The Hunger Games and all character's belong to its rightful owner in Suzanne Collins. I just found myself shipping Haymitch and Katniss surprisingly, I saw some tension there in the film, in a good way haha! Hope I'm not alone in liking the pairing. This is my first time in ever attempting to write a Hunger Games fanfic, so do please be polite! If anyone is out of character in any way, or if there is any grammar mistakes, I apologize in advance!

Parachutes of Hope

My face drains of colour, as I unfurl the scroll of paper and smooth it out with my fingers. It's from Haymitch.

"Come on, sweetheart, you can win this. You know you have it in you. Use some of that spunk that rests within you, and do me proud."

Either way, if I even did win- which felt like an unlikelihood at this moment in time- did I even really want to? Of course, I would be fighting to survive, no matter what. Dying wasn't something I felt I was ready for just yet. Especially not when I had people waiting on me at home; My mother, Prim. Gale. But if I did win against all the other tributes... if I did manage to successfully outlive them all- even Peeta- and become victor... dare I even think it, what would become of me? Would I end up like Haymitch, drunk as a skunk every hour of the day? I didn't want to turn into that person Haymitch was. Another foolish and bitter reproduction of himself, hardened from what the Games had turned him into.

Scrunching up the letter in between my fingertips tightly, I unhook the tie from the parachute Haymitch had sent for me, hoping for some adequate enough medicine to treat Peeta's wounded leg efficiently. After all, Haymitch had managed to do me some good in pulling some strings in order to get me some balm to soothe my tracker-jacker bites. I could only hope he had done the same for Peeta's injury. I twist open the metal lid, and peer inside. My stomach clenches. Rather instead of some medicine with miraculous healing properties, Haymitch has arranged for some white liquor instead. I feel my teeth clench, and my entire body stiffens, when I take in a whiff. The liquor is far too strong; It stings my nostrils lethally.

Of course. When you have a drunkard as a mentor, surely you'd expect some alcohol sooner or later. I roll my eyes. Haymitch couldn't have sent me a more cryptic message; Did he want me to get drunk on the job? Does he assume this will help me deal with the pressures I'd have to face in a few days time, in competing against the last two tributes?I can almost hear his derisive growl going off in my head: "Do me proud, sweetheart. What better way to turn into a spunky murderess than getting intoxicated on the job?"

I hear Peeta call out my name incoherently from in our dimly lit hiding place. He was bound to be disappointed by the mediocre gift our mentor has given us. He was our mentor, he was supposed to be helping us, for goodness sake! Some good alcohol will do in treating Peeta's leg injury!

Still, I try to reassemble my face into one of encouragement as I carry the metal cup into the crevice of our safe place.

"Peeta!" My voice is unreliable, and it fails me the instance I call his name. I sound hysterical, and panicky. It stirs him awake, and he peers at me through two pained slits of his eyes, startled. I hold up the cup. "Peeta, look what our ever-reliable mentor has sent for you!"

Peeta is disgusted, when I unscrew the lid again and show him the contents. Then, in his half-hazy, weak state, he tries to crack a joke. "Of course. What else can we expect from an alcoholic, really?"

I don't know what we're meant to do with it, in regards to Peeta's injury. Does he drink it, or do we pour the entire contents of the white liquor over his gaping wound? Even so much as attempting to get Peeta to swallow some of the liquor down takes hard effort and incessant coaxing. When he manages to slip in a mouthful, he coughs it back up, choking and spluttering. I take on the act of mother then, in wiping the milky beads of liquor rolling down his chin with the sleeve of my jacket carefully. Then, we try again. This time is just as unsuccessful as the last. He can't keep it down, it's too strong and bitter for his liking.

I smile down at Peeta pitifully. Then, I almost hear Haymitch shouting in my head, wracking back and forth in my ears: "Come on. You can do better than that, sweetheart!"

