Haymitch Abernathy was nine years old when he first understood. When he understood why he was watching his mother waste away faster than he himself was, faster than five year old Aiden…and why his father seemed to maintain a constant weight. When he first understood why his mother looked so sad, why there were always purple bruises around her eyes and why they could barely afford half a loaf of stale bread at the best of times.

Lint Abernathy was a coalminer, like many men in District 12 were, tall in stature with a mess of black hair that fell shaggy around his cheekbones. He was hardly known in the Seam, but almost everyone fell under the radar, save for the Mayor. He had green eyes, that neither of his sons had inherited, but his younger, if he lived past ten, would inevitably grow to look like his father. Haymitch hated that.
Their home was small and never very clean, but it was home. His father never came home until very late, far later than people ordinarily did. It didn't take a genius to realise that something was wrong, but Haymitch was only nine…he just stayed with Aiden in their small room and listened to the muffled shouting and crashing, pretending it didn't exist. Until of course, the first night he left the room unable to sleep. It was only a few weeks before the next Reaping and every year Haymitch drew closer to having his name in the mix, to having the vibrantly coloured Capitol escorts call out him to be a Tribute.

His father was drooling, sprawled over the table when the boy came in, too curious for his own good oftentimes. There was a horrible smell that he didn't recognise, strong, a mix of vomit and something else that assaulted the boy's sense of smell and made his blue-grey eyes water, it was all emanating from his father…
When had been the last time he'd brought food home? Never, never did he bring home more than a few measly coins that the family was forced to live on, and the odd rat or squirrel somebody managed to catch. Once a rabbit had hopped right into the kitchen, like it wanted to be cooked…it had been the last time Haymitch and Aiden had genuinely felt full. Surely coalminers earned a little more than that measly sum…

"Dad…" He whispered, screwing up his nose at the almost painful smell and edging closer. If it were not for the occasional snore or twitch, his father could easily have died silently.

He would both regret and thank himself for what he was about to do, if he hadn't, maybe they could have gone on in blissful ignorance for a little longer…but the moment the young boy put a hand on his father's shoulder…the side of his head met the corner of the table.

xxxXxxx

From that moment on, Haymitch was terrified of his father. He couldn't look at him, just try to hide the bruise from his mother who inevitably found it…and seemed to know immediately what had happened to her son. Despite the profuse apologies, it was hard to believe they were genuine when every night yelling would start again along with threats that Haymitch couldn't tune out anymore.
He knew where the remainder of their little money went now. All that his father cared about was drowning himself in liquor he bought from the Hob, coming home and then the shouting and shrieking would start again.

It was another year, before Lint dropped the charade of his double life like hot coals. No more was the drinking restricted to night, no longer did he bother trying to care for his children and his wife, no longer did he restrain himself and no longer did he apologise.

But the day, the day he struck his six year old across the face, was the day Haymitch decided he sincerely despised the man.
He'd only tried to help his mother, Aiden and Haymitch huddled around the corner, the younger brother crying and whimpering softly, listening to the bellowing of the beast in the next room, the frightened pleas of their poor, frail mother to just think of the children…
Aiden had run, before Haymitch could grab him, run in screaming at their father to stop it, to leave her be. In the drunken rage, Lint Abernathy, Haymitch couldn't call him 'father' anymore, turned and backhanded the six year old across the face.

xxxXxxx

It was the year of his first Reaping, he had just turned twelve, when everything became worse. It was public knowledge now that the tall coalminer, Abernathy, was a drunk. A violent drunk. It wasn't easy to hide the bruises now, until a year ago, Lint had at least tried to hold himself back from attacking his sons. But rarely were Haymitch and his mother to be seen without bruises either brought on by themselves, or trying to protect Aiden. There was no way that his little brother was being hurt so badly, and thankfully, the eight year wasn't half as hurt as the ones who loved him.

His mother's face, Aiden's face, when Haymitch stepped up to have his finger pricked, when he stepped in with the other boys from District 12 and awaited the inevitable draw…he'd only been in there once, it was his first time…and he wasn't picked.

Lint's face was quite different. It was clear what he thought. He wanted his own son in those Games…he wanted the riches, food and warmth that came with the winner's victory and included the family. Haymitch knew this for a fact. He'd been told it, had it screamed at him when he wasn't picked.

"You could be useful, boy! Volunteer!"

The rage that boiled in Haymitch was nearly indescribable. What kind of parent wanted their child in that competition? District 12 had only won once, and the man wasn't really sane anymore. But it wasn't that that bothered him so much as the sheer hypocrisy…useful? His father was the useless one, spending what little they had on liquor and spirits, leaving his family to starve and beating them.

"You're the useless one! Don't you tell m-" The back of a large hand struck his jaw, and Haymitch was on his knees. The beast of a man towering over him, a drunken haze over his animalistic eyes and fist raised threateningly a second time.

"Lint, leave him! That's your son!"

