Haymitch's Point of View
So the conversation with Peeta is what I pulled from my story The View of A Victor Boy, which is in Peeta's Point of View.
I may do more chapters in Haymitch's POV in the future, and if so they will be posted here.
I lift the bottle to my lips, and barely taste the liquor that fills my mouth. There was a time when the taste was so strong it felt like it was burning my mouth, and a time before that when I would gag as the liquid hit my tongue. Of course, those days had long passed.
The nightmares still pursued.
I had thought that it would get better, if I could just stick it out. Wake up every day in a sweat, panting hard and seeing her sweet face still. Surely she had to stop haunting me after some time.
She didn't.
Even the sweet memories I couldn't stand. That hollow feeling of loss deep in my chest, where my heart had once been, where there had once been that warm, fuzzy feeling. Another large swig. I don't even know what I'm drinking. Some unmarked bottle in one of the cupboards. It's not the usual white spirit I have. Maybe brandy or whisky. Her face crinkled in the midst of a laugh, her lips parting to form my name.
"Haymitch. Stop it, Haymitch!" Her high giggle had been sweet music once, but now it's the bitter taste in the back of my mouth. I guzzle the rest of the bottle, slam it down on the table. There's another bottle somewhere nearby, I'm sure of it.
The television flickers to life, startling me. I don't really watch it, instead I stumble off the kitchen stool and pull open the doors of a nearby cupboard. Behind me, I hear Quarter Quell and the bottle almost slips from my sweaty palms. Memories of another face come to mind, a girl without as many smiles, the life leaving her eyes. I stumble with the lid of the bottle, unable to get it open immediately and getting more frustrated. I need to get the images out of my head, need to forget the past.
Finally, the lid comes loose and I fill my mouth, swallow hard, drink another mouthful. My hands shake, President Snow is talking on the screen.
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors." I have to grip the edge of the table with my spare hand, place the bottle down firmly on the table surface.
Of course. One time wasn't enough. We haven't suffered enough for them. We will never suffer enough for the actions of our ancestors. I want to tear away at everything around me, but I know what little that does. I sit down slowly instead.
Two faces swim in my mind, the boy and the girl. Katniss and Peeta. There's no way of getting Katniss out of it, there are no other female victors to take her place. The boy though, the boy I could save … I take a long gulp from the bottle, laugh humourlessly to myself.
Look at me, thinking of sacrificing myself for a kid. The damn kids had made me feel something again, when I had been empty for so many years. I'm not sure I like it. In my first few years of being a mentor, I had had a small flare of hope; maybe I could save a kid this year, maybe we'll have a victor again. I think it was the third year when that flame was quenched, watching the sixth District Twelve tribute die. That was the year I finally gave up those last few strings of hope, and gave in to the darkness that promised to take it all away.
I'm not surprised when I see Peeta standing in the doorway to my kitchen.
"Ripper is back in business then," he comments, eyeing up the bottle in my hand, and then the empty one on the table. I don't answer him, only lift it to my lips. "You saw the announcement." He then says, and I wonder if we're going to continue with the small talk, or if he's going to get to the point. "You know why I'm here," he walks further into the room, looks at me with those blue eyes.
Of course I know.
"You want to save her," I state, because there's no question. He nods his head in affirmation, lifts his chin to show his determination. Had I been so self sacrificing when I was young? Would I have been willing to do anything for her. Not Katniss, a different her. I swallow hard, knowing the answer was yes. It would always be yes. Her laughing face taunts me.
"I want to go into the arena, keep her safe." I laugh sharply, take another mouthful. Once I would have been kinder, maybe given him a few soft words. But kindness doesn't help them.
"Of course you do, boy. What makes you think I can't go in and protect her?" I ask, using the bottle in my hand to point at him across the room. Go into the arena again, could I possibly face it? I'd be dead within minutes, but the boy would be alive, and the girl can handle herself.
"Because you'll probably be suffereng from alcohol deprivation, and would be curled in a corner of the arena." Peeta snaps at me, and for a moment I'm impressed. So he can get angry. When it comes to her. Bright eyes glance at me from the corner of my mind, lips that were so kissable upturn into a smile. I drink some more. "You owe me, Haymitch." I raise an eyebrow at this statement, about to ask him how he figured that out. "You chose her last time, and left me to die. So now, you owe me. I want to go back in the arena to save her."
