Hellbent

by Elven Heart993

"The fourth Tribute for District 12, is….." Haymitch's eyelids flickered closed again, and his heart beat painfully loud. His name was in there so many times ease not him. "Haymitch Abernathy!" First chapters rewritten. Expanded into multi-chapter story. Rated M for violence. Complete.

6. Part Six

Hellbent

Part Six

In the first eight years of Haymitch's mentoring career, he'd worked with three different escorts. They came and they went and he was glad to see the last of each one. Haymitch Abernathy represented the opposite of what the Capitol did. He despised the heels, the wigs and the make-up that wouldn't look out of place on a clown and even though it certainly wasn't as often as it could be, he couldn't stomach being in such close quarters with a woman who barely seemed to care for the children whom she marched to the Capitol every year. Granted, two of them had seemed genuinely upset watching the Tributes die, but that wasn't enough to redeem them to Haymitch.

After twelve years, and twenty-four lost Tributes, Haymitch had lost hope. It pained him more and more to be dragged out onto that stage and approaching twenty-nine, he barely attended a Reaping sober anymore.
His personal hygiene was steadily going downhill; he didn't often shave, left his hair to grow and the liquor and sleepless nights were beginning to make him look older than he was already. His dark, and altogether gloomy, home was constantly littered with empty bottles that once held the liquor he had become dependent on and the only cheer he found was passing a bottle back and forth with Chaff during the Hunger Games. He hadn't had a good night's sleep since he could remember, and could barely even remember a time he didn't keep a knife under his pillow or on his person at all times. Now his dreams were not only of Aiden and his mother, and Sienna, but the Tributes that he prepared for the slaughter.
After District Two's Enobaria had ripped open her final opponent's throat with her own teeth in order to win the 62nd Hunger Games, Haymitch made a vow to himself. He would actively try to distance himself from the Tributes. While his vain efforts to offer some kind of advice diminished each year, he had still been trying and he still cared. He might never get off the train the Capitol had put him on for the first time twelve years ago, but he could stop letting himself be hurt every day. It wasn't worth the pain.

And so, when the Tributes for the 63rd Hunger Games were Reaped and marched onto the train, Haymitch didn't appear voluntarily to talk to them. He stayed in the bar car, spinning a glass around on its rim and glaring at his own reflection peering back a himt in the glass. When he heard his name being called he sighed and tried to ignore it. It didn't work and five minutes later he was all but being dragged out by the ear by the escort into the car where the tributes waited for him. He wasn't sober, but he wasn't half as drunk as he had been at this time before.

"Okay, okay, whatever. Let me go, woman." He snapped, pulling his sleeve out of her grip and dropping down into the chair opposite the children.
He stared at each of them in turn and they stared back, at least the girl did. The boy stared at the floor more than anything.

Haymitch smacked his lips and after a long silence he spoke. "Well you've got a mentor so you're a damn sight better off than I was." He started, which didn't seem to make a difference anyway. "I'm not sayin' you have much of a chance." He added, and again, neither of them flinched. At least they both looked readily resigned to death.

Haymitch left them with that less than cheery note.

In the days before the Games, the District Twelve party never saw Haymitch sober. He was too drunk to throw a knife straight, too drunk to give any distinguishable advice and certainly too drunk to care what the scores were.

If only that were entirely true. He did care, but the liquor put a nice smooth mask over it all and he was able to conceal any emotions so well he couldn't even tell himself.

Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let anyone in. That had become his philosophy in life.

When Gloss from District One killed both of Haymitch's Tributes on his way to victory, Haymitch only deepened his frown and downed another half bottle at once on camera. It cut deeper than he would allow it to show anymore.

He was obliged to accompany each coffin home every year, but he no longer tried to console the families. He knew there would be no consoling them, they had lost their children and that was too much to expect them to bear like the Capitol did. He went directly home and shut himself away to drink.

A rare thing happened that night, Haymitch willingly emerged from his house that very night. It was rare enough to see him out for long at all, let alone just after he'd brought two more dead children home.
He wandered the streets of the District, past the Hob, just after the sun had gone down swinging a bottle of white liquor between two fingers at his side. Every few yards he would pause and take a swig from the bottle. Haymitch hummed a meaningless tune to himself and even whistled-albeit badly-, his eyes clouded over from the liquor. His knife rested at his belt on the other side, dirty and still stained with a few flecks of his own blood where he'd caught his own hand as he woke swinging from a nightmare.
Someone shoved past him and Haymitch half turned with a glare and a grunt. "Watch it." He snapped, and lifted the bottle back to his lips. He was almost thirty now, and had been drinking heavily for almost ten years, had been a kind of hermit for over thirteen years. There were still a surprising amount of people out in the Districts. In this place, many people were in their homes by nightfall, but not so today. What did he care what they did? He cared about as much as they cared about him.