"Shut up! Can't even be useful when he'd old enough…"

Haymitch ran. He pretended not to hear the stream of cursing and his mother's cries, and ran out of the house into the particularly cold evening.

He would be in much more trouble coming back, but he didn't care. He couldn't feel the left side of his jaw but for a constant throbbing. That man, the bear of a man, probably drunk off his head and raging out the door after him, was not his father. He'd never acknowledge it again.

The boy didn't go far, he was too afraid of what his mother and Aiden would suffer to go too far away. He dropped between two crates, both coated with a layer of black coal dust, and pressed his hand to his face, trying to hide the bruise he was certain was already forming.

He'd never wished more for his…for that man to just disappear, to go….it was sure to devastate his mother…but how could she love such a horrible beast? Haymitch just wanted him far away where he wouldn't hurt them anymore…where he couldn't make them all suffer because of his drunkenness.

When he came home that night, covered in soot and dirt, he was granted a black eye to compliment the bruise on his jaw.

xxxXxxx

When he was thirteen, Haymitch got his wish.

Lint ran out, swearing foully at his wife and children that they were pathetic, it wasn't good enough for him, that his own children were a disgrace to him and his wife was too weak. He just left.

His mother was too frail, too weak to be able to provide for her boys, and the responsibility fell on Haymitch to take care of them. He was hardened…an adult in a boy's body and the scars of the more severe abusive treatment weren't going to leave for a long time. He was fit, as fit as a malnourished, thirteen year old boy could be in the Seam, and that proved his greatest asset.

They relied largely on the work Haymitch secured as an apprentice to the blacksmith. Physically very demanding for a young boy, working with hammers and hot fires through the best part of the day and left him more soot covered and filthy than usual. But they were better off without his father. At least the income Haymitch made wasn't being wasted. It wasn't much, but it was enough for the three of them to live on.

He didn't have many friends, Haymitch. He knew a few boys and girls his own age, but never spent time with them, there wasn't time to spend, but for the few hours he let himself get away after he was sent home, and had eaten.
These hours he largely spent by himself, idly kicking rocks or leaning against the side of a house, glaring at the stray dog or two that roamed in desperate search for food. The animals were every bit as thin, if not thinner than the people of the Seam. Their thin, mangy grey fur hung off in clumps and their bones stuck out visibly. Things would get better one day.

xxxXxxx

He met his girlfriend two years later, when he was fifteen. Just a few days preceding his fourth Reaping, fighting away the wetness in his eyes and forcing himself to swallow the pain as he dropped the red hot tongs into a pail of water, letting them hiss the heat away. Immediately he drew his hand back, cradling the burnt skin to his stomach.

The blacksmith, a tall, balding man with a thick black beard, caught Haymitch's sharp gasp, glancing over his large shoulder in concern. He was a good man, and many people liked him, on the days before the Reaping he always slipped his apprentice a few extra coins in case the boy should be chosen as that year's Tribute.

"Go home, boy…that's a nasty burn."

Haymitch stared at him, his dark hair falling into his eyes. The man hadn't even looked properly, if at all. Was he just trying to get rid of him? Or just cutting him a little slack now, before….yes that must be it.

"But I haven't fin-"

"You might need both your hands in as good condition as they can be, son."
There was a hint of something in the blacksmith's voice, sadness? Haymitch knew he and his wife had no children of their own, and he'd known Haymitch a good deal more than the other children in District 12, being the youngest apprentice he'd taken at just thirteen years old.

He met Sienna Harford that day.

He didn't go home right away, a cold, dirty cloth over the burn on his thumb he walked in the opposite direction, toward the electrified boundary fence. There was a girl there, just standing there staring at the fence, her dark hair flickering slightly in the breeze. As Haymitch walked closer he could see that she seemed to be analysing the fence, her eyes squinting in concentration, and he realised he knew her. Well, not her name, but he had seen her a lot.

"What're you doin'?"

The girl jumped, apparently she hadn't noticed him, but a glint of recognition in her blue eyes and she relaxed.

"It's not electrified today. You can't hear anything."

So? That meant nothing to Haymitch, he just shrugged and stepped around her to drop down on the stump of an old tree, rubbing his hand and staring without looking toward the forest on the other side.

"You haven't had any bruises for a long time, have you?"

"Sorry?"

Haymitch tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as the girl turned around, one brow arched curiously. She definitely seemed to know him, it was a slightly invasive question…

"Years I mean, you are who I think you are right? Work for the blacksmith?"

Haymitch glanced down at himself, sure his face at least was more black than tanned, smudged and flushed from the heat of the fires and blackened from the oily tools.

"…Yeah?"

"Well then…" He looked up, she had drawn closer and was now just a few paces in front of him, blocking out the heat from the afternoon sun, hands on her hips. "You're definitely the boy with the bruises."

He scoffed. Not the best thing to be known as, but his father was long gone, could be dead for all Haymitch cared. Except that he knew otherwise, he'd caught a glimpse of the man in the Hob not long ago. Buying liquor.