He has me there. I did chose the girl. She was the best bet, and even then he would have done anything for her. So now to pay him back, I have to chose her again. There won't be two victors this time around.
"If you're sure this is what you want, boy." I finally say.
"If they reap your name, I'm going to volunteer. If they call my name, I don't want you to do the same." I nod my head and avoid his piercing gaze, wait for him to leave the house before swallowing another mouthful of liquor.
A loud sigh blows out from my lips, and I rub my fingers against my forehead, attempting to soothe the nagging pain. I sit and I wait, and I drink.
She arrives a couple hours later when I'm halfway through the bottle, grasping my lucky knife to ward away the nightmares. I glance up when she walks in, and she seems to be swaying in her steps. Or perhaps that's just my vision.
"Ah, there she is. All tuckered out. Finally did the maths, did you, sweetheart? Worked out you won't be going in alone? And now you're here to ask me … what?" Selfish, selfish, selfish. It had taken her hours to think of the boy, whereas only seconds for him to think of her. I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to say the words. Take his place.
Her lips stay shut.
"I'll admit, it was easier for the boy. He was here before I could snap the seal on a bottle." Not strictly true, but she doesn't need to know the details. "Begging me for another chance to go in. But what can you say?" I put on my best Katniss voice. "'Take his place, Haymitch, because all things being equal, I'd rather Peeta had a crack at the rest of his life than you'?" Not bad, if I do say so myself. Maybe I should consider being an impressionist.
She looks a little guilty after I speak, and all I can think is, good.
"I came for a drink," she finally speaks, and I laugh out of surprise. I place the bottle in front of her and sit back whilst she takes a long drink, choking on the intensity of it. It makes her eyes water. "Maybe it should be you," she sits down. "You hate life, anyway."
"Very true," I admit. A laugh echoes in my head, beautiful eyes shine at me in the night, I watch a girl die over and over in my arms. A forcefield. All dead. "And since last time I tried to keep you alive … seems like I'm obligated to save the boy this time." I say out loud.
"That's another good point," Katniss replies, taking another swig. Looks like I'll have to get my own bottle. If only the floor would stay still. Or is there one under the table?
"Peeta's argument is that since I chose you, I now owe him. Anything he wants. And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you." I tell her, wondering if it stings her, if she cares at all. The boy wants to commit suicide for her sake, rather than live his own life. She looks down at the table, probably comparing her own actions tonight to Peeta's. He had been here and she had run away, hidden. Mrs Everdeen had come around, calling frantically. I told her to go home, wait for the girl to compose herself.
"You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know."
"Yeah, yeah," she brushes me off. "No question, he's the superior one in this trio. So, what are you doing to do?" She eyes me now.
"I don't know." A long sigh. "Go back in with you, maybe, if I can." Could I find that kind of courage? "If my name's drawn at the reaping, it won't matter. He'll just volunteer to take my place." A long silence. She's still holding on to the bottle. My lips feel dry.
"It'd be bad for you in the arena, wouldn't it? Knowing all the others?" She breaks the silence. My choices would be to kill the almost friends that I had made, or to watch them die.
"Oh, I think we can count on it being unbearable wherever I am." I incline my head to the bottle, "can I have that back?"
"No," she encloses her arms around the liquor. I feel around on the shelf by my legs, fingers plucking out a different bottle and pulling the seal off. It tastes good.
"Okay, I figured out what I'm asking," I glance over at Katniss. "If it is Peeta and me in the Games, this time we try to keep him alive." Her words tug at me somewhere inside. My heartstrings, perhaps. He wants her alive, she wants him alive. I knew it would happen, but now it has been voiced. Now I might be forced to make a decision.
"Like you said, it's going to be bad no matter how you slice it. And whatever Peeta wants, it's his turn to be saved. We both owe him that." I think she's starting to beg me. I want to tell her that he's not likely to survive it, the pain of being the one left behind. He'll become another me. "Besides," Katniss caries on. "The Capitol hates me so much, I'm as good as dead now. He still might have a chance. Please, Haymitch. Say you'll help me."
I frown down at the bottle in my hand. I could refuse, and have to deal with her nagging at me from here on out until she's walking away into the arena. I don't have to make the decision now, I could just keep them both satisfied. "All right," I tell her.
"Thanks," she sighs.
I watch as she staggers to the door, thinking of the headache she's going to have in the morning. I finish off the bottle in my hand, which does nothing for the nightmares. Sometimes it helps, other times they find me anyway.