Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games nor do I own Katniss or Haymitch, although I would not object to owning the latter.
The telephone rings.
I start in my seat. I was reading District 12: An Unabridged History, a diluted piece of propaganda garbage that had once served as a school textbook. Simultaneously, the book disgusted me and amused me. In a sense, what else was there to do? I no longer had a need to hunt, and I had seen quite enough blood shed in my mere eighteen years. If anything, I had nothing to do— and still better things to do than be bothered by the Peeta Mellark.
Peeta, if you're calling me, no, I do not want to sample your baguettes.
Poor kid.
Slowly, deliberately, I cross the room, hoping that he'll lose interest and hang up, just like the other forty-seven times he's called in the past two months. Standing in front of the petite table in the foyer, I realize that I hope in vain; I take a deep breath as my hand closes around the spine of the telephone.
Before I can change my mind, I snatch up the device and put my mouth to the receiver. So much for social anxiety.
"Hello?" My voice is tinged with an uncertainty not characteristic of the Girl on Fire, but this minute detail of my life does not matter because nothing matters anymore. The Panem of old is dead and gone, and Prim went with it.
"Hey, Katniss."
Instantly, blood starts to race through my veins in a way that I had not felt in weeks.
Haymitch. Haymitch Abernathy. This telephone conversation does not involve the incessantly lovelorn and fabulously swoon-inducing Peeta Mellark, just Haymitch Abernathy.
"Hey, Haymitch. What's up?" I respond, my tone suddenly cheerful. Smooth, Katniss, smooth.
"Nothing, I just… Do you want to come over for breakfast?" he asks. In my mind's eye, I see the expression on his face and his hand that nervously scratches the back of his neck, just in the same way that I am certain he can hear the smile in my voice.
"Of course! I'll be right over!"
It's a short trot from my house to his in the Victor's Village, so my words are far from exaggeration. I freshen up and slip into a modest sundress, my mood instantly boosted by the prospects of breakfast among sunshine and birds and cornflower blue eyelet lace.
I scan the lower racks of the foyer closet for the appropriate pair of shoes. I consider going sans chaussures because honestly Haymitch wouldn't care, and despite the dangers of broken glass, unforgiving gravel and lurking shrapnel, once I arrive at Haymitch's house, bare feet would be much more comfortable. Instead, against all common sense and proper Katniss logic, I choose a pair of immaculately white wedge espadrilles that would shock Gale, delight Peeta, and make Cinna proud.
After wobbling somewhat gracefully over to Haymitch's house, I hold back the urge to kick down the door in Career fashion, and instead knock politely before entering. Immediately, I'm impressed. Haymitch has managed to keep house magnificently since my last visit.
I wander into the kitchen, a place of good times and friendship that becomes increasingly more familiar, and find Haymitch already at work. Today, he is dressed to kill in grey slacks, a pastel blue Oxford shirt, and a pinstriped grey and blue vest.
As he turns to greet me, I can't even fight the smile that finds its way on my face. The pain of losing Prim has always been an oppressive pall, never ceasing to suffocate me on late nights alone, but lately, I've been filled with a warmth and comfort that always seems to radiate from this very place of residence.
I cross the kitchen, the handmade Capitol fabric billowing about me as Haymitch sweeps me into a hug. In this moment, everything feels so familiar and feels so right. It's been far too long, but I'll never give him the satisfaction of saying that. I mean, I'm Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, tough as nails and raised in the Seam. Although, I decide as I pull away, everyone needs a savior.
"You look nice today," Haymitch jests, turning back to the cabinets to produce flour from Peeta's bakery. Randomly, I can't help but note how excellent he smells. The scent is hard to place, but it is a pleasant one.
"You don't look too bad yourself," I admit, sitting at the counter as he works his magic. A little known secret is that Haymitch can whip up a mean batch of pancakes. They're even better than the Capitol's pancakes to be honest. The consistency is perfect, and the ingredients are always fresh.
There's a moment of companionable silence as he hunts down the baking powder and dives into the refrigerator for milk and eggs, the latter of which distracts me greatly.
"So." Haymitch turns back to me as he nurses a drink, trademark smile on his face. "How have you been?"
Of course, Haymitch isn't stupid. In fact, he's probably the smartest person I know—a fact that I would never admit to his face. He's also one of the only people who can truly understand a portion of everything that I've gone through recently. I take his question as relative question, more of "How have you been since Prim's passing, in relation, to, say, when the incident first occurred?"
I shrug, examining my fingernails. Approximately two weeks ago, in an odd and Capitol-esque quest for amusement, I painted my fingernails. The work was hard and messy, worse than anything that I endured in the Arena. I gained some respect for all of the stylists in the Capitol, and even more respect for Peeta's artistic endeavors, which was slightly annoying because Peeta is already so virtuous and perfect that it's unjust and makes me want to hurl. Among other things, the glittery cream-colored nail varnish remains, and I find it pretty and lovely. In a sense, the color reminds me of Prim, and that comforts me.
"Better," I answer honestly, and he nods.
"That's good to hear." And that's the end of that, because Haymitch understands. If any other girl from District 12 had been Reaped and subjected to the horrors of the past year, such as Delly Cartwright – and no disrespect to Delly or girls like her, because perhaps Panem need more radiant vessels of eternal sunshine to brighten things up—everyone would rush to shower her with patronizing sympathy, and she would embrace the attention wholeheartedly. But I don't want patronizing attention, as Haymitch knows very well. I've had enough attention in the past few months to last me a lifetime, and it will. I just want to return to relative normality. I just want somebody to talk to. I want peace. I want pancakes.
We converse some more as Haymitch cracks eggs, something that he tries to teach me but I fail to grasp as a concept, nearly costing me the state of my dress. I've never really been squeamish, or delicate, for that matter, and both Haymitch and I have a good laugh. In passing, I realize that I haven't felt this good in ages, and I have a feeling that this euphoria could not have come from hanging out with Peeta.
Finally, the batter is whisked—a task that can, in fact, handle, Haymitch, thank you very much—and next comes the best part: flipping pancakes. Haymitch pours the concoction into a sizzling, onyx cast iron pan. The batter is a color reminiscent of District 4's sand and is now dotted with chocolate chips and blueberries and raspberries. I watch, both enchanted and envious, as Haymitch expertly flips a pancake. He scoops up the pancake and places it on a large, ornate plate. The plate is mostly floral, and in the center of a wreath of flowers and greenery reads "Abernathy." I'm certain that there's a story behind the plate, clearly a novelty in District 12, but I'm not particularly concerned. We have time on our side.