Haymitch stopped and leaned back against an old wooden fence that was beginning to rot away with age. Two Peacekeepers in their protective white armour passed him and one nodded very briefly to him, a greeting which Haymitch responded to far less than courteously at the top of his lungs.

He laughed cold and hard at himself, he'd forgotten what it was like to laugh genuinely, and threw his head back. He promptly stumbled sideways and had to catch himself before he fell over his own feet. Then he heard it to his right, and Haymitch drunkenly turned on the spot all the way to the left to see, the dull thud of a hard, armoured hand making contact with flesh and the muffled groan that followed.
Someone was causing trouble with the Peacekeepers.

Squinting to focus better, Haymitch followed the sound, unusually curious, until he rounded the corner and saw the source of the noise. Evidently, someone had been caught stealing, and a beating on the spot was found a suitable punishment.

"Hey!" He called out, successfully preventing a hard kick to the man's ribs with his distraction. He lifted the hand holding the bottle and held it out in front of him, as though he were scolding the men. "That's bullying. I'll tell the mayor on ya." His slur carried an almost laughing tone as a drunken grin spread across his face. He was looking for a fight. There was little doubt about that.

"Not your concern, Mr. Abernathy, go on home while you can still use your own feet!" The bigger man called, drawing himself to his full height.

"I understand your methods." Haymitch rolled his eyes as he came closer with heavy footsteps and the man on the ground started to pick himself up and skulk off. "I don't concern myself with much anymore 'cause of them. I just wanted ta have my say tonight…permission to speak?" He added sarcastically as an afterthought and promptly threw out a punch toward the nearest Peacekeeper's stomach.
His fist made contact with only armour but the force from the blow was enough to take the man off guard and give Haymitch the chance to throw him to the ground with some effort. He was forcibly dragged home bleeding at the head and with a twisted wrist. And had given far more than he got.

xxxXxxx

At thirty-four years old, Haymitch had become much colder, and his skin had become harder than ever. He barely bothered to grunt at the Tributes now, year after year and maintained his distance from them. They would never win and when he did speak to them, that was all he said, telling them to accept the fact they were going to die in a few days.

Barely anything he owned was clean now, save for the clothes the stylists for District Twelve had prepared for the mentor every year during the Hunger Games-which very quickly became ruined themselves-and he didn't eat properly, preferring to drink instead.
He went through two more Escorts which he had actively begun to try to drive away. The last one he'd been drunk enough to strip naked and climb into her bed. As planned, she was sufficiently disgusted enough to scream, slap him and quit on the spot.

That year, the year of the 68th Hunger Games became particularly hard for Haymitch. Just as he thought he was learning to distance himself quite effectively and refrain from getting attached to the Tributes, who should be Reaped, but Mauve Harford. Thatcher Harford's fourteen year old daughter and Sienna's niece she never knew.

Haymitch's drunken heart dropped and he obliviously got to his feet on the stage as Mauve made her way up. The outraged cries of her father echoed in Haymitch's ears and his eyes darted around the crowd.

"Haymitch. Haymitch!"

Someone was hissing his name and he peered around blearily until his eyes finally focussed on the escort glaring at him. He had wandered toward the middle of the stage, near the bowl containing all the boys names unintentionally. Disregarding the hissed instructions to sit back down, Haymitch's eyes alighted on Mauve and he swallowed a thick lump. Suddenly, the man growled and in a fit of drunken anger he upset the bowl containing the names of the boys before one could be picked and roughly grabbed the escort by her shoulders. This rightfully terrified the woman and she couldn't have looked more shocked as Haymitch glared at her as if she had Reaped his own child.
"How dare you!" He roared, his words slurring somewhat and barely aware of what he was doing. "Coward!" The name wasn't directed at her, but at the whole Capitol. "Cowards!" He roared again and was forced to let her go as two Peacekeepers dragged him back by the arms and hauled the disgraced Victor off the stage.

