"And both the seas and the skies

envied his eyes,

And he was the calm before the storm

again."

It's been weeks since a train carrying anything but basic supplies and Capitol workers has pulled into town. They've set up a sloppy marquee and post office, meant to alert the few of us here what is coming and when, but neither the times nor the contents of the arrivals have been correct since the first one they sent through town. That's why I don't know why I continue to linger around each Wednesday, the day the train comes in, carefully observing as workers unload the contents, and feeling the fire of disappointment in my belly ignite each time it is only wood or fruit.

I know what I'm hoping for, but I don't know why there's even an ounce of me that continues to believe it could happen. My mother is not going to step off that train. Neither is Gale, for that matter. I don't even know why part of me wants to see them. Maybe it's just the hope of some normalcy. Maybe waking up to the smell of my mother's cooking or hearing the sound of Gale's laugh in the woods would ease the burden of how empty my life seems to feel anymore.

It's Wednesday afternoon, and all that comes on the weekly train is bricks and flour.

I crouch up on the hill that overlooks the station, or what is left of it, and swallow my disappointment. The breeze blows the buzz of workers to my ears and I stay to watch them unload several of the crates and letters before straightening up and turning to walk home along the beaten path that used to run through town.

They've gotten the worst of it cleaned up, the dangerous rubble and- to my relief- the bodies. But still lies the ruins of shops and homes, and occasionally it's possible to find personal effects if your eyes search well enough. And sometimes on hot days, when the air simmers and sweat beads on my forehead, I swear I can almost remember the day as if I was there, I can see the buildings falling and smell the ashes smoldering. It's a common occurrence in my nightmares.

When I arrive back at the stretch in Victor's Village, my feet take me to Haymitch's door without much of a precursor. Since both of our returns several months ago, I've noticed while he seems even less adamant about caring for himself than before, he also needs it more than he ever had. There is an alcohol shortage through the district, as the few shops that do stand open mainly offer grains and vegetables. I really don't know where he's getting all of it but each time I stop I'm greeted with either the sight of my former mentor passed out with a bottle of liquor or the aftermath of his intoxication.

When I step into his house, without knocking as usual, the stench of sweat and booze hits me in the face and I would have stumbled back if I wasn't used to this by now. I can hear the TV blaring, which is usually a good sign, and I shove the door open far enough to accompany me and I slip inside.

Piles of trash and dirty laundry litter the entryway and I have to squint to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I never take off my shoes when I come here, because I'm much more fearful of stepping on something and cutting my feet open on broken glass than worried about getting mud on his floors. I follow the hallway towards the sound of the television, knowing full well Haymitch is going to be nearly incapacitated if he isn't already. And when I take a step inside the living room, a crash of glass feet from my head has me scrambling backwards and I nearly fall on my rear end.

Haymitch is sitting in his chair, swiveled towards me with a outstretched arm and a glassy look in his eyes. He obviously hasn't bathed in days, and his greasy hair hangs on his forehead in clumps. In the hand he hasn't just used to nearly take my head off is a bottle of white wine that swishes around in the bottle.

"What-" I collect my bearings, steadying myself on the doorframe, "what the hell Haymitch?" I snap, and he stares at me with a nonchalant expression.

"Heard the door open," he grunts, and I can tell from his voice that he's only halfway slammed. "You're lucky. It coulda been the knife."

And I can't really blame him. He's been through hell and back as all the surviving Victors have and I know if I was in his position and not lying in bed as I do most days I would react the same. It takes me a moment, but when I feel my heart rate ease slightly I tread forward, careful to step over the shards of broken glass that have embedded themselves in the carpet. He watches me all the way to the couch and as I sit cautiously. The TV blares with footage of the rebuilding process in what looks like District 11 and my heart clenches so hard I have to look away, back into the expressionless eyes of Haymitch Abernathy.

He knows I'm not here for simple chat but we know each other well enough that he doesn't ask questions. He doesn't ask me if I want a drink either, just tosses me a bottle that is laying at his feet on the floor. I don't look at the label on the bottle before I twist open the cap and take a swig of the dark liquid.

It tastes of cinnamon and heat and the back of my throat burns as I swallow, and I have to force myself not to cough or choke. Haymitch's eyes are trained on me, and we sit in silence and exchange glances and swigs as a bright voice chirps on the TV and I'm not even sure why he's watching this. I know it makes him just as upset as it does me.

He coughs once, swirls his bottle, and says, "it was his turn this week, you know."

My heart pangs. Peeta and I have a system, one not spoken but fully understood. We each took every other week to make sure our old mentor at the very least stayed breathing. It was that way for me anyway- I'm pretty sure Peeta comes no matter what the date on the calendar says, and Haymitch knows that too. He's only saying that to coax the real reason for my visit without outright questioning me. But it hurts for his name to cross my mind so much that I push it from my thoughts.

"Well at least the alcohol doesn't take all your common sense," I muse, the tone in my voice comical but dry. He snorts with the equivalent and takes another sip.

