Disclaimer is attached to the first chapter.
Note: I've borrowed a quote from the movie 'The Butterfly Effect'. I did not create 'The Butterfly Effect', don't own it, and make no financial gain from it.
N2: I've also borrowed the slur 'mine rat love' from Hufflelit's excellent story, "Haymitch's Games". There is a link to that story on my favorites page.
N3: The final paragraph of this chapter is a somewhat oblique reference to the very imaginative and original story "It's the Apocalypse, Sweetheart", by Ellana-san. That one also has a link on my favorites page.
N4: Thanks to my latest reviewer for their kind words. It's dark subject matter, and I hope I do it justice. And of course, staying in-character is one of the most essential tasks of any fanfiction. So you made my day by saying I've managed it so far.
Capitol Nights
His mind is howling this morning. He's in the bathroom, still. He had stumbled in here out of pure habit when he woke up. Taking care of business without any conscious thought is an invaluable skill when conscious thought is just about impossible until he's wrapped himself around the first couple drinks of the day.
Afterwards he had simply lain back down right where he was. He's awake and trying to zone out. He's been crying most of the morning, but he thinks that part's over, at least. He'd like to get out of the bathroom, but he can't open the door. The stupid, childish, irrational conviction persists that someone is waiting just outside. It will be a man, expensively dressed, and he'll be hard.
"Wanna sit up?" he murmurs out loud. He doesn't move though, not yet. He thinks he should get up and get it over with. But he just can't work up the will to move. He can smell himself, and he smells like vomit and sex and blood. "No one out there," he tells himself. He swallows and that taste is in his mouth and he lurches to the side and throws up. Then he lies back down, rolling onto his other side so he won't have to look at the mess. He's crying a little, but it's because of the cruddy, slimy taste, that's all.
He's still dressed in the clothes he came back to 12 in yesterday. A creature of the Capitol lies on the white tiles, clad in fine linen and silk and diamonds. He's an insignificant little Capitol plaything, undeniably and irretrievably sullied but not worn out yet, not by a long shot. The man outside will fuck him, Balthamos will remind him who he belongs to and probably torture him a little to make sure the message sticks, he'll get his sedative injection and he'll go back to sleep. This is his daily routine, his job and his only purpose.
In the time between waking up and being prepped for whoever is to have him that night, he counts people he has killed and how each died, struggles to dredge up their faces. There are fifty-three names on that list, so it takes a while.
He casts a glance at the door and closes his eyes again. "There's no one out there," he says again.
"Haymitch?" a male voice calls from outside the bathroom.
Haymitch jerks up on his elbow, eyes going wide and panicky. Balthamos has used the wand on him every single night since he tore one of the diamonds out of his ear. He takes a ragged breath and wills his mind into damage control mode. He'd best not be caught hiding in here.
He sits up and begins undressing rapidly.
"Haymitch, are you in there? Just say something so I know you're alright."
His hands are shaking as he fumbles with the buttons. He can't make out the words the man is saying, other than his name. His tone is ominous, though.
The door opens. Haymitch is frozen in the corner against the bathtub. He has gotten his shirt off, unthinkingly dropping it right on top of the puddle of vomit. He is in the process of undoing his fly. He and Peeta stare at each other for a few seconds before Haymitch looks away and hastily grabs his shirt.
"Don't put that on," Peeta says, taking charge in the nick of time. He doesn't think he could stand to see Haymitch put the sodden shirt on. It feels like the final hideous touch to this picture.
Haymitch drops the shirt again and wipes his hands off on the legs of his pants.
"Let me help you, alright?" Peeta comes forward and crouches down in front of him.
"Then stop looking at me like I'm a hurt puppy."
Holding on to his patience with both hands, Peeta backs up a little and then stands. "I'm going to get you some clean clothes. I'll leave the door open." He waits for a response, but gets nothing. "Haymitch, what happened?"
"You already know what happened. Have you shared with Katniss yet? Bet you have. I bet you ran right over there as soon as you could get away from me."
"I haven't told her anything, and I won't. It's not mine to tell. But you have to pull yourself together. She's going to come over here, today, and the three of us are going to think of a way out of this."
"Oh joy, more company. Let me just get gussied up. I'm afraid you'll have to do without my stylist this morning." Haymitch undoes his fly as he talks with a sort of venomous cheer. He stands up to remove his trousers and briefs. He doesn't exactly watch Peeta while he undresses, but his eyes flicker over him more than once.
Peeta supposes the other man is gauging his reaction, or just making sure he hasn't gotten any closer. He's up and down this morning. Five minutes ago he'd been ready to put a vomit-soaked shirt on for the sake of being fully dressed. They need to start thinking about how they can escape, because no matter what they can't let the Capitol do this to Katniss. But right now Haymitch doesn't seem stable enough to even be in the same room with Katniss.