Haymitch spent the first hours on the train in his room curled up on the floor, haunted by memories of Sienna again and clutching a bottle in his hands. It was strange when he took a second to think about it in his drunken state. Many of the people he grew up with were married and had families of their own now, some had children of Reaping age already, whether they wanted children in this world or not. And Haymitch had closed all doors and severed all ties he had with anyone, vowing never to love again.

He didn't emerge until the following morning, pale and very hungover to see the Tributes. He didn't know what to do anymore. Mauve Harford was Sienna's niece, and Thatcher's, who had never ceased to hold Haymitch responsible for his sister's death, daughter. She was a little, pretty girl of fourteen who wouldn't stand a chance without help. The boy might, he was a relatively strong looking boy of eighteen. But he didn't care for the moment about trying to help him. Haymitch stood in the doorway, while both Tributes looked up at him from the dining table with a look that clearly said "We know you won't help us, why are you here?"

They had definitely heard about Haymitch, everyone in the District knew about Haymitch, the District drunk who started fights in the street and didn't bother to train the Tributes. The man who didn't care. They were probably right, he probably wouldn't help them, but the idea of sending Sienna's niece to the hanging tree without so much as trying to help her made Haymitch feel sick.
"Be uh….make people like you." He managed, still holding his flask of liquor at this early hour. "You have to make people like you, I can't get your sponsors if you don't."

That sentence alone was the most advice he had given any tribute in years, and it was all he managed to give now. Composing himself, Haymitch grunted and left the cabin again.

Haymitch sat tensely beside Chaff as the Tribute parade was about to commence, the pair of victors passing a bottle back and forth between them. Another few minutes and the parade began. The cheering began, people threw roses toward the Districts that made the best impression and right at the end…District Twelve. At first it looked like they were dressed in skin tight black suits to represent coal, but no, they were stark naked and covered head to toe in black dust. They were as exposed to the Capitol as they would be in the arena, what was wrong with these stylists?

Easton at least kept a stony face, he made an impression and showed no signs of being deterred by his lack of attire. As soon as the parade was over and the Tributes teams met up with them again, the tributes from District One, arrayed in fine shades of gold and silver, laughed and eyed District Twelve like they would a steak.
"Put somethin' on, kid." Haymitch growled, taking his jacket off and looking firmly in the other direction as he passed it to Mauve who was all but trembling with humiliation. The most charitable thing he remembered doing for a long time.

xxxXxxx

The Games began, Haymitch drank, and the Tributes were thrown in. Easton ran for the Cornucopia, and got away killing one Tribute and escaping with a bag whilst Mauve fled.

In the penthouse apartment, Haymitch stared at the screen, bottle in hand and the fingers of his free hand drumming on the couch beside him. He wanted so badly for Mauve Harford to survive the games, even if her chances were virtually non-existent…but would it be worth it if she did live? Or would she just have to face what he did? There was no getting off the train once you became a Victor.

She died on the third day, hunted down by three Careers.

Haymitch took that death hard. He stopped watching the Games, though Easton was still alive and spent days holed up in his room, drinking and hurling empty bottles at the wall. When Haymitch finally did emerge, his eyes were bloodshot and he staggered into the bathroom, staring accusingly at the mirror. He saw nothing but hatred in the mirror now and with an angry roar, he shattered it.

He hated himself, he couldn't look at himself. This was what he did, he got attached to people, he felt guilty and they died because he couldn't stop it. He was just leaving himself more and more open to being hurt. If his family were alive, they'd never forgive him for this.
In a drunken episode, that Haymitch wouldn't remember later, he willingly saw the stylists.

He woke shouting and hyperventilating on the couch of the apartment, swinging his blade wildly and nearly skewering the escort who had handed in her resignation after the Reaping and would no longer be working for District 12 after the conclusion of the Games.

"Haymitch Abernathy! You despicable beast, what have you done!" She snapped, stamping her feet and keeping her distance from him now. "Never mind, it doesn't matter-We're going to be late. Clean yourself up."

Haymitch muttered several names loud enough for her to hear and clutched at his head. Something felt bizarre in his skull, not like the usual migraine that accompanied a hangover. He pushed himself up clumsily to his feet and swayed unsteadily before he dragged himself over to peer in the large mirror adorning the wall of the living area.
He swore loudly and took a step back, wide eyed at his reflection. What had he done? His hair had been trimmed some, now a less untidy length around his ears, but….it was blonde too. With some difficulty, he managed to recall talking to the stylists and….then some kind of needle. He cringed at the thought, that was why his scalp tingled. Had he just permanently bleached his own hair? With Capitol products? Yes. Yes he had.

