A.N. - Add the (www. youtube . com ) before the two bits below and get the videos. Trust me, it'll help a lot for this story! Hope you enjoy it!
watch?v=n4JD-3-UAzM This is the first piece that Haymitch plays…pay attention to what the guy looks like. ;)
watch?v=w7djN9T9Oqk Start at 8:25 for the song, The Hanging Tree.
Note by Note
Haymitch is drunk again, so I am staying with him. He needs someone to keep an eye on him when he gets this bad. From where I sit in the kitchen I can hear him stumbling around like a blind man in the next room over. I let out a sigh and take another sip of the bottle that I've been nursing for the past hour or so.
At least he's keeping the destruction to one room.
I wait a long while. Several long minutes pass, during which I hear a variety curses that I have not heard before and hear a few more things breaking…
…and then silence.
To be honest, the silence worries me the most. At least with the sound of all the stumbling I knew he was still alive. The silence makes me wonder if he has fallen down and, quite possibly, committed inadvertent suicide through the act of purposely abusing and destroying his liver.
Of course, I've been suspecting for some time that that is his overall goal.
But I hope not.
I would miss having him around.
So now I find myself standing up and walking to the doorway, kicking an empty glass bottle out of my way, briefly wondering how long it's been since he's had anyone clean his place, but put it to the back of my mind as I step into the living room…and find him in an unlikely place.
He is sitting at the piano bench at the piano in the back corner of the room. His drink is on the floor, forgotten, and I am not sure if he has even noticed that I am in the room.
"Haymitch…?"
He doesn't look up at me, and instead presses a finger to one of the white keys, a solitary clear note sounding too loud in the silent room, and I am dimly aware of the fact that the keys are not covered in dust, which they should be. I step a bit closer, wondering if he's heard me, my hand out, ready to touch his shoulder to bring him back to reality, but he suddenly replies.
"I play…did…di'you know that?"
His voice is slurred because of the alcohol, and I can tell that he's had more than he usually does because of it. Whenever he was drunk around me and Peeta, the one thing that he never did was slur his words.
I shake my head and move a bit closer and say, "No. I didn't know."
He tried to nod, but it comes across as a roll of his head on his shoulders instead of an actual nod, and he plunks out the same note a second time.
He then swings his head up to me, his Seam-gray eyes lazily locking onto mine, clouded over from the alcohol, and says, his voice thickly laced with bitterness, "It was my talent as a Victor…I was considered a prodigy…"
He plays a few simple notes, stringing them together nicely, and then, taking me by surprise, he surges into to a strong piece that I have never heard before, and I can't help but be overwhelmed by the sheer power of it. It's stirring and seems to evoke strong memories, and my hand falls to his shoulder as I stare at his fingers flowing effortlessly over the keys.
I manage to hold in my sound of shock and simply listen.
The sound makes me think of something large, something expansive, like the wave that washed over me in the second arena, and then comes down to rush around my ankles.
The piece is long…
…and I just listen.
When he finishes, he looks back up at me and slurs out, "Surprised, sweetheart?"
I can't lie to him.
"Yes, I am." I sit down next to him and play a couple of meager notes, which seem to be next to nothing compared to what he has just played and nudge his shoulder with my own and say, "Scoot over a bit, you ol' drunk."
He nearly falls over at the small motion, but does as I ask and moves over a couple of inches, reaching down and grabbing his drink from the floor.
I roll my eyes and randomly play a small melody that I remember, but as I do he puts down the bottle on top of the piano and gives me a look, his eyes less blurred and more focused than I've seen them all night.
"Now why would you play that, sweetheart?"
I am confused and stop playing, my hands dropping to my lap.
"Play what?"
He looks at me and snorts.
"You're playing the Hanging Tree," he says, not reaching for the bottle, and I am surprised that he hasn't grabbed at it to take another drink. He reaches an arm in front of me and finishes the tune, playing the full harmony effortlessly and then says, "Talk about a sobering song."
