A/N: So, I've been working on part one of this two-shot for a little over a week. I really like the Hayffie pair, and I really wanted to write something based around them. Recently I started listening to the song Say Something by A Little Big World, and as I fell in love with the song, I started to get inspired (especially by the verse 'And I will swallow my pride / You're the one that I love / And I'm saying goodbye.') . I can't see Effie or Haymitch ever telling each other face-to-face how they feel, and as the rebellion starts, I don't think Effie could so easily pick Haymitch over the Capitol. After all, she's only know that for her entire life-she wouldn't just abandon everything because suddenly things are going wrong. So, what if that were the deal breaker for Haymitch? This is my take on what Haymitch would say to Effie as he was saying goodbye to her. It was meant to be really raw and it was sort of a new writing-style idea for me, so it might be pretty bad. Not gonna lie, I started to tear up part way through writing this.

Anyways, I've blabbed on long enough, so go ahead and read the story. Hope you enjoy Haymitch's part to this two-shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of it's characters. Everything belongs to the fabulous Suzanne Collins.

x-x-x

The heavy stench of booze clung to him as he hunched over the wooden table. There was a pad of paper resting in front of him, with a handful of pens scattered around it. Here and there, an ink-stained sheet was crumpled and torn, tossed to the side and long forgotten. Obviously—judging from the number of whiskey bottles and the look of sheer frustration etched on his face—Haymitch had been writing for quite a while. It didn't seem to be going well, though.

Gripping the nearest bottle of liquor firmly, the former victor brought it to his lips and tilted his head back, taking a long swig. He let out a satisfied grunt as the liquid burned its way down his throat; he was already well beyond the point of being drunk, but the slight buzz still thrilled him. Reaching out with his free hand, he grabbed a pen and pulled the paper close to him. After another mouthful of booze, Haymitch leaned forward, beginning to write once more.

'Dear, sweet Effie,

Obviously, as you can probably tell, I am drunk—big surprise there, huh? You're probably thinking to yourself that I'm always drunk and this time can't be any different, but let me tell you—I am especially intoxicated right now. I had to be if I was going to write you this letter.

Do you remember the first time we met, Effie? It was just a few months after I won the Hunger Games—I was on the Victory Tour, and I remember being pissed at the world. I was so messed up back then. I never slept because the nightmares were too hard; my heart ached as I grieved over Maysilee—it was my fault she died, you know—and I'd just been introduced to booze, my lovely savior. I was wallowing in my own misery, throwing myself a pity party, when you waltzed up and introduced yourself. I swear, it was like you were glowing—I wasn't even drunk when you came over, because it was seven in the morning and I was nursing a hangover—you were just honestly glowing. I thought I hated the Capitol and everything it created, but God, I couldn't hate you, Effie.

As much as I tried not to, I fell for you. I thought I knew what love was when I met Maysilee, but I hadn't even begun to scratch the surface with her. I'd thought that she had my entire heart and soul, but when you came into my life, I discovered that she had only a sliver of them; you stole the rest when you first said my name. From that day on I was hooked—I watched all the Capitol reports, even though I still despised everything they believed in. The only thing I didn't hate was you, and I hated myself for not hating you because you were one of them. They were the reason I was alone and afraid and damaged beyond repair—and you loved them; you loved being in the Capitol, dressed in those silly outfits, eating platefuls of that delicious food only to puke it out to consume more. I despised anything that had to do with them, but I never hated you—no, I loved you, and I think that's where I went wrong.

When you became the escort for District 12, I was overjoyed. You'd been the only thing on my mind for years, and finally you were here—the circumstances sucked, honestly, but your presence made them a little more bearable. But I never planned on becoming attached to those first few kids. I hadn't had a mentor when I was reaped; no one ever told me how hard it would be to watch those tributes die. I watched helplessly that first year as the girl was killed first, followed by the boy just a few days later. Suddenly all the horrors of the Games came back, and to numb to pain, I drank and I drank, to the point where I couldn't even function properly. Year after year it happened, and while you tried your best to ease the blow of defeat and loss, you never really understood what I was going through. Honestly, the more you tried to help, the more I wanted to scream at you and pull out my hair. Still, you kept trying and I kept getting drunk, until eventually you realized I was too far gone to be helped.

After that everything between us was brief and tense and filled with anger. I was still fuming about you pretending to know what it felt like, of you pretending to love those kids as they went into the arena, when we both knew you loved the Capitol far more and this was just another routine process. Most of all I hated that you just stopped. You stopped talking to me, aside from the rare curt comment or question about our tributes. You stopped trying to make the pain go away, and you quit tethering me to the real world. God, I hated everything that you did do and everything you didn't; what was worse was the fact that I hated hating you. Whenever you ignored me, I would just go to my room and slip into a drunken daze, thinking back to when you would do nothing but talk to me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't be mad at you.

