New pants and his cleanest shirt, scrubbed just this morning on his mother's washboard. Now she worked meticulously on his unruly hair. He huffed and squirmed away from her hand, and pushed his hair into his back into face. She narrowed her eyes for only a moment before smiling up at her son, a thin laugh escaping her lips.
"Oh, my Haymitch. You're already so tall," she said. Her hands, weathered and creased from work, gripped his forearms. "And strong."
Her grey eyes grew dim and weary. They always seemed to be so these days. But there was something else, and Haymitch identified it quickly. The same fear sat in his own eyes, tamped down, but still there.
Today was Reaping Day. And his name was entered 22 times. Jem's was entered once.
"Mama," Haymitch said, his hands rising to her shoulders. She was a head shorter than him, and her frame smaller. Smaller and smaller every day, he thought. He wanted to say something pertinent. Something to comfort her, but no words came. Instead, he drew her close. He took in every trait that he could. Her hair that smelled of lye soap, her slim fingers. When he leaned back, he found that he couldn't look her in the eyes anymore.
Jem clamored from the house, the collar of his shirt turned upwards and a button skipped at the center. Mrs. Abernathy bent to correct it, and Haymitch ruffled the boy's hair.
Roughly, he pulled Jem to his side for a hug. The boy reciprocated, before slugging the older boy in the side playfully.
Gravel crunched on the porch in front of their house, indicating a visitor. Or several. The Fennwicks stood gathered together, all ten of them. Mr. and Mrs. Fennwick wore the same sad and darkened expression his own mother had. The seven younger children were dressed cleanly and freshly bathed, though this couldn't hide their gaunt faces and shaking hands. Among them, however, was reason for Haymitch to smile.
Iva Fennwick stood, like a fresh spring daisy, in a clean dress and her golden hair freshly plaited. At the end of her braid was tied a new blue ribbon.
The three Abernathys joined their neighbors, and the group made their way to the Justice Building.
Preoccupied with a pebble on the road before him, Haymitch's reverie was broken when a soft hand enveloped his. Iva fell into step beside him, her boots newly polished. He'd forgotten to clean his own worn leather work boots that crunched the gravel beside her dainty ones.
He didn't speak, but he looked up at her and smiled. As wide as he could. He gave her hand a squeeze and glanced back down towards the road.
When they reached the square, Iva's hand tightened around his at the sight of the Peacekeepers. He tugged her closer, the pad of his thumb brushing the back of her hand. It was all he could do to comfort her.
The pair parted into their separate lines, a few of her brothers and Jem accompanying Haymitch to the boys' line. He glanced back at her only once, in time to see her flinch when her finger was pricked.
He separated from Jem and the Finnwick boys after signing in. They stood near the front with the younger boys, and he took his place in the back. Beside him stood Archer Redding, a miner that had been on his father's crew. He'd never spoken a word to the man, and had never heard him speak. To his right was Fredrick Mellark. The boys attended school together, but weren't particularly good friends. The line felt suddenly cramped to Haymitch, and he swallowed thickly before a high screech emitted from the microphone on stage.
The escort, a round blueberry of a man, recited his speech and indicated the film to play. Across the square, Haymitch searched for his mother, at the back row, looking solemn once more.
Iva was near the middle, and he spotted her bright green eyes searching for his own. He smiled, and nodded at her, trying to quench the anxiety still on her face. But then again, wasn't everyone anxious today? Here in Twelve, everyone knew everyone. It didn't matter whose name was drawn.
The second Quarter Quell called for four tribute in all, two girls and two boys, as the escort explained. Jean Carter was first, her face blank as she climbed the steps to the platform. Next, Maysilee Donner was called. Her bright red curls were unique here, and easily identifiable three rows ahead of Iva as she shuffled her way forward.
Next, Harvey Drear was called. Haymitch watched him scoot around Jem just rows ahead.
The next words made his ears ring. His own name.
For a moment, his breath was stuck in his throat. The entire square stared as he trudged forward, scuffing his boots into the concrete.
The escort gathered the four of them into a line, and Haymitch realized he'd never actually stood next to any of these people. Not even in school. This was their first and final hello.
He caught Iva's eyes across the square; her cheeks were stained with tear tracks already. Her face was staunch, and tight. His mother had vanished but a thin squealing a distance away told her story. He didn't have time to glance to Jem before the group was corralled into the Justice building to wait for their final goodbyes.
-O-O-O-
He bolted upright, running into his mother's arms as soon as the doors opened. "Haymitch, Haymitch, please!" she begged, but he wasn't sure what for. She hung onto him, sobbing into his clean shirt.
"Mama," he said once more, squeezing her small frame as hard as he dared. "It'll be ok. It'll be fine. I know it. Mama, please," he hissed. He wasn't sure why he was begging either.
They'd starve without him, he knew it. Jem was already so small. He tried not to think on it while he hugged the boy, and ruffled his hair one last time before the pair was ushered out the door.
When Iva entered, her tears had stopped, but her face was red and raw. "Haymitch," she choked.
He couldn't help but smile at her, feeling wetness in his own eyes now. "It'll be fine, lovely."
She shook her head, and he reached up to cup her jaw with both hands, stilling her.
"I promise," he vowed. His hands cupped her cheeks, his thumbs ghosting over them. He traced a line down her nose with one finger before reaching for her braid. Her hair was soft as new cotton and light as wheat. He focused intensely on every attribute of her, memorizing her.
The blue ribbon at the end of her plait came undone easily with one tug. He stowed it in his pocket quickly, before the Peacekeeper entered again and grabbed her arm, forcing her out the door.
Alone, the magnitude of it set in. Worry and fear and angst crept up his throat, threatening to spew all over his dirty boots. But he set his jaw, squared his shoulders and decided.