, we will always be united, tied together by the strings of fate. I promise to protect you, to dance with you, and to love you until death do us part.”

They didn’t quite need to be told that they could kiss, but once prompted, they did just that. All of thirteen began to applaud, but neither Sylke nor Finnick could bring themself to care for the audience. Just as it had ten years ago, the watching eyes melted away, leaving only tenderness and love burning between the them.

The festivities began once the aisle and ceremonial decor was packed away. First was a slow waltz meant just for the newlyweds. The two of them had danced in their room many times before, but never with music. With a guiding melody, they were able to truly get lost in the movement. No longer was it necessary to count or concentrate, they could simply dance. They swayed and twirled about the room, never once breaking eye contact. When the music slowed to a halt, Sylke was securely nested in Finnick’s arms and lowered to a dip. There was once again applause as people came to join them on the dance floor. A more upbeat tune filled the hall as everyone started to dance. The sound of lively fiddles filled the room, and spirits were lifted. It seemed like everyone was having a lovely time, smiling and laughing with friends. For that night, war was but an afterthought. It was a respite from tragedy, a true celebration of all that is good and lovely, and its survival even in dark times.

It wasn’t long after the wedding that Finnick was sent away again. He and Sylke had a rather lousy honeymoon, spent mostly in their room underground or in the forest just above. Soldiers were slowly returning from the fight at the capitol, some injured, others returning for a dignified burial. Sylke was transferred to the infirmary when it got too understaffed. And then Plutarch called Finnick into a meeting. That night, Finnick sat waiting in their room until Sylke returned from her shift in the infirmary. She entered the room and gravitated to his hunched figure.

“Finnick, are you alright?”

She placed a hand to his face, suggesting that he look at her. His eyes were sad, conflicted, scared. Sylke saw his expression and quickly kissed him before anything more could be said.

“What happened?”

He shifted to make space for her on the bed; she sat down.

“Plutarch wants me in the capitol. They put together this squad for filming propos, he calls it the face of the invasion.”

He spoke so matter-of-factly, such that it was hardly a question: he would be going. There was no debate about it, both of them knew that. An all too familiar feeling churned in her core. Her chest became heavy and her throat strained. She croaked out a single sentence before leaning into his embrace.

“Come back to me, okay?”

He held her tightly, the way he wanted to that night outside the mansion.

“I will. I believe in fate.”

They fell asleep there, unsure when the trembling cries faded into unconsciousness.

Finnick left in the morning. Goodbyes were cut short by the arrival of a jet full of wounded soldiers. Sylke was pulled away by the other medical staff, parting with a fleeting kiss and a smile.

The infirmary was bursting with people. New patients arrived every day from the capitol, covered in wounds and burns and horror stories from the city. They told of abandoned streets full of bombs and traps set by peacekeepers. Every moment of peace or quiet we’re impossible to trust, they were left waiting for the inevitable bloodshed as they walked through empty streets. Sylke couldn’t help but wonder the state of the mansion. Had Mr. Indigo evacuated? What did he take with him? She pictured the house empty, devoid of the usual upkeep, dusty and alone. What about the household? Had they gone as well? What would they do without their jobs? Did that even matter when the city was under attack? Her imagination took her through each room and corridor. The office she’d only been in a few times, the dining room that could seat a dozen but never saw more than two, and of course, her bedroom. Soot still on the ceiling, dance slippers tucked hastily under the bed. The soldiers mentioned bombs and fire. What if the mansion was destroyed? The image of fallen walls, a pile of rubble and ash, arrived in her mind. A bittersweet sort of pain burned in her chest as she pondered such a possibility. That mansion was her prison, her gilded cage. And yet there were happy memories there. There were times when she smiled, dancing around her room or strolling through the garden. She found joy in that wretched place and thus made it slightly less wretched. The delicate China in the sitting room was beautiful, with hand-painted birds and flowers under the faintly cracked glaze. The furniture was soft, velvet or leather or brocade, but always unreasonably comfortable. And of course the magnolias. Those fragrant blossoms could distract her from everything bad. A lovely part of being human, isn’t it? The ability to be distracted, to find small joys, even trapped in a cage. She pondered all the things she loved in that house. The drapes and the garden and smooth feeling of the banister beneath her fingers as she walked down the stairs, all things she missed now. Was it bad that she missed it? Was that terrible, to think somewhat fondly of her time in the mansion? A part of her was sure that it was simply horrible. Mr. Indigo was a dangerous, horrible man, and thus his home was the same way. But he also gave her dancing slippers. He cared for her in his twisted, infantalising way. Johanna’s words sounded in her head. Perhaps, in a strange interpretation of the word, he loved her. Sylke couldn’t bring herself to fully accept that idea. Love was the tenderness she saw in Finnick’s eyes, it was the warmth in her chest when they were close, she was entirely and unequivocally sure of that. But as time went on, she continued to wonder, her mind volleying standpoints, if Mr. Indigo’s bizarre affection was also love.

Such thoughts bounced around the back of her head as she tended to those in the infirmary. Days slowly bled into one another, all monotonous and practically identical. She would wake up alone, eat with some of the other medics, and then go to the infirmary. After a long day, she would return to her quarters and lie on her side, reaching her arm out to where Finnick would have been lying beside her. And when the foggy darkness of sleep arrived, the day would begin again.

News from the capitol came every night. The whole of thirteen would go quiet the watching broadcasts. Just a day after they deemed Peeta well enough to join the “Star Squad” in the Capitol, that infamous anthem blared from the broadcast. The faces of every member of the squad was shown. Sylke had been working when it came on the screens. All faces looked to the screen in the room, stepping away from their work for a moment. She froze when she saw Finnick’s portrait appear. She hadn’t seen his face is so long, too long, but this was not the way she wanted to see him again. He couldn’t be dead, he promised. Why, after all this time, why now? After all the trials they encountered and survive, how could it end? Something was wrong, it was simply wrong. Fate wasn’t supposed to be like this, fate couldn’t be like this.