Well….he no longer looked like himself at least.

xxxXxxx

Haymitch didn't accompany the coffins home that year. The train pulled into the empty station and the coffins were unloaded, and Haymitch shoved his way back to the Victor's Village. The Games weren't the only things streamed to the Districts, the progress of each District's team and mentor was also followed. He could imagine what the District was saying about him. People would say that he had gone Capitol himself now. That he had given in, and he didn't care at all what they said behind his back. But if they said it to his face, he would tell them where that theory could go. Haymitch Abernathy was the last person to willingly go "Capitol".

The moment the door slammed shut behind him, Haymitch groaned and buried his face in his hands where they soon crept up and fisted into his hair. He stayed like that, drunken and guilt-ridden for hours, until the knocking of a devastated father roused him from the abyss he was falling back into.

"Abernathy! Come out here you coward…" The anger in Thatcher's voice dissolved as quickly as it had first sounded, into sobs of his own and Haymitch wasn't sure what possessed him, but he dragged himself to the door, an almost empty bottle swinging at his side. He opened it, just enough for half of him to be visible.

"You knew she was gonna die." He said, his voice was nearly void of all emotion but his eyes were dim and sadder than they had been for some time.

Thatcher Harford, shocked that Haymitch Abernathy had willingly opened his door, glared at him fiercely with red rimmed eyes as he composed himself. He had never forgiven his sister's death, and rightly so.
"You could have tried…and I actually thought you would try with her." He hissed, his fists shaking as he tried to keep himself composed. "Or have you forgotten completely? Did you drink away any respect you have for memory like your old man did?"

Haymitch's grey eyes flashed with something and the door swung all the way open as his free hand shot out and gripped the older man by his collar. "Don't you come here and say that to me. I know." His shoulder slumped and his grip slackened and after a few seconds, his hand dropped to his side. "Leave me alone, Thatcher, get out."

"No. No you don't understand! She was my daughter, she was my little girl, you take them all to their deaths now and you don't even try to help them!"

"And who tried to help me, Harford?! Those kids are a damn sight better off accepting that they're going to die and you know it." Haymitch growled, lifting the bottle up to his lips and taking another drink. The bottle flew out of his hands and smashed on the ground before Haymitch knew Thatcher had even raised a hand.

Grey, Seam eyes flashed and the Victor lashed out. He wasn't in prime condition by any stretch, but Haymitch still had his strength and he grabbed the man by his collar again and lifted him off the ground, pushing him back.
"Don't ever do that again." He snarled and his hand twitched for the knife at his side defensively as Thatcher staggered to collect himself and looked at the Victor with a mixture of aggression and sadness. Haymitch grunted. "Your daughter's better dead than she would have been winnin' anyway. Take it from me." He spat. And it was true. Barely a day went by when Haymitch didn't think he would have been better off dying in the Games. It would have saved more lives, and it would have spared him all the pain that had followed him for years.
Before he could be threatened, Haymitch turned on his heel and slammed the door. The lock clicked behind him and he fumbled around for a new bottle of liquor before his heavy, hard footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs even from outside.

That was the year of the fateful mine explosion which killed many workers. Among them, were Thatcher Harford and Miles Everdeen.

xxxXxxx

The year of the 69th Hunger Games introduced Haymitch Abernathy to Effie Trinket. She was as Capitol as any of them just from looking at her. As made up and falsified as the rest of them with heels that could kill.
He turned up drunk to the Reaping, as was his usual practice, and all but slept through the proceedings and ignored Effie's attempts to introduce herself properly on the train. Instead, when the Tributes were still in the room he made a face and scowled at her. His now blonde hair hung limp and greasy around his ears.

As had become his tradition, he made every effort to repulse, or insult the escort into quitting the post. Effie seemed to have a particular hang up about manners and Haymitch played on that as much as he could, eating his meals with his hands like an animal and belching and drinking at the table with no concern whatsoever.

The beginning of the Games meant the beginning of the mentor and escort's duties to garner sponsors. Something which Effie, to her credit, tried her very best to do, while Haymitch made immediately for the open bar where Chaff hailed him by holding up the stump of his arm.

"Mitch!" The big man bellowed, taking one look at Haymitch's hair as his fellow drunk approached and bursting out laughing. "The hell is that? You look like a beach boy from Four."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up it's been a year."