He watches Haymitch turn on the shower and step directly under the spray with a gasp. It takes the water about five minutes to heat up in 12 in the wintertime. Haymitch stubbornly pulls the shower curtain closed and Peeta listens to his steady stream of cursing. It tapers off slowly as the water heats up.
After a few minutes, Haymitch calls, "Are you still out there, boy?"
"Right here," Peeta calls out from the bedroom. He pulls a shirt out of one of the dresser drawers, sniffs it, and drops it into the growing pile of shirts at his feet. It seems kind of perverse to put dirty shirts in the dresser, but maybe that's just his mother talking. He discards another shirt that has obviously had liquor spilled down the front of it, continuing to muse. His mother would be after him with a rolling pin, but for all he knows this is normal. Maybe the clean shirts are in a hamper somewhere.
Nothing further from the direction of the shower, and Peeta pulls open another drawer. This one is full of mostly empty liquor bottles. Giving up on the bureau, he turns to the wardrobe. This is apparently where Haymitch keeps his Capitol clothes, wadded up in a heap and shoved into a corner. Peeta picks up something in sky blue and drops it again, wrinkling his nose. These are wet, and they don't smell like spilled liquor, either. Well, that's a disturbing new element.
"Behind you, kid," Haymitch's voice drawls, too well-versed on 'Victor etiquette' to sneak up on one of the other Chosen Ones. Then he reaches around Peeta and gently shuts the wardrobe door. "Nothing in there."
"Haymitch, did you-" Peeta turns around and stops talking because Haymitch is naked, his hair dripping on his shoulders. He's looking at the piles of clothes on the floor.
"Piss on them? Yeah. Seemed like a good idea at the time." He shrugs and snags a shirt at random. "Which pile did you throw my trousers into? Probably be more efficient if I just give up on underwear, don't you think?"
"Haymitch," Peeta says on a sigh.
"Oh, sorry, does my line of work make you uncomfortable, Cupcake?" Haymitch sneers.
Peeta grabs a pair of pants from the floor and returns to the dresser to look for shorts or briefs or something. "Don't call me Cupcake," he says in a low, carefully controlled tone. He finds what he's looking for at the back of the bottom drawer and hands both items to Haymitch. "Get dressed, and try to think before you say anything else."
Haymitch snatches the clothes with a violent swipe of one hand. "Screw you, kid. Get out."
"Are you going to hit me, Haymitch?"
Haymitch finishes fastening his trousers and sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. "No. Fuck. Give me a minute, okay?"
"Okay. I'll be downstairs. It's going to be alright." Peeta leaves before Haymitch breaks down.
987654321
The walk into town had been a good idea. Haymitch seems to have come back to himself. He notices Peeta watching him as they move down the enclosed path and gives him a slightly sardonic smile that is the perfect mixture of friendly familiarity and mild exasperation.
They don't talk. Peeta had the idea of going to the Hob because he could hardly bring Katniss to Haymitch's house with things the way they were. At this time of day, there's a good chance they'll meet her there. Then the three of them will return together. That's the plan, anyway. Both of them understand the unspoken elements well enough.
Peeta wonders how Haymitch thinks they're going to discuss this without Katniss finding out- finding out about Snow's latest cruelties. He frowns to himself. It makes him too uncomfortable to think about it in anything but vague and ominous terms. If they get out of this, Haymitch is going to need someone who can accept what happened to him and help him cope. Not that he has any clue as to how he could help.
"Stop brooding, boy," Haymitch says gruffly. "Katniss is the only thing you have to worry about now, so leave it alone."
"You're right." Peeta smiles dutifully. "And I'm not brooding. I never brood."
Haymitch rolls his eyes. They fall back into the companionable silence that usually surrounds them and Katniss as well, whenever they're outside of Haymitch's house.
"Peeta, stop a minute." Haymitch says quietly, halting and catching Peeta's arm.
"What?" Peeta looks around at the walls of snow and the path stretching out behind and before them, his senses on high alert. Then he answers his own question. "Something's happening."
An unfamiliar sound can be heard ahead of them, a repeated whooshing crack. Haymitch takes a single step toward the sound, hackles rising. "We have to find Katniss and get back to the Village. Where would she be?"
"Probably at the Hob." Peeta is about to ask what the sound is when another sound sets both men running.
"Stop!" It's Katniss yelling the word, and she's in the middle of whatever's happening. Haymitch is still very fast when he wants to be, and Peeta loses sight of him as he reaches the end of the path and keeps running. A moment later Peeta comes bursting into the clearing and skids to a stop.