I glance at my hunting boots, at the dirt that covers them. I wonder how long it's been there: was it picked up back before the rebellion? Before the Games, even? I think back to simpler times, back to hunting and the Seam and dandelions. I think to back before I knew Haymitch to be anything more than the drunken mentor of all the tributes from District 12 who died anyway. And I remind myself to scrub my boots when I get home.

"She wrote me," I blurt out, and he stares back at me, as if asking who 'she' was. "Annie. She wrote me from District 4. She's pregnant."

His eyes harden and his lips form a frown. It probably mirrors my expression from when I opened the letter last week, one of the only letters to come on the train.

"How is she?" He asks, but his voice is flat and I know he isn't happy- he's sorry and so am I. Poor baby O'dair, doomed to grow up without a father just as I had. The thought followed me all week, and even though Annie asked me to share this news I couldn't until now. It was selfish and so was I, but to speak the words seemed too difficult.

I clear my throat. "She's good. She's happy. She said its going to be a little boy. She said she was going to name him after Finnick."

The TV buzz fills the absence of his response, and I keep going, my sentences short and punctuated in an attempt to veil the emotion in my voice.

"She talked about it there- I guess it's nice. Warm and everything. They have a memorial planned for them. For him. She talked a lot about my mother too. I guess they're close now. She's a healer for the hospital. And she sent her well wishes."

My throat closes and I choke, stopping anything else from coming out. My eyes would gloss with tears if I had any left from the last few months and if it was anyone but stoic Haymitch watching me. I expect him to stare at me, to drink, to do anything but answer. I don't even know why I came here. But he was the first person my impulse thought of.

"You knew she wasn't coming back, sweetheart." I'm surprised by how soft his tone is. And I know he's right and I don't know what I expected from her because she was always the weak one. She was always the one who fled from loss, mentally when my father died and now after her death she went physically.

I cough into my sleeve to clear my throat. "I guess I just thought she'd write is all. If pregnant Annie who just lost Finnick can write to me, I thought maybe she'd write her own daughter."

Haymitch shifts in his chair and tosses the bottle of wine to the ground, empty, and I watch as it rolls down the hallway out of sight. "Now sweetheart, I don't know much about mother and daughter bond, hell I don't know much about family at all- but what I do know is that the closest you've got to family that is still breathing is everyone who lives within 500 feet of you."

And before I have time to ponder this, I hear the front door creak open and the sound of dirt being stomped off shoes. Haymitch has the better angle on the doorway, and I see his lips tweak up in the slightest of smirks before he looks back to meet my gaze. "In fact, the last member of that family just showed up."

And with that Peeta steps into my view, and I'm shocked by how well he looks. And while I've seen him since his return to District 12, its usually only for moments and even then it's been weeks since our last formal communication. Something about seeing him was just too hard, and too risky given his questionable mental state.

But right now, in this moment, I can look him over fully. His frame- rather frail when I last stole a meaningful glance- has bulked up, and he looks healthy, almost muscular. His hair is brushed, cut, and neat and I assume Greasy Sae has been helping him with just that. And then his eyes. The blue lacks the storm they once held, the sea has cleared. And that alone leaves me speechless.

The same doesn't count for him. "Katniss," he says, shock in his voice. He is holding a ceramic bowl covered by a hand towel, and the smell of fresh bread wafts into my nostrils. "I didn't know you'd be here."

The reservation and polite manner in his voice feels like a punch in the chest. It feels like it did back after the first Games, when pleasantries was all we exchanged outside of the cameras. Now, the cameras don't push us to affection let alone friendship.

I clear my throat. "Yeah, well. I just came to check in." I don't believe the words coming out of my mouth, and I don't expect him to. He doesn't, and I can tell by the look in his eyes. But he doesn't question me. Instead he turns to Haymitch.

"I came to see how you were doing, too," he tells him, and Haymitch shrugs like he doesn't know that Peeta and I aren't doing this from the good of our hearts, that his check-in is part of an arrangement we have made much earlier. That part of the reason we do it is so we have a reason to get out of bed as well.

"What kind of bread?" He nods at the bowl, and after Peeta affirms that it is his favorite, sourdough, he pulls himself to his feet, grunting all the while, and stalks into the kitchen without another word. I listen to the sounds the bottles he kicks on the way make as Peeta and I avoid each other's glances in uncomfortable silence.

"Katniss, there's plenty to go around if you'd like to stay, too," and I hate the dryness of his voice. I hate it and I stand, shaking my head and brushing the imaginary filth from my lap.

I mutter that I have plans to go into the woods and I walk past him, leaving as much distance as possible between us as I pass. He knows I'm lying. He knows I'm lying and that I haven't been in the woods since I've been back and that all I've done in these short few minutes is lie but he doesn't say a word and I hate that, too. Because he used to. Old Peeta would have.

I spend the rest of the evening curled in bed with my shoes still on and staring at the ceiling and my body feels cold and heavy. That night I dream of my mother holding a green-eyed baby and of Peeta's laugh.