"Come on, Peeta," I whisper desperately. Leaning forward on my knees, I place the back of my hand on his cheek, judging his temperature. The fever is still strong. He is sweating all over, his underlip glistening. "I think Haymitch means for you to drink it!"

"I can't," he croaks out in disgust. "It might be easy for Haymitch. He's probably used to all types of disgusting stuff. He probably has a stronger stomach for it, than I do."

"You still have to try," I insist urgently. "I won't have you dying on me now!" First Rue. Now Peeta. No way was I going to ever let it happen. I needed Peeta, exactly in the same way he needed me right now, to survive this. You never really know how much you need someone, until they're taking a knock on death's impending door.

"It just... it just doesn't seem right. Why would Haymitch even bother sending alcohol for me? He got that soothing balm for your tracker-jacker stings, right?" Suddenly, divulging Peeta in that information of what Haymitch did for me a day ago (Or was it more than a day? I didn't know) seemed like a bad idea. "So why hasn't he sent me something more beneficial than lousy alcohol?" His tone almost turns accusing at me, but I know it isn't intentional. I let it slide.

"I don't know, Peeta. Maybe it will help? Just try to drink it all down, and we'll see, all right?"

"Maybe Haymitch means for it to be poured over my leg?" He suggest hopefully. "Maybe that'll help it heal up quicker?"

I don't know why I hadn't thought of that in the first place. "Hmmm. Perhaps you're right. Good thinking."

He grins at me; a lop-sided, painful looking grin, at my appraisal. He's really too sweet for his own good.

I set the cup carefully down onto an even rock, and then hesitate, my hands hovering uncertainly over Peeta's trousers. Even the idea of so much as attempting to separate the cloth from his wound again turns my stomach queasy. Still, I steel myself and unwrap the leg from the cloth.

It's worse though. Horribly worser, than it was yesterday when I tended to it. I suck in a deep breath, and force a smile at Peeta, who is watching my face keenly for any sign into his wounds progress. While there is no more gluey, stringy pus lining the entrance wound, the inflammation has progressed. I can't see how the white liquor Haymitch has bothered to send with work wonders any, but it never hurts to try.

"Okay, Peeta," I say, in the most steadiest voice I can manage, which is hardly steady at all. "I'm going to pour the alcohol over the wound now. All right?"

I pick up the cup, and hold directly over his leg. Just as the liquor begins to run over the side, he yelps.

"Wait!" he cries. "Give me something to put in my mouth first! I know this is going to sting!"

Smart thinking again, on Peeta's part. Having something in his mouth, something to cling onto his teeth, would definitely stifle the pained cries he'll be giving out once the cloudy liquor hits his splitted skin. And that means the chance of any competing tributes overhearing us, would be minimised slightly. And we need all the help we can get, at this point, in keeping safe in shelter until Peeta completely recovers.

Producing my pocket knife out of my backpack, I manage to saw through the piece of cloth that's holding my jacket sleeves together. Then, handing Peeta the long and uneven strip, he places it between his teeth, and prepares himself ready to bite down when the first chance of pain hits.

"Okay, Peeta," I breathe, just as unsteady as before. "Here it comes."

I hold the cup over his wound again and, seeing no other painless way to do it, proceed to pour the entire half of the liquor over his leg. Peeta gives out a muffled scream, tears prick at my eyes, and the liquor seems to bubble over his open, flaming-red skin. I watch the wounded carefully, for any secondary sign of progress. To my astonishment, the skin slowly begins to fold over itself. It worked! Thank God, it worked! Haymitch had in fact done what was right, what was expected of him as mentor! My doubts for Haymitch diminished a tiny bit. Suddenly, he didn't seem so repulsive and pathetic in my eyes after all. I would have to remember to thank him for this- if I ever get out of this alive, that is.

Peeta spits the rag out of his mouth, his chest heaving as he breathes heavily. Tears dribble down his cheeks. "Well?" he presses helplessly. "Did it help any? How's it look now?"