"I prefer Haymitch."

Her name was Sienna Harford, he learned, she was fifteen and had a younger sister two years older than Aiden and an older brother who was nineteen this year and just out of danger of being Reaped. He liked her, he'd call her a friend.

xxxXxxx

This year was a Quarter Quell….the 50th anniversary of the beginning of the Hunger Games….it was a "celebrated" event, and different to the usual Games. The first Quell, 25 years ago, had forced the districts to vote in their Tributes. No random draw. Popular vote.

Would it be the same again this year? Everyone in the District sincerely hoped not…

Haymitch had taken tessera from the Peacekeepers each year since he was twelve, and he hadn't told a soul. If his mother knew he'd willingly put his name in that round glass bowl more than was necessary…she'd be devastated.

Now, dressed and pressed into the cleanest and nicest clothes they had, the children made the yearly walk to the Reaping, siblings sticking tightly close, lining to have their fingers pricked. This year, Haymitch was sixteen, and Aiden was twelve…it was his first Reaping.

He'd been seeing Sienna near a year now, and here they were, her hand in his, her grip nearly enough to cut off circulation in his fingers. The odds really weren't that high that either of them would be chosen, there were definitely other boys he knew for certain had taken tessera, and he knew that Sienna hadn't done so at all. Or so she told him.

With a last look over her shoulder, like a silent goodbye Haymitch thought, she smiled sadly. A gesture he returned, keeping his younger brother right beside him as the girls separated.

It was all a blur, the blood ever pounding in Haymitch's ears as the Mayor, and the officials, the Capitol escort, all filed onto the stage. The speech was different, slightly, reminding them of the Quarter Quell, and commemorating the 50th Annual Hunger Games.

"You'll be fine, buddy." He heard someone mutter to who was presumably his younger brother. There were quite a few twelve year olds this year…instinctively, Haymitch's hand flew to Aiden's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"…a little different to usual…."

Oh here it was…the vibrantly coloured woman on stage was about to tell them what was happening for this Quell…

"This year, not two….but four lucky young men and women will be chosen for the honour of representing District 12, isn't that exciting?"

All at once, the dead silence broke into a rush of whisper, and cries of protest. Mothers and fathers at the back let out shocked cries. Four? Two of each….the odds just doubled…and even if that didn't mean much in the big picture, it was a substantial increase for those who had their names in a lot of times.

"Haymitch…"

He snapped his head down, his mouth hanging open in shock to meet the very wide and panicked eyes of his brother.
"I know. I know, you'll be fine…" He swore inwardly for the tremble in his voice, thoroughly wishing he was as confident as he fancied himself to be.
Cutting his gaze through the crowd and past a fourteen year old to the girls' side, he sought Sienna's face. There she was, clutching her sister's hand fiercely, closing her eyes and probably fighting back tears.

"Now, now! Let's get to it then, and find these honourable Tributes!"

Silence fell again, if possible, more cutting than before. The tap-tap of pointed, fifty million inch heels pierced the tension like a knife did a pig. Ladies first….two girls….

"Maysilee Donner!"

A girl, blonde and one half of twin sisters, probably fifteen or sixteen and shaking stepped forward. All eyes were on her as the Peacekeepers, painfully white, stepped around her to escort her. The inevitable scream came from her sister, reaching out for her desperately. The girl with blonde hair on her other side also burst into tears, apparently they were close too. Haymitch couldn't look at them he kept his eyes on the new tribute who was obviously trying to force down as much emotion as she could, keeping her eyes on the ground in front of her. She was from the Merchant part of the District, with a slightly better quality of life than those in the Seam but she and Haymitch had been in the same class at school until Haymitch had left to work when he was thirteen. He barely knew her.

"Kayte Chester!"

Thirteen, she couldn't be older than thirteen. Dark haired and terribly pale…she only made it three steps before turning and making a run toward the back. A moment later, two Peacekeepers had her by the elbows, and nearly dragging her to the stage.

Before long it was the boys turn, everyone was quiet again, save for the sniffles that were picked up by the microphone from Kayte and the whimpering of parents at the back. Haymitch's hand tightened on his brother shoulder, only realising it when Aiden winced and wriggled under his protective hold.

Someone beside him was muttering under his breath, praying probably, his eyes had closed, and Haymitch's fluttered closed too, waiting for the name he was almost certain would be 'Aiden Abernathy' when the paper was plucked out with the air of hailing a victor.

"Fin Adersee!"

Not Aiden? Not himself? Haymitch breathed out, allowing himself a small, reassuring smile at Aiden who looked twice as relieved. But there was still one more name to come as the tall boy with dusty red hair stepped forward to the stage. Each step resonating in the silence, breaths held, waiting…

"The fourth Tribute for District 12, is….."

Haymitch's eyelids flickered closed again, and his heart beat painfully loud. His name was in there so many times now…please….please not him.

"Haymitch Abernathy!"