What looks like half the town is gathered around the square, and they would be blocking his view if Haymitch hadn't just plowed a path through them. Some of them turn to gawk at the new arrival, but most are still fixated on the spectacle in the town square. Someone is chained to the whipping post, hunched over and bloodied. Haymitch is standing between the post and a Peacekeeper, gesturing. And behind him stands Katniss.
Peeta doesn't waste any more time trying to make sense of the scene. Taking a deep breath, he races towards them at a dead sprint. He stops in front of Haymitch, facing the Peacekeeper and panting slightly. Haymitch immediately grabs Peeta and pushes the teenager behind him with Katniss. Then he goes back to talking to the Peacekeeper.
"Are you sure Snow wants three dead Victors here? Because that's what you're looking at."
His voice is steady and persuasive, but Peeta can sense that he's scared. At Peeta's side, Katniss is tense and watchful. Peeta rolls his shoulders to loosen them and then braces himself. Fighting won't do any of them any good, not with everything stacked against them. It won't save them. He knows that, but he can't keep Katniss from fighting and Katniss is worth dying for.
Thread sneers at the man who had the audacity to get in his way. He hadn't recognized the girl at first, but there's no mistaking Haymitch Abernathy. He'd been briefed on each of the resident Victors en route. According to the report, Haymitch is a drunkard, too addled by his addiction to be much more than an annoyance. The girl is supposed to be the trouble-maker in the group. He'd been told to keep a close eye on her. The boy is sensible and well-behaved, but has an unfortunate tendency to follow Katniss's lead. Mine rat love, Thread thinks contemptuously.
And he's barely been here half an hour but here they are, all three of them, making some kind of pathetic stand to save a random dissident from a flogging. Only pampered Capitolites could be made nervous by such creatures. It's clearly past time to show the higher-ups how easily such behavior can be discouraged. It's true that he can't flog Katniss Everdeen, not yet anyway, but he's pretty sure he knows what will work just as well.
"Perhaps the president wouldn't want three dead Victors," Thread says slowly. "Alright, I'm feeling lenient today." He lets his menacing tone give the lie to his words. He stares into Haymitch's eyes long enough to savor the fear he sees there and then bellows his commands to his squad. "Release the prisoner, and put this man in his place. He can have the lashes for both of them, and for the girl, too."
The other Peacekeepers glance uneasily at each other. Haymitch is famous, wealthy, almost an honorary Capitolite. He has a phone. It's best to just ignore him as much as possible, lest he take it into his head to go crying to his friends in the Capitol. But now Thread is turning towards them, and Darius lies bloodied and unconscious on the ground.
Before Thread can say anything else two of them move reluctantly towards Haymitch and two others hasten towards the post.
"Take off your shirt," one of the Peacekeepers orders.
"Get away from us, Moen," Katniss growls in warning. "Peeta, get Gale."
"Shut up, Katniss," Haymitch hisses, pushing her behind him again. "Go get your cousin, and go home."
"No. We're leaving. Come on." Her voice is unsteady, and she knows they're not all walking away from here. But the Capitol can't always win.
"Your shirt, now, or it will be worse for you," the Peacekeeper demands of Haymitch, as though in scornful reply to Katniss's unspoken conviction.
Haymitch snaps his eyes to the man in front of him and takes off his shirt. His skin instantly prickles with the cold. "Fuck's sake, Peeta, take her back to the Village already."
"He's right. Come on, Katniss." Peeta says quietly. He needs to get her out of here before she really does get herself killed. He'll just have to get her home and hope her mother and Prim can keep her there until this is over.
"No, let them stay," Thread speaks up, his trained voice effortlessly cutting through their pointless quibbling. "This will be instructive for our young Victors."
Haymitch catches Peeta's eyes, and Peeta nods slightly. It's the only reply he can give here, so it will have to do. I'm sorry. I'll keep Katniss from interfering. I'm sorry.
Then the two Peacekeepers seize Haymitch's arms and roughly shove him over to the post and down onto his knees. They fasten his wrists to the pole above his head, so that there's no way he can move to protect his back once to whip starts falling on him.
"Let him go!" Katniss shrieks, fighting to get free from Peeta. Peeta holds on grimly. If she gets loose now she'll attack one of the Peacekeepers.
"That's enough caterwauling from you," Thread declares. "He's already getting sixty lashes, twenty for each offense. Let's add five more for every word the girl says, and any word Peeta might choose to say."
"Sir," one of the Peacekeepers interjects tensely. It's Moen, the one who had taken Haymitch's shirt. "With respect, sir, sixty lashes would likely prove fatal."