Chaff laughed and clapped Haymitch on the back as he slid onto a stool and tried to crouch away from Effie's searching eyes.

"Speakin' of beach boys, get a load'a Odair…over'dere." Chaff chuckled at his own pun and nodded to the usual crowd that surrounded the young Victor from Four.

Only seventeen years old now, Finnick Odair had won the 65th Games at only fourteen as a Career Tribute. And the boy had been, and was still among the Capitol's most adored Victors immediately. Each Victor, upon their victory, was presented with the possibility that the Capitol might "require their services" and that if they did not heed the call, a suitable punishment would be enacted. As an exceptionally handsome victor, it was a common assumption among the other Victors that even so young, Finnick Odair was one those whose presence was frequently requested, along with Cashmere from District One who had won the 64th. It was disgusting. They must have some leverage over him.

That was what Haymitch had been an example for. For the young Victors to see what happened if they did not cooperate during and after the Games, Haymitch knew that was exactly what he was. He knew it every time he saw Snow's vile face.

Now, as always, Finnick was surrounded by a throng of sponsors and Capitol citizens keen to pledge their support to the Tributes of District Four, and seemingly lapping it up like a dog with a charming smile that broke girls' hearts.

Chaff too had a new escort who had been assigned to District Eleven and the pair of mentors spent their time at the open bar comparing notes. At least Chaff did, Haymitch merely grunted and drank, letting his friend prattle on only half drunkenly.

"At least yours is young and kinda looks good. Mine won't shut up for two seconds and she screeches like a cat."

Haymitch let out a harsh laugh of his own and turned on his stool to try and see what Chaff meant. "You think she does? Seen her dress tonight? She looks like a cabbage." A thought crossed his mind and Haymitch smirked as Effie looked at him through the crowd, snapped her fingers and started to stride toward him with pursed lips.

He leaned over to whisper something to Chaff who grinned and turned around too as Effie Trinket came over to them.

"Haymitch Abernathy aren't you going to at least try and be a little less of a drunken bear and make a good impression?"

Haymitch smacked his lips and pretended to think about it. "Uh, no, no one likes change do they?"

"You mean to tell me that you all you intend to do is sit and drink all evening?" Her purple lips pursed and her heels tapped impatiently on the floor. Haymitch Abernathy was every bit the beast that she had been warned about before accepting the job.

"Yep." Haymitch said, popping the "p" and making a face as he pulled out his flask from the pocket of his jacket, taking a swig to illustrate. "This is Chaff, by the way. You know Chaff, from Eleven?"

"I know of him." Effie corrected, forcing herself to put on a smile again to make a good impression. Manners came first after all. "Charming, I'm sure. I'm Effie Trink-" Before she could finish she squealed and leaped away from the one-handed Victor, every bit as drunk as Haymitch- or even more so- who had just pinched her with a broad grin on his face.

"Charmin', but I've seen better." Chaff waggled his eyebrows rudely and Haymitch on the stool next to him burst into laughter himself at the look on Effie's face. It was worth it, very much worth it even if he had to suffer through her shrill voice with a hangover in the morning.

xxxXxxx

As the time went by, Effie Trinket proved herself to be much more content about her role as Escort for District Twelve than any of the others. She stuck at it, despite the general gloominess of the Tributes, and Haymitch's appalling presentation and manners that only grew worse with every year. To her credit, Haymitch had to admit, she genuinely seemed to care about the children whose names she Reaped and after the first two years, he gave up actively trying to get rid of her and left her to her own devices. However drunken and angry he was when the Tributes died or when he had just had a fraction too much, however much he would shout and yell and rage at her, or ignore her existence completely, he would never bring himself to lay a finger on the woman. But embarrassing Effie Trinket by causing scenes at parties or getting into fights or making crude comments loudly about her, brought him a level of entertainment that got him through the yearly visits.

He wasn't far off thirty-nine years old now and had lost a whole forty-four Tributes to the Games…so far. Every Tribute he trained, or didn't train, died and while Haymitch had distanced himself considerably from the Tributes to lessen the pain on himself, it still just grew harder and harder each time he went back to the Victor's Village after a Games.

The house was dark, filthy and falling apart, much like its owner. Even without the liquor bottles lining just about every inch of available floor space, there could be no doubt who that house belonged to. His past was no secret to those his age in the District, but children now were just warned to stay away from him if ever they saw Haymitch in the streets. And indeed, the times that he did venture out, it wasn't uncommon to find Haymitch passed out in the gutter where people would just shake their heads and step over him. He had become the embarrassment of District Twelve. Nobody wanted to admit that he was their sole Victor.