Stunning even myself, I toss my head back and laugh in bewilderment. And then, alarming Peeta even further, I scoop down and bestow on him a long and hard kiss. When I pull back, he stares up at me, mouth agape, wet eyes wide on me.

Never will I take Haymitch's help as my mentor for granted ever again, I vow to myself then. He is a more reliable person than I assumed. I supposed we better had started treating him in that light, and with the respect he deserves. He was only trying to help us, in his own strange way- and it turned out, his way, was right.

"Even though he's your favorite," Peeta manages breathlessly, after a while, "He still does me good as well."

His comment flares first irritation in me, then defensiveness. "Come off it, Peeta! If anything, your his favorite! He's been rooting for you ever since the beginning! He hates me!"

"If he hates you so much, then why is he bothering to go through all the effort into keeping you alive?" Peeta says. I think he is mostly humoring me. I'm sure he is. "Just admit it, Katniss. If he had to choose between the two of us, he'd choose you. Always you. But it's been like that from the beginning!"

"Oh, don't say that, Peeta!"

"It's all right." He lifts a hand, and touches the end of my braid, curling it between his fingers. "How could I blame him? I'd be rooting for you, too, if I was back at home and not here." He's so sweet, I bet Haymitch is loving this. I bet the whole Capitol is eating it up, too. Something about us being in-love. And Peeta does it so easily, he pretends so well and like appearing as if he is besotted with me, is as easy as breathing to him. It's pretty impressive.

"And I couldn't ever get this far without you," I point out, but it's the truth.

"Sure, you could," he shrugs. "Like Haymitch said that day at the reapening. You have more spunk than the whole Capitol combined."

Something about his words brings the letter Haymitch sent along with the parachute of white liquor back to mind. Use your spunk. And,use my spunk, I would.

After a while of talking, drowsiness settles into both of us. We drift off to sleep for a while, my head resting against Peeta's shoulder, his previously wounded leg left unclothed and drying in the air naturally. I wake sometime, just when a blue darkness slips into the ragged crevice of the cave. I almost forget. I almost believe I'm back at home again, safe at home in District 12, and Peeta's Prim instead, and that we're snuggling close to keep warm. But then, it happens, instantly ruining my peaceful mood.

The cannon sounds.

It just brings me back down into daunting awareness, that we're still here. We're still stuck here, in a cave, away from home, reduced to hiding out so that Cato and any others won't have any luck in finding us, until Peeta recovers one-hundred-percent. Carefully extricating myself out of Peeta's arm, I slide onto my feet and tread carefully out of the cave. I peer up at the dark sky, at the blinking stars. A face of one of the other Districts tributes appear into the sky, telling me that another has died during the day. It's the girl, from District 4. I plop down onto my backside, and curl my arms around myself to stop the violent bout of shivers overcoming me. Morosely, I wonder how she died. Did Cato get to her, or was it of natural causes? Starvation, perhaps? Blood loss?

Tearing through my wretched thoughts, a beeping noise signals to my left. I turn and see another parachute gliding through the trees. It lands precisely at the tip of the cave. Haymitch was being very generous on gifts tonight, it would seem. I stare at the little beeping light that flicker blue, attached to the parachute. Peeta and I didn't require anymore medicine, so I can't even begin to imagine what Haymitch has managed to get for us now.

Climbing to my knees, I crawl over to the parachute curiously and untie what I realize is another shred of paper hanging to it. More letters of insightful wisdom from the drunkard. no doubt. I spread it open, and have to squint through the gloomy darkness to read it:

"Two left. You know what to do. Continue to make me proud, sweetheart. You're close to winning this."

He has even drawn a shaky arrow, telling me to turn the paper over.

"P.S: It wouldn't hurt to smile more for the camera's, Mockingjay. It always helps. And you've got a pretty one. So use it."

I stare at the note, dumb-founded. Since when has Haymitch been so keen to back me up? And since when did he actively go out of his way to compliment me? It's funny. This is a new development.

Not sure what you'll think, or if you would be interested in more. Feel free to let me know :)