A/N: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.

Title: A Reminder

Rating: T – because a man is implied to be drunk

Summary: They kept him company as he waited.

Prompt: #9 Those damn geese

"Maybe someday, Haymitch."

The words would reverberate in Haymitch's mind on days when he sat on his backyard, throwing food across the lawn for the birds to chase after. Beside him would always be his trusted brand of cheap liquor, the only thing that promised a hangover bad enough to make him forget his nightmares, that is, if he could still call his dreams that.

He noticed that in the aftermath of the rebellion, the bloody faces of his family, his girlfriend, and Maysilee visited him less, until they were nothing but hazy images that danced behind his eyes. New faces surfaced to his subconscious. There were Katniss and Peeta; a Mockingjay in flight, a swirl of colors filling a blank canvas. His comrades would flash in his mind's eye, crammed into a single white room, the faces of the fallen ones too vivid for his liking. The scene would then change into a sea of familiar faces chatting amongst themselves in the square, black and gray opposite blonde and blue. They could only be the ghosts that meandered on the meadows of his district.

And then there was Effie.

Her presence lingered in the confines of the drunkard's mind, even in his waking hours. Her voice buzzed through his head, sending impulses that kept him pacing around his filthy home. He did not understand why he waited everyday for the past two years; the word 'maybe' did not carry a promise – it suggested desire and uncertainty, merging into one - but he'd hoped that she would find the time once she managed the things she needed done.

"First, I'll try to regain some balance in my life. Try to re-establish who I am. Perhaps attempt to revive my former self, at least the parts I find desirable."

Two years, and she was yet to arrive. How long does it take for one to pick up and glue the shattered pieces, anyway? He never found out because in his youth, he decided to do the most sensible thing – that was to sweep the fragments and shove it inside his shoes, so that he would at least remember who he used to be or perhaps as punishment for his inability to dodge the inevitable and hope for a better future – and not dwell on something that could never be done.

The former escort believed otherwise. She was bent on keeping herself whole. She would erase every bad memory that rained on her frilly pink parade of upscale girls with parasols. She would keep the things she learned. She was hopelessly optimistic, or maybe she just wanted to stay strong. He didn't know.

Haymitch realized that it would take years before it was done. He might not see her again. It made more sense to give up, so he chose to wait for shipments of alcohol instead. Liquor supplies only came once a month, but he found it more bearable because the train, which carried the goods, kept a schedule and arrived without delay (much easier compared to waiting for something that might not come). But when the booze was running low, he would find himself spending more time with the birds.

His geese were the perfect pets. They did not demand too much attention and they were content to roam his backyard and peck at the morsels of food thrown in their direction. They were a welcomed diversion; they eased the longing for human company. They would make noises, flap their wings, and flee in the presence of strangers. They were better than dogs, in many ways, because they were a drunken man's best friend. But it was those blasted things that reminded him of Effie. She hated geese, and the feeling would be mutual, if come one day they met her.

A particular gosling tested Haymitch's patience on a daily basis. It was a chirpy little thing, running aimlessly at every direction, flailing its wings as it went. The other birds would give way, most likely to avoid the creature's tiny wings, and go about their business while the gosling paraded his home like it owned the place. Its favorite spot was the front porch, and there, it would make strange, honking sounds.

With ears perked up, the drunkard would run towards the door, wondering if he had an unexpected visitor. He was met with the disappointing landscape of the Victor's Village, quiet and without a trace of pink, every single time. Then he would look down at his feet and lock gazes with two beady eyes that shone with innocence; it was always the gosling, Fifi; his least favorite pet. All he could do was grunt.

Little Fifi never failed to remind him that Effie had become the center of his newfound routine.

"Damn goose."