Years passed and I became known as the 'alcoholic of District 12.' I was the biggest embarrassment; I was a sorry excuse for a victor, and everyone knew it. You did, too, Effie; I saw it in your eyes each Reaping day. Each fleeting glance in my direction was filled with pity and disappointment—God, it was awful. Eventually I just gave up. I didn't just try to drown out all the death and terrible things from my past—I tried to drown out you, too.

But then Peeta and Katniss came along, and things changed—slowly, maybe, but they definitely changed. They were different from the others—they had an actual standing chance of winning the Games; I knew it as soon as Katniss tried to stab me with a butter knife. You knew it, too; you cared more for them than you did the others. After they both won, you opened up more. You started to tether me to the real world again, giving me a reason to keep fighting. Sure, I kept drinking, but I had limits now. Everything was looking so much brighter—we were on the mend, and somehow I managed to keep not one but two victors alive. But good things don't last long, especially when the Capitol gets their hands on them.

The 75th Hunger Games were nothing to celebrate. Somewhere in President Snow's twisted mind, drawing that year's victors from the previous surviving ones seemed like a brilliant idea. After hearing this, my heart sunk—it was my job to keep those kids safe. I managed to get them out of the arena; they were supposed to be allowed to live out the rest of their lives, no strings attached. Now they had to go back to the arena, and it was my fault because I got them out of the last one. I forgot all about limits and staying sane and instead focused on going through the usual pre-Reaping motions as drunk as I possibly could be. All I thought about was me—about how emotionally scarring losing those kids would be; about how hard I fought to get out of the Games the first time, just so I could possibly be thrown back in. Not once did I ever think of anyone else—even when Katniss came and talked me into keeping Peeta alive, I was only partially thinking of them. No, I only realized it after you drew and called my name.

Your voice quivered at the beginning—I don't think many people noticed, but I did. I also noticed the way you sped through my name, like if you lingered on it too long it would bite you. At the end of it, you smiled an empty smile, glancing my way. It was only a second before Peeta turned and volunteered. Then your eyes were filled with grief for another reason—I knew you loved them, but maybe you were sad about what this would do to me? Or maybe to us? I probably won't ever know the answer, but it doesn't really matter anymore.

It's just… I don't know how things went so wrong. This time the Games were different; the main goal wasn't to instill fear in everyone—no, it was to prove to them that rebelling would only cause more death. President Snow wanted to kill Katniss before the 75th Games were planned, Effie. You probably know that by now, though—I bet all hell's breaking loose in the Capitol, what with the Mockingjay suddenly gone and the Games somehow destroyed. I would love to see how President Snow's dealing with this one. I just hope this made you understand why we did what we did; why I asked you to throw everything away for some reckless, unbelievable plan. It was to help everyone, not just us.

All I wanted to do was keep you safe, Effie, but you refused to help get them out; of course I was only brainstorming back then and didn't have a plan. I knew after that, though, that I could never tell you what was really going to happen. Despite your hatred for the Capitol, you were still too invested in them; no matter how much you deny it, some part of you still wanted to be a part of it all.

That's why I'm writing this letter, Eff. I loved you—I still love you. I love your crazy outfits and your sickeningly optimistic outlook on every situation. I love the amount of passion you put into your job, and the strength you find each year as you somehow do it all over again. Every little odd quirk or unique quality about you is something I adore, but none of that can change the truth.

You don't love me back.

Sure, maybe we were friends along the way, but we were nothing more than that. The way I feel about you… well, that's the way you feel about the Capitol, no matter how much harm they've done. I want this rebellion—no, I need this rebellion. I need payback; I need them to feel what every damn District feels each year. I need them to feel scared. You, though, Effie… You just want to keep things the same. You never knew anything other than the simplicity and wealth of the Capitol. And that's what drove us apart—as friends, as possible lovers, and as people.

Effie, the whole point of this letter was simple. I'm… God, it's hard to say it. I'm still crazy about you, Eff, but I can't pretend everything's fine and trick myself into thinking that there's any chance a wealthy, gorgeous girl like you would ever be interested in a drunk and broken loser like me. I've got to finally man up and admit to myself that it'll never happen, and I've got to move on. So, I'm giving up on the dream of us, but I'm also giving up on you.

I'm so sorry, Effie. I really hoped something would have happened between us, but honestly, who was I kidding? I just hope your safe and you can move on.

Sincerely,

Haymitch Abernathy, former District 12 victor and mentor.'

There was a pause as he finished the letter, folding it neatly and tucking it shakily into an envelope. His hair fell into his eyes as he reached over and grabbed a half-finished bottle of liquor and began to guzzle it down. To anyone who briefly glanced over him, it looked like Haymitch was just being his usual self—getting drunk in the wee hours of the morning and sulking all alone. But if someone took a closer look, they'd notice the slight tremble in his movements; the damp tear tracks on his cheeks; and the anger in his eyes as he clenched his jaw.

Haymitch was safe and breathing, but he was far from being okay.