I wake up, the most comfortable and rested I have been in a long time. Too comfortable to move, in fact. But when I try to raise a hand to rub my eyes, I realize I can't move. Before panic sets in, I register the feel of a pair of strong arms encircling me, pinning me down at my waist.
My thoughts immediately go to Peeta, but I scold myself for even thinking of him. He's in the Capitol, he hates me, he has moved on. I moved on. He can't possible be the strong, warm body keeping me in place in my bed.
I finally turn my aching neck to look up and see Haymitch looking worriedly down at me. Worried that I'm going to slip away to my catatonic state for months again. I conclude that I don't like this look on him.
I give him an indulgent smile as I say, "No nightmares this time," and he gives me a real smile back. That looks better.
"Me neither," he rumbles. We lie in bed for a while, enjoying each other's company and the feeling that comes with rest. He disturbs it when he says, "Your mom's worried about you. She hasn't talked to you in months."
A small frown appears on my face as he says this. My mom is still in District 4 because she's proven herself as an invaluable asset to the new hospital. "I'll call her later," I promise, and I mean it. Bringing up my mom makes me miss her terribly and it is too early to deal with this level of hurt. I settle back into his embrace and cling to the last scraps of peace.
Haymitch, however, has other ideas. "Peeta has made progress, too," he continues casually, wanting to observe my reaction. I don't give him the satisfaction and merely hum my acknowledgment.
After a while, though, I speak up. "You were right, you know," I tell him.
He looks smug as he says, "Sweetheart, I'm always right. You're going to have to be a bit more specific." The grin he wears couldn't be wider. And although he's pissing me off, it's good to see that cunning smile.
I snort at his arrogance. "Of course you are. But he'll never be the same. He can't be, with all that he's gone through."
He stops his act and holds me closer as I say this, and I let him. I forgot how much I've missed human contact. "None of us are the same," he mumbles and I can't help but silently agree with him. The Games, The Quarter Quell, the war. How could anyone be unaffected?
At this point, we begin a little game to distract us from the pain we share. No one can really understand me like Haymitch does. We go back and forth, asking each other pointless questions until they're not so pointless anymore. Kind of like what one of my doctors said to me so long ago. Start with the simple things, then go to the more complex. But I think Haymitch went along with it just to indulge me.
Our game started innocently enough. He asked me what my favorite color was, to which I said red. I asked him how old he is, to which he said 41 and he laughed when I said he didn't look it. He asked me what my favorite season was and I said spring, to which he countered summer. Then, the questions became gradually more complicated.
"Are you okay?" I ask and he smiles wearily, the smile not reaching his bloodshot eyes. I guess that question can mean so many things to him. This is much too complicated.
"I'm getting there," he says and I want to laugh at the simplicity of such a statement. Of course he's getting there. We're all trying to get there.
It's his turn now. "Why did you start talking again?" he asks me curiously. I hesitate, thinking about how truthfully I want to answer him. As I look up to his eyes, I see that sharp steel that wasn't there earlier. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see that familiar spark.
Without thinking, I respond, "Your eyes." He looks at me questioningly and I'm a little embarrassed. I decide to elaborate before he can draw any conclusions. "They looked like you were in pain." He grimaces slightly and I want nothing more than to change the subject, upset that those eyes crinkle from my words. So I do.
"Why don't you leave me with Greasy Sae or some other attendant? Don't you want to go live your life?" He thinks about it and I'm sure he doesn't know the answer himself. Or he doesn't want to tell me.
"For years I led kids to their deaths and I could do nothing to help them," he starts after a moment. "I'm not letting you go, too." And because I know that's not the reason why he is staying, or he's keeping something away from me, I don't say anything. "Why aren't you upset over Peeta?"
"I am," I tell him. "But it's better for both of us if I just move on. He has. And I think I have, too." I speak like he's never going to recover, like he's gone forever. He probably is, all because of those days of Capitol torture and hijacking. Or maybe he's just realized how unlovable and damaged I really am. And as Haymitch rubs a familiar circle on my arm and nestles my hair with his chin, I wonder if he has ever loved somebody. So I ask.
He stops his motions immediately, which I distinctly regret because it was soothing. I feel his tense muscles around me. I think he muttered something about hard questions and he didn't say anything else. I am about to apologize until he says firmly, "Yes."
"Who?"
"It's my turn now. Don't be a rule breaker," he says with a knowing smile. It's quickly replaced with a serious expression so I feel my face copying his. "Do you still hate me?" he asks and I want to laugh at the thought. Hate him? How could he ever think that? But by his expression, this has been weighing down on him, so I stuff my laugh back in and take a second to compose myself.
"No," I say decidedly and he relaxes at my response. "I like your company," I continue before I can stop myself. "You're one of my best friends and you know me better than anyone else. Sure, you irritate the living hell out of me sometimes, but I guess I bother you, too." I end my confession with a sense of finality, but I add in a whisper, "Thank you for coming back with me."
He holds me closer to him and his warmth. I'm becoming sleepy although I just had a full rest. I still haven't forgotten my question, though.
"Who?" I slur, fighting to keep my eyes open. He doesn't respond, but traces invisible circles on my back, hoping to lull me into sleep. It works.
I don't know how much time passed between my question and the dream-like answer. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours. I was much too tired to open my eyes. I felt the slightest pressure on my forehead and realized it was his lips because I hear him say above me, "Always the last to know." This doesn't make sense to me, so I write it off as the beginning of a dream. It has to be a dream.
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