You hunger for it.

You crave it, the bitterness on your tongue, the burning down your throat, and the blanks you drawl in it's haze. It's been weeks, or maybe even months, and you can't stand it.

Finnick calls you insane for wanting more of it, because it ate you from the insane out, and continues every second that you don't have more.

Haymitch is just as bad.

The shakes he gets, the throbs in his head, migraines, aches. He's hurt, and burning from the inside-out. He needs it, you need it, like you both need air.

So you make arrangements.

When Finnick asks you why you're heading to the infirmary, you snap a quick excuse of a headache and go on your way.

You weren't completely lying. Your head pounded, throbbing and shaking you to your core. You needed something to calm the damned thing down with, and fast.

You pass the right man on your way to said infirmary.

"Haymitch."

All it takes is a hiss between your teeth, and glint in your eyes, and he's trailing behind you like a lost mutt. A lost mutt with a crooked smile, greasy hair, and the largest beer gut you've ever seen.

Haymitch isn't much. Now, anyways. Whatever left of his broken soul and sanity has withered away, thanks to time and alcohol. You don't blame him, even without being in the games, you find yourself shuffling back into the infirmary, stealing bottles of medical alcohol, and taking off down to your dorms; the blonde, older male running along after you.

So you shuffled closer to the cabinets, snapping at one of the more nosy workers when she questions you.

"Do you /know/ who I am?"

The young female's pretty, big brown eyes widen, and she quickly goes back to work. A pity, really, one that young working in a hospital. She only looked about fourteen.

Your age when you began working in docks.

Drawling out three large, brown bottles of the medical grade, concentrated alcohol, you slip them into your satchel; before slipping out smoothly. They won't notice. They never do.

You could care less if they did.

What would they do, make you the Mockingjay?

You make your way through the winding halls, until you reach your dorm. It's too white here, you can smell it the few times you head out of your dorm, most of the time to Finnick's.

When you open in, the smell of sea fills your nostrils, and you hiss.

"Get the fuck out."

Finnick doesn't look phased, just grins from his position at your desk, and you grumble for the broken man behind you to shut the damn door.

When it closes, Haymitch, haggard and weary, falls against your bed; effectively covering the entire mattress with his broad chest, and muscular arms. You throw one of the bottles at his head, and frown when it hits his shoulder instead.

"You're going to get caught one day, and get in a lot of trouble-"

"I know, I'm hoping."

It's bitter on your lips, but you get through half a glass before you start to feel dizzy, fuzziness enveloping your brain, and covering you with sweet, sweet oblivion. You wish you could always feel this way, honestly. It's better than holding Finnick, or watching squids squirm as you rip them apart. It's beautiful, as colors burst around you, vivid and robust.

You're so buzzed, you can feel the sweet substance vibrating through your veins, flashing through your arteries, combusting into your heart.

It's warm, fuzzy, as you lean against the table; the bottle barely hanging off your fingertips. You don't feel guilty in the slightest; whoever was injured, needed this less than you.

Haymitch flashes a thankful smile, which you reflect. He stuffs the rest of the bottle into his jacket pocket, stands, and shuffles off to his own dorms, probably to sulk, or sleep. Both options sound equally charming to you, at the moment.

"You're going to drink your life away."

"That's the plan."

"You're so apathetic. It's pitiful, such a pretty face going to waste. You're going to turn out like Haymitch-unable to control yourself."

"Haymitch has helped me more than you ever have."

It doesn't hurt, or sting when you hiss it. Usually, the regret of such words would overwhelm you, especially when aimed at a person like Finnick. But now, you can just feel numbness, coursing through your veins, as making you almost vibrate.

"By giving you alcohol?"

"I've already had alcohol. I worked in a fish-yard my whole damned life. I went home with sailors, of course I've known alcohol. It's my longest, possibly only friend."

"What this all about, Dosi? Is it a cry for help-"

"Nothing is. Don't call me that, it isn't my name."

How stupid. Finnick believes you're hurting inside. Well, of course you are. You're burning, aching, your insides are coursing with flames and singing you slowly. It hurts, as you feel the water source, the end of your suffering is but a few feet away.

You know what it is.

He does too.

"Dosidicus, don't do this to yourself."

"Leave me to myself, and my friend." You pull the brown bottle closer, narrowing dull grey eyes at the male, who sighes, and stands.

When the door closes, and you're alone, you feel hot, wet tears drip down your face and neck, and you shake with not only rage, but sadness as well.