The rooms upstairs that had briefly belonged to his family had remained closed now for ten years and it was now, on the anniversary of their deaths, that Haymitch found something besides liquor possessing him to open Aiden's door. Covered in dust and undisturbed since his brother had last left it twenty-two years ago, the pain hit Haymitch like a tidal wave with the first step.

The bed was unmade, there were old books and scraps of paper littering the floor, Aiden had liked to draw, and every surface was thick with layers of dust. Haymitch had an almost empty liquor bottle swinging in one hand as he drew a shuddering breath and tried to sniff away any emotion that was threatening to break through his walls.
What was he doing? He shouldn't be making things worse for himself being in here, this was a door that should have remained closed forever. The wood creaked beneath his foot as he stepped further into the room and a sheet of paper on the desk near the door caught Haymitch's milky eye.

His fingers, calloused and rough, picked it up and he promptly swore and dropped the bottle to the floor. Aiden had been very good when it came to drawing, something that he'd found distraction in during the boys' childhood. And the picture was of Haymitch. Young and strong Haymitch could hardly recognise himself in the picture. Looking at him now, anyone would have trouble seeing the young face, so alive in Haymitch now. At a year or so shy of forty, Haymitch looked older than he was. With sunken, bloodshot eyes that held only anger and sadness, his hair already well and truly going grey, and his face creased with worry lines and a permanent frown, he hardly looked like the sixteen year old with fight in his eyes and a fire in his belly that he had been.

How ashamed they would all be of him now, looking at what he had become.

It was all too much. The liquor poured out over the floor and before Haymitch realised what he was doing, he'd torn the picture in two and let it fall through his fingers into the little puddle of bourbon. He was shaking, his hands clenching into fists and his hair hanging limply down over his face and before he could help it he'd dropped backward heavily against the wall, a sob wrenching through.

That was the last time Haymitch opened Aiden's bedroom door.

xxxXxxx

When the 74th Hunger Games came along, and Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were that year's Tributes, Haymitch at first behaved no differently than with anyone else. But both had pushed him for advice, unlike most of the Tributes, who were never in a hurry to get anything out of Haymitch.
"Embrace the probability of your imminent death." Had been among the first words he'd spoken to them, his words slurring. He was completely serious about it behind the sarcastic tone. The sooner they accepted their fate the easier it would be for them to go to it. Besides, death would mean less pain for them than surviving would.

But Peeta and Katniss, unlike most of the other tributes, didn't take that advice. These two were a pair that had every intention of trying. He remembered that feeling.

"Here's some advice, stay alive." He drunkenly told them at the breakfast table, and promptly burst into laughter at his own words. The liquor he kept in his flask on him at all times was thinning out the breakfast juice and already beginning to have an effect.

"That's very funny." When Peeta spoke, his voice was harder than Haymitch had been expecting. The boy didn't look like much, but before Haymitch knew what was happening, Peeta had lunged out and the glass in his hand was shattering on the ground.
"Only not to us." The boy finished, his jaw set and his eyes firm. He wasn't putting up with his supposed "mentor" paying as little interest as he was.

Haymitch's own eyes flashed dangerously and in a flash he was on his feet and his fist flew out, punching the boy in the jaw and knocking him to the floor. With a less than friendly growl, Haymitch reached for the bottle of liquor, close to Katniss. She in turn showed her hackles when the knife in her hand was suddenly embedded in the table between his fingers. There was a lot about the look in that girl's eyes that reminded Haymitch of himself.

The Victor was taken aback to say the least, these two were certainly different from the rest. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, looking between the fiery girl on his side and the boy rising from the floor opposite him.
"Well, what's this?" He drawled, one eyebrow rising in interest. "Did I actually get a pair of fighter's this year?"

And so, Haymitch made the deal to stay sober enough to help them, if they didn't interfere with his drinking again.

When Katniss and Peeta showed their true colours in training; Katniss' fire and sheer attitude and Peeta's strength behind that lover-boy face, Haymitch really began to hope. The Capitol was fed on stories, on things to root for, and the favourites got the sponsors. So the Star-struck lovers from District Twelve, was a front that Haymitch could sell.

That year, the year of the 74th Hunger Games, the impossible happened. District Twelve won…without losing a tribute.