You said you would come back to me

Her perception of the world was cloudy. The hands on her shoulder, the steps she was taking, they didn’t register. Voices were muddled, nothing felt real. All she could do was mutter his name, repeat the same phrases, praying that someone would hear her, some great puppet master who could pull the strings of fate and make them right again. Her murmurs became sobs, and when her eyes were dry, when her energy was drained, she could finally sleep.

She woke to a sharp voice and someone shaking her awake.

“Sylke, get up!”

She pulled herself up, groggy and confused. For a moment, it was just like any other morning, and she almost bolted up, afraid of being late for the start of her shift. But then her vision cleared, and reality set in. She saw the medic uniform she was still wearing and the sad look on Johanna’s face.

“What happened?”

Johanna’s tone was careful and sympathetic.

“You kinda lost it after the broadcast. Don’t worry, you didn’t hurt anyone or do anything bad, you just kinda froze. We didn’t know what else to do, so we just took you here to rest.”

Sylke nodded, not quite sure if she could bring herself to stand up and start her day, as though nothing happened.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t even know. But they’re calling all the medics right now, so…”

Sylke didn’t move.

“They’re flying you guys out to the capitol.”

She still didn’t move.

“Sylke, that means you need to go.”

“I know… I just…”

Johanna placed her hands on Sylke’s shoulders and looked her square in the eyes.

“Look. I know you’re hurting. I know you just lost someone. It’s not the same but I lost him too. But Sylke we’re so close. And people are hurting in the capitol that don’t need to be. We need you to go out and help them.”

Sylke took a shaky inhale and nodded. With Johanna’s help, she made her way down to the hanger where medics were streaming into jets and strapping into their seats. Sylke followed suit, getting her jet assignment and sitting down on a cold metal chair.

The flight was a blur. They landed in district two and waited until the final stages of the battle to fly into the capitol to help innocent citizens. Soon, they were flown in and dropped off in the city circle. When the cries of countless people reached her ears, helping them became Sylke’s sole priority. The moment her feet touched the ground, she rushed to anyone and everyone that looked hurt.

“Are you hurt? Are you alright?”

“Where does it hurt? Are you bleeding?”

“Let me take a look.”

She was wrapping a splint for a woman with a broken leg when a familiar chime rang through the air. She looked up to see grey canisters on parachutes floating down from the sky. She froze again, remembering everything from years ago. She remembered the way Finnick’s eyes lit up when he saw a trident float down on an identical grey parachute. That had always been a sweet memory, but now it was laced with pain. She looked around, seeing the people stretching their arms out, welcoming the gifts. There was a flash, a boom, and then quiet.

Sylke’s eyes slowly fluttered open. She was lying on her back, on something soft and comfortable. There was quiet. A peaceful, calming sort of silence surrounded her. She noticed pain on her skin when she tried to get up. Her body was bandaged in random places, and the flesh of her arms and hands felt incredibly sensitive. Her body was sore, but she could move, albeit only slightly. She turned her head to look at her surroundings. She was in a tent, seemingly a medical tent, surrounded by equipment and kits she recognised as the portable medic kits that each person on the jet had been equipped with. Turning her head to look directly to the side, she saw someone lying in a bed like her own. They looked like him. Beneath the bandages she saw his face, sleeping peacefully with his eyes closed. She longed to believe that it was him, to enjoy that delusion and ignorance. But she knew it wasn’t. She knew he was gone. He wasn’t there, no matter how much she wanted him to be, no matter how much he should have been. Tears formed and fell quickly from her eyes. Quiet wails and sobs escaped her. She murmured his name, hoping beyond hope that it would will him back to life. The person in the bed began to rouse.

“Hmm?”

They sounded like him too, why did they have to sound like him? She curled into herself, ignoring the pain in such movement. She hid herself beneath the blanket, like a child afraid of the monsters beneath their bed.

“Hey, are you alright?”

That was his voice.

“Why do you sound like him?”

She wailed with a volume she hadn’t used in days.

“Sylke?”

“You sound just like him…”

Her whole body shook with sobs. She heard fabric rustling and quiet groans that sounded so familiar. There was a hand on the edge of the blanket.

“Can I…?”

“Go ahead.”

Her voice was dejected, entirely hopeless. The blanket was pulled away, revealing a face with cuts and bandages, seemingly some stitches as well, and sea green eyes holding a tender gaze.

“You look like him too.”

“Angel… I’m right here.”

“No you’re not! You died! I saw your picture, I heard the song, you died!”

“Oh sweetheart…”

The person sat down on the bed and gently lifted her to sit up as well. They then pulled her into their arms. That warmth was exactly the same.

“I’m right here, I’m alive. I got damn near dying, but I didn’t. I told you I’d come back to you, didn’t I?”

Finally, she let herself believe. Her grasp on him tightened.

“You’re alive? You’re safe?”

“I’m alive. I’m right here, Angel.”

A part of her still couldn’t believe it. Somehow, there was a shard of pessimism in her that refused to be tricked. And he could sense that. He understood all too well the spirit of self preservation that will do anything to keep itself from hurting. So he pulled away slightly to look at her.

“Hey, look at me, look at my eyes.”

She gazed up at him with scared, teary doe-eyes.

“Don’t you believe in fate?”

And with that, the last bit of denial shattered within her. A smile and then a laugh came to her face as hope returned to her spirit.

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