"Well, that would be a pity. I have no desire to kill one of our Victors unless I have to. They're so rare in 12. I will stop at forty if the other two can keep quiet and behave themselves for the duration."
Katniss abruptly stops struggling. She lets Peeta put his arms around her, but she continues to stare at Thread with smoldering hatred. Peeta squeezes her hand, and is immensely relieved when she returns the squeeze after a brief hesitation. He'll get Katniss through this latest horror, and then the two of them will get Haymitch through it. Damage control has become his mind's default setting.
"Let's get started," Thread announces, stepping back. He unfurls his whip and lets the first lash fly. It lands cleanly across the shoulder blades, a good place to start because it can be tricky to hit later when the subject starts cringing and squirming.
Two. This time it lands just above the hips.
Three. Begin laying down the crosshatch pattern. At this point it becomes a game, to see how neat you can make it in spite of the subject's struggling.
Four. Blood begins to flow, obscuring the forming pattern and making the game more complex.
Five. Most subjects are screaming by now, but this one hasn't found his voice yet. He will.
Six. He had seemed sober enough. He was at least coherent. But with a long time drunk like him you can't always tell. The drink may be dulling it a little for him.
Seven. The dissident he had originally been whipping had been screaming like a banshee by this point.
Eight. Ah, there we are.
Nine. Same spot as the last one, just to hear that lovely scream again.
Ten. Moving on, we do have a pattern to build.
Eleven. By the time we're done he'll scream at a feather touching his back.
Twelve. He lets himself wonder for a few seconds what the girl's screams would have sounded like.
Thirteen. Haymitch has gone limp, hanging by his arms.
Fourteen. He's still screaming, though.
Fifteen. Most of them don't really pass out until sometime around twenty.
Sixteen. It's more satisfying to whip men. The barely hidden terror and pathetic defiance in their faces is so much richer than what the women usually offer.
Seventeen. But a good work-out with the whip always gets his blood up, and either flavor will do.
Eighteen. He notices that Katniss is crying with her face hidden against Peeta's chest.
Nineteen. Maybe he should make her watch, but he has gotten into a good rhythm and he doesn't want to pause now.
Twenty. Anyway, maybe it's best not to disturb her. She might do something stupid, and he really doesn't want to have to whip Haymitch to death.
Twenty-one. Snow probably wouldn't care, now that 12 had two other Victors to take over.
Twenty-two. But the other two are hands-off for the time being, until this cockamamie wedding bullshit is over.
Twenty-three. Then he'll see how brave the girl is with her own flesh on the line.
Twenty-four. Until then, why, he'll just have to use her whipping boy.
Twenty-five. Peeta isn't crying. Peeta is staring at him in a way that almost seems insolent.
Twenty-six. No screams, this time. Haymitch has finally lost consciousness. Fairly impressive tolerance.
Twenty-seven. He hopes Peeta is sensible and well-behaved enough to keep quiet.
Twenty-eight. He lands another across the shoulder blades. Haymitch is still enough for that now.
Twenty-nine. Another close to the waist. Sometimes that brings them around.
Thirty. The subject is still unconscious.
Thirty-one. He aims high and the whip strikes across the forearms. Haymitch jerks.
Thirty-two. He brings the lash down on Haymitch's upper arms, and Haymitch howls.
Thirty-three. Well, he's awake now. Back to that fine pattern.
Thirty-four. He's not screaming any longer, but keening: a sound that's captivating in its pathos.
Thirty-five. Usually people who have reached the keening stage aren't even aware they're making a sound.
Thirty-six. They aren't properly aware of anything, except the pain.
Thirty-seven. Sometimes the pain is all they're aware of for days afterward.
Thirty-eight. Sometimes they keep keening for days afterward, almost non-stop, whenever they're awake.
Thirty-nine. He lays one more across the shoulders.
Forty. The last one hit just above the waist.
At last, it is over. Thread steps back with a satisfied smile and flicks the blood off his whip in one smooth motion. Large scarlet roses bloom on the snow near his feet. He coils the whip as he looks to one of his underlings and gives them the nod. The dolt just stands there frozen. Honestly, did old Cray ever do his job around here? "Release him," Thread snaps.
The Peacekeeper scurries forward. It takes him three tries to fit the key into the locked cuffs, and each time he misses he throws a nervous glance at Thread. He unlocks the cuffs and Haymitch drops to the ground like a bag of flour and lies unmoving. He's alive, though. Thread can hear him breathing from where he stands. There'll be no more trouble from this one at least, even if he recovers.
"Clear the square! You're all under curfew! Anyone on the street in fifteen minutes will be shot on sight!"
