alleviate
Blue, blue, blue.
Blue, like cut glass, like ground diamonds, like the best, brightest, clearest morphling. Twice as dangerous and three times as addictive. Pale blue, like the sky over new snow—just as cold, and just as sharp. The color of his eyes fascinated her and she would keep stroking his profile, running a finger down the bridge of his nose, brushing past the lines around his eyes. His stubble scratched her palms, but he tolerated her petting for as long as he could stand it; then he would throw the blankets back and abruptly lurch from bed, muttering something about a shower.
Haymitch was great at sex. Fantastic. But he was awful at anything else.
Katniss, on the other hand, had no idea about how to deal with pleasure. Anything over-stimulating and it was too much, the blinding feelings of fear would wrap up into her desire and she would scream. The sheets would tangle around her legs and she would fall out of bed, scrambling away from his gentle hands, too caught up in bullets and blood and the cries of dying children. Haymitch, to his credit, never got impatient. Maybe he understood, in that silent way that only the two of them could communicate in.
But she liked everything else. She liked lying in bed, maybe cuddled up next to him, sometimes on the opposite end, talking or just listening to him breathe. She liked undressing in front of him, loved hearing his breath catch just a little when she pulled her shirt over her head. And Katniss was especially fond of falling asleep together, with another warm body next to her.
The build-up was nice, too. His rough hands along the softer parts of her skin, the places where scars or burns hadn't made their mark—the scratch of stubble against her lower back, her thighs, that was fine. She could only deal with pleasure and pain in small doses, these days. And it wasn't as though she was unwilling; there were some days she just wanted to attack him, feel his teeth on every inch of her skin, and she wanted to tangle her fingers through his hair and kiss him until her lips bled.
Nothing else, though.
On the other hand, Haymitch preferred the sex. She had an idea that he had gotten used to it over the years, that there was nothing thrilling or unusual left in such an act—he knew the steps, the warning signs, the procedures and everything else. He was familiar with pleasure. But he wasn't good at the strings-attached part. The waking-up-next-to-another-person part. More often than not she would wake up with Haymitch passed out on the couch, an empty wine bottle in his hand.
If they both had been rigid, it wouldn't have worked. Haymitch would have slapped her hands, told her to get away from him, stop fucking touching his face, and that would have been it. Or maybe she would have screamed and kicked him as hard as she could, desperate to get away from his fingers and mouth, and then huddled in the corner of the room trying to catch her breath.
But they would bend, just a little.
"Look at me," Haymitch would say, stroking the smooth curve of her outer thigh, rubbing her leg, "Sweetheart, just look at me."
She would gulp down a sob and try to control her breathing, and look into those flint-sharp, icy-colored blue eyes that were crinkled at the corners. He would look so soft, so comforting, that familiar expression of mingled exasperation and willingness to cuddle. She remembered that look more than anything in her life, it was the look that had been on his face when she first got out of the arena. Like he had finally given up, like he was tired of watching her struggle, and wanted to carry some of the load. Like she was finally too small in a situation much too big for her.
"There ya go, sweetheart," he muttered, his voice containing a sleepy rumble. "Relax. Relax."
She let her head fall back and reminded herself of three facts:
One: She was not in the Capitol.
Two: She would never be in the arena again.
Three: Haymitch would never hurt her.
The last one stuck in her mind, running on an endless loop. He would never hurt her. That was the only sort of trust she was capable of having now, the type of trust that said I know you won't put a gun to my head. I know you won't put a knife in my ribs.
I know you won't hurt me when I stay still. Everyone else would. But not you.
She closed her eyes and let herself be still. His hands skimmed past her hipbone, up her ribcage, skipping her breasts entirely and slipping a hand beneath her jaw, tilting her towards him. Katniss's eyes flew open.
"Shh, shhh."
He pressed a gentle kiss to her collarbones and she shivered. The tears she had shed were drying on her temples, disappearing into her hair. Haymitch's roughened fingers stroked her thigh once more, trailing fingers down across her kneecap, back up and along her sides. Her skin prickled beneath his fingers and she flinched when he closed his mouth around her nipple.
Just be still.
She focused on his eyes. The blue of sunny skies over winter mornings.