In the penthouse suite, where Effie, Haymitch, and the stylists sat together on the couch, all pairs of eyes were glued to the screen and Haymitch's half-filled glass rested forgotten on the coffee table. They watched as Cato from District Two died screaming, and no one dared breathe when the final announcement was made.

Only one victor would be crowned after all, the potential for a dual victory had been revoked and Effie's face went slack and even paler than usual. This is what the viewers in the Capitol, who were not involved with the Tributes themselves, thrived on. The finale. Would one turn and kill the other quickly? Would this couple, who were so in love with each other, break under pressure and attack each other at once? Or would someone turn their back and ask the other to kill them?

As one, Effie and Haymitch both rose to their feet, too tense to sit and Haymitch lifted a finger to his lips, chewing on his lower one slightly. Part of him wanted Peeta to sacrifice himself, the boy would never kill Katniss, not ever.

And then Katniss did the one thing that had Haymitch shaking his head and cursing under his breath. They were showing their willingness to die together rather than give the Capitol a Victor. She was upstaging them.

"May I present the winners of the 74th Hunger Games…"

"Did-No. Did they-" Effie gasped, her jaw dropped open and in her excitement she jumped and threw her arms around Haymitch's neck. "We won! They did it! The children did it, Haymitch! Cinna, Portia, can you believe it?!"

Haymitch was too transfixed as the screen cut to Caesar and Claudius to be bothered by Effie's sudden display of affection. His hand was still on his jaw, scratching his beard and his brow still furrowed as the others around him all cheered, applauded and celebrated the victory.

"Come on, Haymitch, they did it! You must be pleased under that frown!" Portia insisted but Haymitch's frown only deepened as he grunted and nodded slowly, not even trying to be convincing. He had much more serious thoughts on his mind than to consider celebrating. It wasn't much to celebrate to him. He knew what was going to come next. A life of cameras and disappointment and being dragged out to become mentors awaited both those kids.
But what Katniss had just done could mean something much worse than fame and bitterness. Was it good at all that they had won this way?
He was torn from his thoughts by Cinna patting him on the back and Effie willingly handing him his glass back.

"A toast!" Cinna declared. For a Capitol citizen and a stylist Haymitch liked him, one look at the man and the way he and Portia had dressed Katniss and Peeta, and Haymitch could tell for sure these new stylists did not stand for the same things the Capitol did.

"To not even losing one tribute!" Portia raised her glass.

"To the Girl on Fire." Chimed in Effie, raising her own glass of a non-alcoholic, neon blue liquid and beaming right through the thick mask of makeup where she stood beside Haymitch.

Cinna lifted his own glass, a broad smile lighting his own face and his earring glinting in the light.
"To District Twelve, I think."
He nodded to Haymitch who lifted his glass of bourbon and tapped it against the others.
"Cheers…" He flashed the closest thing to a smile that Haymitch ever gave and the four drank.

xxxXxxx

Bringing home two victors, two crowned, relatively healthy, and most importantly living children, was a sensation that Haymitch never thought he'd experience. And for the most part, it wasn't unlike bringing home two coffins, until they all stepped off the train and Katniss and Peeta were greeted with applause and cheering, and smiles brighter than Haymitch had ever seen on the people of the District.

Appropriately he hung back behind the "couple" who stood hand in hand until the gate was opened and they were swarmed with people.

But Haymitch's frown still stayed in place as he relived his own homecoming. How it had all been well and good and normal life seemed to be peeking back over the horizon, until President Snow had his way.
Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, and one half of the duo who would do anything for the other to live, had become a symbol. She had shown the Capitol up like Haymitch had and he had tried to warn her before the celebrations began in the Capitol.

He began to make his own way through the crowd, keeping to the edge of it as best he could and communicating only in grunts when he bumped into someone. He took a swig from the hip flask he kept with him and was just beginning to break free of the crowd when he felt a hand on his arm and his name called.
"Haymitch…Mr. Abernathy."

He turned, his hair hanging in his eyes and his face an unreadable slate. Mrs Everdeen, Katniss' mother stood there, her thin hand dropping from his arm as she offered him a smile and nodded.
"Thank you."

He knew her, he knew that face. She had been Maysilee's best friend, had been one of the few people who had shunned him at his own homecoming for not being able to help. But it was only now, when they were face to face that Haymitch actually recognised the greying, worn, thin woman. And Haymitch Abernathy was not familiar with being thanked.