Peeta is the first to reach Haymitch. He is lying half prone, half on his side. Peeta drops down in front of him and sits back on his heels. Up close, the damage is literally sickening. The only thing Peeta has seen that even compares is his own leg after the Career ran it through with his sword. That memory overlay the present for a queasy moment before he shakes it off. He needs to focus.
"Haymitch, can you hear me? Say something!" There is no reply. His eyes are closed and bloody foam issues from one corner of his mouth. He's quivering, from pain or cold or both. At least the cold is slowing the bleeding.
Someone touches Peeta's shoulder, and he looks up to see Katniss standing behind him looking as queasy as he had felt. "We need something to carry him on," she says.
"Like what? There isn't anything!" Peeta takes a moment to get his voice steady. He looks back down at Haymitch. The blood-covered figure seems to be quivering a little less violently. "Haymitch?" he asks, but there's still no sign the man hears him.
"He's freezing. We have to get him inside," Katniss says. They both look around. They are almost completely alone in the square. A solitary Peacekeeper watches from about ten yards away. All Katniss knows about him is his name- Orin. His expression is stony. When he catches her eyes he deliberately turns away.
"They're all cowards," Katniss says in a low voice.
"None of them could have stopped this."
"They left."
Peeta has no reply to that. He pushes it to the back of his mind, where her words catch and cling like nettles.
"Wake up," he says desperately. He lifts one of the limp hands out of the snow and digs the knuckle of his thumb into the cold palm.
"Let go." It comes out in a rasping sort of hiss that bypasses the vocal cords completely. The eyes stay tightly shut.
"We have to get you up, okay? We have to get you inside."
"Leave." This time the reply is actually spoken, and he pays for the effort. The hand Peeta holds twitches while his free hand digs into the snow. A tear runs down his stubbled cheek.
"How are we going to do this?" Peeta asks Katniss. "Each take an arm?"
"At least we know he won't be too heavy for us that way." Katniss gingerly touches his uppermost arm and then grips it tightly in both hands, grimacing at the tacky feel of drying blood. "He's barely shivering. We have to hurry. Let's sit him up and then lift."
She pulls and Haymitch screams horribly. It actually helps her a little, somehow. Grimly, she hauls him to a sitting position. "Help me, Peeta!"
He continues to scream as they muscle him up enough to get his arms over their shoulders. The two teenagers stagger-step across the square with their burden. He's much harder to move than the last time they did this. He's deadweight this time.
"Is he still alive?" Peeta asks breathlessly as they move through the snow.
Katniss is concentrating on her footing, because if they trip and fall she doubts they'll be able to get him up again. "He's screaming," she says shortly. "Keep up."
"He stopped," Peeta says, trying to move faster. "Katniss-" He breaks off, saving his breath. He can't keep up this pace on an artificial leg in the snow while managing this much weight. Saying so would be worse than useless.
Katniss still hears plenty of screaming, but there are too many voices. These are the people who scream in her ears every night when she falls asleep. The thought that they might be dragging a blood-covered corpse back through the snow towards Victor's Village doesn't slow her down at all. He'd still have to be taken in.
Peeta trips, and suddenly Haymitch's whole weight falls on her and then she falls, too. The three of them are half-buried in the snow, and Katniss is suddenly sure it's really only the two of them. Tears cloud her vision and she swipes the back of her hand across her eyes quickly.
"Sorry! Is he-" Peeta is on his knees, leaning over Haymitch's body.
"I don't know. Go get help, alright? I'll stay with him."
"You'd be faster."
Katniss nods, unable to speak anymore. She looks quickly at Haymitch, then turns and runs off toward the archway. Peeta looks after her bitterly. They were so close. The archway is only about forty yards away. But it might as well be forty miles, with the snow and his useless friggin' leg.
He brushes the snow off Haymitch as much as he can. He slides his fingers under the other man's jaw and feels for a pulse, half-expecting some sound, some weak unconscious protest. There is none, but Peeta finds a very slow pulse. He tries to pull Haymitch up out of the snow, but he won't stay up. Peeta lies down beside him and then moves on top of him, holding most of his weight off the other while trying to offer him as much warmth as he can.
"You have to survive, Haymitch. I can't protect her on my own."
Haymitch doesn't hear him. For the moment, he is beyond the reach of Peeta's words. He is driving very fast down an open highway. The fine, familiar taste of liquor is on his tongue. Beside him a petite woman in shiny clothes chatters endlessly on, and he simultaneously wants to kiss her and to stop the truck and demand that she get lost. All of this is alien and bizarre and he wishes he could stay forever. There's something he needs to get back to, but he can't remember what that might be, for the moment.