Although he's only been here a couple of hours, Haymitch has gone above and beyond what I have ever expected of him upon our return to 12. He stayed. He's up with me, and although we're not talking, he makes for surprisingly good company. He leaves me alone to my own thoughts, and pretends not to hear when an involuntary whimper comes out of me, which make me appreciate him all the more. If Peeta was here, he would try to comfort me and wrap me in his arms, but that's the last thing I want, and Haymitch understands that. I don't want to be weaker than I am. I'm barely a shell of the person I once was.
Peeta. The boy with the bread. The one who saved me and sacrificed himself for me because of his love. Now, because of the Capitol, he can't even remember a time where he didn't desire my death, let alone that he used to love me more than anything in this world.
Maybe it's for the best, I think to myself. Someone as damaged as me can't possibly love him anyway. I can't love even if I tried. I'm undeserving of love. And the acceptance of this, although a little disheartening, relieves me if just for a moment. I can't love, so nobody can hurt me. It's just me and this big, empty house. Me and Haymitch and this big, empty house, I correct myself. My thoughts go to Johanna during the Quarter Quell when she told me, "They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love." They can't hurt me because I can't love. They can't hurt me because I can't love.
I repeat this mantra, gaining strength from the idea that I can't be hurt anymore. The Games are over. There's no one left I love.
Well, of course there's my mom, but she abandoned me in the house for District 4. There's Peeta, but he's so far gone that I may as well forget that he loved me at all. There used to be Gale, but he sacrificed his promises to me to his hatred of the Capitol. No, there is no one left that I love.
Haymitch takes this opportunity to cough, as he took too big of a swig from his bottle. There's Haymitch, I remind myself, but I mentally scoff at the thought. Haymitch is as lovable as a dead slug. Just as I have the charm of one. But lovable or not, Haymitch is here. He stayed with me when no one else would. He takes a long gulp from the bottle, and I can't blame him. I want a drink, too, after today. He's just like me, confronting the ghosts of the past. And I realize that I don't give him enough credit.
Haymitch, who always kept me alive, ensured my survival, is still here. Haymitch, who battled his own way through his very own Quarter Quell and faces the ghosts of dead children every night, knows the pain that I feel. Haymitch, who had his brother, mother, and girlfriend murdered by the Capitol, knows the torment that comes with their obvious absence. Yes, Haymitch is more like me than I realize, but so different. Where I am always questioning people and looking out for my own safety, Haymitch has always looked out for mine and never his own. I like to think that with age and a bottle of white liquor, I would outgrow these selfish tendencies, but I don't think I would. Haymitch is a special soul that truly wants to help me. Compassionate. Just like Prim.
I halt my thoughts immediately. Did I just call Haymitch a special soul? The idea is laughable. No, my mind is too muddled from the lack of morphling and sleep that the past week has brought on. This is my mind telling me that I need to recover. And with that, I tentatively fall into a light sleep with Haymitch's personal rumblings in my ears, knowing that someone is watching out for me.
By the time I wake up, the fire has died out. There are just faintly glowing embers, remnants of that glowing fire from the previous night. Out of the corner of my eye, I see light streaming in from the dusty windows, and I know I just had the first good sleep in a long, long time. I think I was so overtired that my nightmares decided to take a rest for themselves. I'm grateful for that.
The quiet morning is disrupted by pots clanging on the floor and a steady stream of curses from the kitchen. I adjust my sore muscles that cramped up when I slept in the chair and turn around to see what the commotion was. And, to my surprise, Haymitch stands in my kitchen, attempting to make what seemed like eggs and bacon.
The events of last night flooded back to me: how I didn't want Haymitch to leave, how he draped a blanket around my shoulders, how he started a fire in that cold fireplace, how he stayed because he said I needed him. I almost find myself smiling at the thought before I remind myself that smiling is for happy people, not people that assassinated the president and have ruined so many people's lives that I can't possibly count them all. That successfully brings a scowl to my face.
Haymitch, of course, looks up from his task at that moment and sees me scowling at him from my position in my chair, and I find myself a little bit embarrassed. I attempt to compose my face into a stoic mask and nod my greetings to him. "Good morning, sunshine," he says gruffly, and resumes cooking. And despite his mildly clumsy movements, I realize he knows what he's doing.
Of course, brainless, he's lived alone for years. Of course he knows how to cook, let alone make a meal of bacon and eggs. But I get up to assist him nonetheless. Without a word, I slide up next to him, his blanket still around my shoulders, and nudge my hip against his, signaling for him to move out of the way. I catch Haymitch's surprised glance he throws in my direction, and I can't help a smirk grow on my lips from his reaction. He moves out of my way indulgently, and occupies himself with finding us glasses of water and some plates. I'm surprised that he's up at a decent hour and not already drunk.
Before long, breakfast is underway and I find us both eating at the table in silence. I'm content to continue on this way, until Haymitch coughs and I know he wants to say something. I look up from my plate slowly, allowing him a brief moment of my attention. He coughs again and he rubs the back of his neck as he searches for the right words to convey what he needs to say. I want to tell him to stop being so delicate, to just spit it out because I can handle it, but I don't. Because part of me knows that I am fragile and I can't handle it, but I pointedly ignore this.
"So I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to be staying here for a couple of days, maybe weeks," Haymitch says slowly, gauging my reaction. I allow no emotion to cross my face, but I silently wonder why he's even bothered to stay in this house, let alone inform me of his plans. He never has before.
As if reading my mind, he continues, "I promised your mother I'd look out for you, and I think you'd admit that it would be much easier to do my job if I do it where you're close by." I don't remind him that he lives a house away and he's just going to drink himself into oblivion no matter where he is, but I don't press the issue. I simply look back down at my plate and resume my little bites and attempts at eating.
He lets out an audible sigh from my lack of responses and finishes off his food before taking it to the sink. He must not like to dirty other people's homes on the first day, I muse, letting my mind wander to his trashed, disgusting home. I hear Haymitch walk around the kitchen for a while before he takes his bag near the door and hauls it up the stairs to one of the many unused bedrooms in the house. They weren't always this way, and I begin to cry at the thought.
By the time Haymitch comes back down the stairs with his familiar scowl in place, I'm a wreck. I'm slumped lifelessly over the table, creating pools of salt water on its surface, and I can't bring myself to care. Through the tears, I see Haymitch's expression soften, and before I can blubber out a protest, I'm in his arms again. He's drawing repetitive circles on my back with his hand in an attempt at calming me down. I inhale deeply before I choke out another sob, and I can't help but notice the tinge of spice and trees and a natural musk that surround him underneath the smell of liquor. I almost can't hear him over my own sob, but as he's smoothing my hair out, I hear him whisper into my hair, "You and me, sweetheart. You and me."
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