So he nodded stiffly and took another mouthful of his liquor.

"Didn' do much." He muttered and turned away with a grunt to walk back to his home. So he was going to have neighbours in a few days, huh?

xxxXxxx

"Where are they now? What are they doing with their lives post-Hunger Games as some of Panem's strongest and brightest? We have seen glimpses into the great lives of Victors such as District Two's Brutus, District Four's Finnick, the extraordinary stamina and endurance of Seeder from District Eleven, and the love story of District Twelve's Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, arguably amongst the best known and loved Victors."
The Capitol was abuzz after the latest Victor's Tour. The 75th Hunger Games were approaching which would mark the third Quarter Quell, and rumours, absurdly untrue, were flying as to what the next year's Hunger Games would entail. To generate still more excitement among the Capitol citizens, a special was produced to recap the lives of those most well-known or exciting Victors. This was hosted by none other than the greatly beloved, Caesar Flickerman.

"Unfortunately for Panem, not every Victor takes well to the fame and fortune that the Capitol offers them. Some shun the attention that is so generously provided and choose instead to selfishly refuse even an interview. Some allow themselves to succumb to the temptations of alcohol and morphling. And so…" Caesar drawled as he strolled around a computer generated, but none-the-less realistic, depiction of the Victors Village in District Twelve, "We have reached the last of those select Victors whose stories we bring you tonight, Haymitch Abernathy of District Twelve, and winner of the Second Quarter Quell."

The background changed, to images of the sixteen year old Haymitch from nearly twenty-five years ago. His propaganda poster as a Tribute, his wax likeness, his Reaping and segments from his interviews with Caesar.

"Haymitch Abernathy from the coal-mining District, was Reaped at the age of sixteen for the honour of competing in the 50th Hunger Games, the second Quarter Quell which, let us not forget, had twice the usual twenty-four Tributes. A fighter from the beginning, Haymitch demonstrated great daring and skill in the arena and his alliance with District Twelve fellow, Maysilee Donner," Here a picture of her was shown, and the chariot images of herself and Haymitch, "Was fodder for many a rumour amongst viewers about a budding romance. However, we all know that Haymitch had a sweetheart at home already."

Caesar paused as clips from the 50th Hunger Games began to roll behind him, most notably Haymitch's struggle with the three Career boys, the fight between Spark and Haymitch and Maysilee, and the final showdown.
"A knife was Haymitch's weapon of choice, and with a final total of six kills, he emerged victorious over forty-seven other tributes after his unique and fierce battle with Honour from District One."
Exactly how Haymitch had won was carefully avoided.

"As winner of a Quarter Quell, life promised to be particularly prosperous and glamorous for Haymitch, had he chosen to fully appreciate the generosity of the Capitol. Tragic circumstances in his life, thoroughly and dreadfully unavoidable and completely out of his control, saw the death of his childhood sweetheart, Sienna."
Again, just what those circumstances were was carefully avoided and his mother and brother were not even mentioned. Whilst it was common knowledge to the Capitol that they too had died, and whilst it was known amongst the districts the real reason for their executions, such circumstances were not revealed entirely in truth to the general public of the Capitol.

"As it would any of us, I'm sure, this took its toll on young Haymitch who struggled to fully appreciate what the Capitol was doing for him, whilst we tried our best to help him. With a lack of common courtesy, and sheer ungratefulness, the boy grew into a man who showed nothing but disregard for the kindness the Capitol offered, and continues to offer, him."

The images behind Caesar shifted again and a series of photographs, growing increasingly more recent, were shown. Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty-five and finally, his present photograph at forty-one years old.

"Haymitch Abernathy gave in, like others before him, to the temptation that alcohol presented to him. Now, almost twenty-five years later, at forty-one years old, Haymitch is known amongst Panem at best as a bad-tempered drunk and at worst, as a violent, rude, bitter Victor with an unfair dislike for our great Capitol."

That concluded the segment, and the background on the screens faded to reveal the flashy, brightly coloured and well-lit studio.

"And now, I hope we have tickled those taste buds even more to see what excitement the Third Quarter Quell has in store for us. I'm sure President Snow and the Gamemakers are just as eager for us to find out. Who in Panem will be our next Victor? We have laughed, cried and cheered along with every Victor these past seventy-four years. Each of them is different, each of them has a different story to tell, and a different future ahead of them. Only time will tell us what is in store. Thank you, citizen of our great Capitol, and goodnight. Panem, forever!"