He looks back at me and gives me another serious look and then asks, "How'd you learn it?"
I am quiet for a long moment.
And then I say…
"My father. When…when he was teaching me how to shoot outside of the fence, in the woods."
He continues to stare at me and as I chance a look back up at him, I can practically see the alcohol leaving him, as though the sound of the song has literally turned him sober in a matter of minutes. Even though I don't believe that it actually could, it is hard to deny its' effects when I see them so readily before me.
"Do you know all the words, sweetheart?"
I nod.
"Yes."
He reaches up and hands me the bottle that he'd been drinking and begins to play the song again and arches an eyebrow at me, obviously inviting me to accompany him. After a few bars of his playing, I slowly join in, my voice is shaky at first but becomes stronger as I watch and listen to him play.
"…Are you, are you coming to the tree? Where they strung up a man they say murdered three…Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…"
He plays a bit further and I start the second verse… "Are you, are you coming to the tree? Where the dead man called out for his love to flee…Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…"
On the third verse, however, my voice cracks on the phrase, "Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free," and I find myself unable to continue.
However, I am surprised when he picks up the words on the fourth and final verse, "Are you, are you coming to the tree? Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…"
He has a pleasant voice…more than pleasant, actually, and I wish that I had the chance to hear him sing a bit longer.
The air is filled with an uncomfortable tension, and I lean back slightly, unsure of whether or not I should move.
I stay.
Finally, I manage to say, "You have a nice voice…"
He absently nods.
"So do you."
We sit there for a long time; I don't know how long we sit there, but the next thing I know, there is a faint light shining across the piano keys. At first I think it's sunlight, but my body tells me that it's the middle of the night, so it can't be…and that's when I realize that it's moonlight.
Moonlight on a piano.
There's something about that phrase that reminds me of the old poetry books that we used to read in school, and I feel my chest tighten.
Haymitch suddenly moves at that moment and then begins to play something that sounds like the moment that we're in, poignant and sharp that only seems to emphasize the feeling in my chest.
I look at him and I am about to ask him what it is, but he cuts me off with a scathing glance before I even can get one word out, so I merely grab the drink from on top of the piano and take a swig from the bottle that he's been drinking. After taking a drink, I lick my lips, tasting something else on them that isn't the liquor, but is slightly more bitter and sweet at the same time, and I realize, in that moment, that I am tasting Haymitch, his taste left on the rim of the bottle.
He plays a bit more and then slowly finishes, while I decide whether or not I like the flavor he left behind. After a moment, I decide I do.
A pause.
"Fitting," I finally say, unable to think of anything else to say to him.
Again, we fall into silence.
But this time, it's comfortable.
As I sit next to him, his drink in my hand, I find that I am expecting him to reach over and take the bottle from me; just swipe it from my fingers and drink down every last drop before succumbing to unconsciousness and sleeping it off on the couch, but he doesn't go for it.
Instead, his eyes seemed to be trained on the side of my face. I don't turn my head, but I can feel him staring at me. It should feel strange, wrong, and altogether too personal, but instead I find it comfortable, just like the silence that stretches between us, and I suddenly find myself hoping that he will do something. That he will find a way to bridge the gap that gapes between us like an impossible expanse of open air between two distant cliffs.
I feel him move and find myself holding my breath as he turns his body towards mine…and then he gently pries the bottle from my fingers and the butterflies in my chest turn to lead, plummeting.
He just wants a drink, of course.
I start to turn away, but then I feel firm fingers grip my shoulder and he pulls me back around to face him, and that is when I see that he has put the bottle on the floor once more. He looks at me and I can't breathe. He is staring at me with a look that I cannot put my finger on.
"Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?" he whispers hoarsely, and suddenly the butterflies return, their wings twice as rapid as I see him leaning in.
I concentrate on his eyes for as long as I can, until everything blurs as he presses his lips to mine.
Part 1/2