The scrape of his stubble against the soft skin of her breasts made her stop breathing for a moment. Everything he did was measured, calculated, determined to elicit pleasure from her—it was all so very un-Haymitch. He never approached things with caution or finesse, and if he did it was with the wary, guarded expression of someone burnt many times by a flame. This was—
He slipped a hand between her thighs.
Katniss's eyes flew open.
"Easy, easy, look at me, sweetheart."
"Why does this keep happening," Katniss asked, her voice ragged. "I don't…I mean, I want to, I just…"
Haymitch bit her shoulder very gently. "After a while," he said quietly, "it's all the same. It all gets mixed up, your brain doesn't know if you're safe or not. It's just…more. More of what you can't handle."
"I'm safe with you," she whispered. "And I know that."
"This does," he answered, tapping a thumb between her breasts, where her heart is racing. "But this doesn't." He knocked against her temple with a knuckle. "They're hard to separate."
She closed her eyes stubbornly, determined to see this through.
"Ah-ah-ah, sweetheart, look at me."
His thumb brushed against something between her legs and a bolt of pleasure shot through her, tangling through her nerves. There was a momentary flash of panic and she forced her eyes open, looking straight into those pale blue eyes.
"Atta girl."
Katniss surged upwards suddenly, and his arm instantly let her go, anticipating her retreat into the bathroom or the kitchen, perhaps. Somewhere with a sink to dry-heave over. But instead, she settled on top of him, slinging a leg over his waist, and looked in his eyes.
"Okay," she said uncertainly, "try again."
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk. His fingers found the apex of her thighs once more, and he brushed that sensitive bundle of nerves once more, causing her thighs to tense. Haymitch's other hand rubbed the outside of her thigh slowly, running down her leg, soothing her with gentle motions; her hips gave the tiniest surge, flexing in spite of herself. Just a little nudge against his hand, something to encourage him. Katniss clenched her jaw—she would get through this without melting down. She could do this. She had done much worse, she had killed people and slaughtered innocents and started a war, surely she could let Haymitch be kind to her for an afternoon.
His fingers stroked her with smooth, irregular movements, catching her unawares. It felt good, shockingly good, like someone had clicked a switch in her brain and suddenly she was on. Awake. Katniss, 2.0. She bit her lower lip because the urge to cry out bubbled up and she fought it back down, because she was concentrating so hard on not thinking at all, at just shutting her mind off, that if she cried out it would be too much, and it would turn into a scream before she knew it.
"Easy, girl, relax…"
Those eyes, damn those eyes, half-closed and attentive, sober for once, just for her, because he knew she didn't like the taste of wine in his mouth…
One hand skimmed her hipbones, touching the delicate frame of her ribcage and circled a breast. Touch. Something she was so deprived of after the war.
Her control slipped for just a moment and she saw the bomb go off behind her eyes, saw the flash of Prim's white medic apron as the eleven year old girl knelt to assist a little boy with broken legs…
Haymitch stroked her again, and she snapped.
Bombs and arrows and President's falling out of balconies, morphling dripping through a tube, a stripe of dark red berry juice stinging on her cheek, and the feel of Haymitch's calloused hands against her skin. She was rushing, living, dying, soaring and finally crashing. She fell forwards and felt the ground rushing up to her face, the swollen sores of Tracker Jacket venom surging through her veins, mingling with the rush of endorphins from Haymitch's ministrations. His mouth in her ear, whispering something, still stroking between her legs, calming her down, talking her through it.
"Stop thinking," he murmured in her ear, "just stop thinking, Katniss."
She blinked and realized she felt wrung-out. Exhausted, even. An odd thought occurred to her—Haymitch has a tub. We should take a bath.
"Better?"
She couldn't remember what Prim's face looked like.
Katniss closed her eyes. "Better."
So I'm passed out on my couch and had a vicious craving for Aberdeen. why don't people write this so I can read when I feel like it. whyyyy. I am now assigning all of my readers homework—if you like a ship, write for it, so authors who are high on painkillers can read it and fall asleep. (you get an A+ if its aberdeen mkay guys)
Oh and I know Haymitch has gray eyes. My mental image of him is kind of muddled with the actor who plays him and the book version. So stop writing that review you were going to write. mkay. I'm too tired to deal right now. PT takes it out of you man.
Plus my hand is doing greaaaaat. You should all break your hands too. It's fucking awesome. X_X