A/N: Scarlett's POV
I had to admit, Charlotte had done better than I'd expected. She was still alive.
Granted, only a couple of days had gone by, but an awful lot of tributes had died. She'd even killed that Ligeia from District Four that everyone had had such high hopes for. She bludgeoned her to death with a mace while Sebastien ran for his life like a whiny little coward in the face of Draven and his horde of armed female tributes, only to be eaten by the ferocious lizard muttations.
Draven himself had killed Vin, from District Eight. He'd caught him in that fancy rope he seemed to love using and then stuck him through with a harpoon. The prima donna was even less satisfied with the harpoon than he'd been with the longsword, and he left it in Vin's body, saying he'd use knives the next time.
Charlotte also killed the girl from District Six, whatever her name was. The mace again, of course. Whatever it was about that weapon, I had to admit she was pretty good with it, disturbing as it was to watch her bludgeon the life out of other girls. I was fairly certain that whether or not she won I'd be seeing her in my nightmares, coming at me with that bloody mace.
So Charlotte had three kills already, which was one more than I'd had by that point. I would have even been thinking of it, except that I knew she was. She was probably overjoyed with pride, staying up thinking about how the announcers must be praising how much better she was than I had been.
Of course, the announcers barely noticed her for Draven and Luke's amazing feats over the past few days. Charlotte's three kills were mentioned, of course, but they weren't big news. Several people had multiple kills, and one of them was a Career tribute.
She'd been getting plenty of attention, granted, and Blight had no trouble getting sponsors for her, especially the same people who were already spending exorbitant amounts to rent out my body for the night, and although Blight mentioned once or twice that they'd be more generous if I was the one trying to make the deals, he didn't press me to talk to the sponsors and I told myself that she was doing just fine with what she had to assuage my guilt. She probably wouldn't have wanted my help, anyway, given the choice.
Being around the other victors was exhausting enough on its own. Between Luke's worry, Haymitch and Blight and Chaff "keeping an eye" on me, and my own sickening feeling of guilt and self-disgust, watching the Games was about ten times worse than I would have previously imagined it could be. I wasn't just watching children kill each other; I was doing it as a way to attempt to forget about the men having their way with me nearly every night.
Nearly, of course, because even Capitol whores needed breaks, apparently. So my nightly visits to strange men who were becoming more and more recognizable were not exactly nightly, but they were the next worst thing.
I had been given many expensive gifts already, although I begged them not to do so. I had more money than I wanted, anyway, being a victor. I didn't need more pretty things. I didn't want any pretty things. I wanted it to all disappear when I closed my eyes, but somehow it only grew more visible, all of it, every disgusting detail.
They felt obligated to gift me, though, and so until I thought of some better way for them to alleviate their consciences, I would have to keep accepting the disgusting blood money, so to speak, of my affluent rapists. The jewels and the gold, the gilded personification of their guilt, was all heavy and harder to bear than I would have ever imagined.
I cherished nights off, although I wasn't really capable of sleeping properly, not between the Games and the nights entertaining the sponsors. Even my dreams were plagued with blood, with fear. I woke up crying more often than not, so I didn't much see the point in going to sleep.
It had been a bit of a blur, going to various rooms nearly every night, meeting with a variety of Capitol men (although there were repeats, among the richest of them) and doing whatever they wanted. I hadn't gotten rid of my... what did they call it? My provincialism, my innocence, my... Oh, whatever the called it, it made me sick. Of course I'd lost my innocence! I was subjecting myself to rape night after night to spare the life of someone who would probably never speak to me again, and all for nothing. But I couldn't take it back. I couldn't explain, and she would want and explanation.
I had gotten to the point where I was jumping every time someone said my name and every time I looked at myself in the mirror I wanted to just die. I hated myself. I was disgusted by myself. I couldn't see myself as attractive anymore, I saw myself as a disgusting, hollow human being. I would look out the window of the twelfth floor and silently curse the Capitol for their force field. Surely they knew that I sat in a ball on the floor and cried almost every moment when I was alone. There was probably someone whose job it was just to watch me, to ensure that I was behaving 'properly', not trying to harm myself or behave rebelliously. They probably thought it was a great joke, my pain.
At least someone, somewhere was probably laughing.
Maybe that should have been a comforting thought. Maybe not.
Whether or not, I didn't find much comfort in it. I didn't find much comfort in anything anymore. Just pain.
As soon as I finished dinner on my night off I went into my room and showered, trying to get the feel of self-disgust to leave me alone.
When I came out of my shower I found Haymitch was sitting on my bed, watching for me expectantly. There I was in only my towel and somehow it didn't matter. It wasn't anything Haymitch hadn't seen before, that several men hadn't seen before, and all I wanted was to be left alone.
"Did you need something?" I said harshly, grabbing a hairbrush.
"No," Haymitch said calmly, "but you do."
I blinked. What was he talking about? What could he do for me?
"Come sit down, sweetheart," he said softly. "Please."
I slowly made my way over to him, thinking to myself that I'd never heard Haymitch say 'please' before. It sounded strange on his lips, a word he hadn't used since his youth, probably. He was sober, I realized with surprise as I sat beside him, awkwardly wondering what was going on. He turned to look at me and said, "It still hurts, doesn't it?"
My eyebrows shot up. How could he possibly know that? Every time one of those men had their way with me I was in pain. But how could he know?
"You're too tense," he said simply. "That's what's causing the pain. The fear and tension. I can feel good, you know."
I didn't know what to say, so I just snorted and said, "And I suppose you're some kind of expert?"
"No," Haymitch said softly, "but I want to help you, to teach you how to relax so it at least doesn't hurt."
The calm way he was looking at me told me that he saw nothing strange about saying he wanted to help me not feel pain while I was being violated by strangers.
"How do you plan to do that?" I demanded.
"Promise you'll do what I tell you and trust me," he said, "and I promise I'll make it more bearable. It's not going away, Scarlett."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Yes, I trust you," I said, and I realized it was true. I did trust Haymitch.
"And you'll do what I say," he said firmly.
"I suppose if you give me no other choice," I said with a sigh. Now what-?"
"Take off the towel," he said gently.
I blinked.
It wasn't that I was particularly adverse to him seeing what he'd seen before, but I was a bit taken aback that he'd basically told me so calmly to undress in front of him.
"I-"
Haymitch frowned, moving his hand to my towel, loosening it around my body as he said, "Relax, Scarlett. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."
I found that I couldn't really stop him anyway, not because of fear exactly, but more curiosity. I wanted to know what he was going to do, and it left me rooted to the spot as the towel fell off around me, uncovering my body. Haymitch kept his gray eyes locked with mine as he brushed his fingertips along my neck and downwards to my chest.
And it felt... it felt surprisingly good, the way he lightly cupped my breasts in his hands, moving a bit closer to me.
"Not every man who's ever going to touch you, if you're lucky, is going to be paying somebody else for the pleasure," he said softly, "but whether that's their reasoning or not, you need to know how to at least pretend like you're enjoying what you're doing. Unbutton my shirt."
I swallowed heavily, my hands trembling as they reached for the buttons and fumbled, undoing them from top to bottom.
For someone who literally drank his life away, he wasn't horribly unfit. He stopped touching me long enough to shrug off the shirt and then stood.
"Sorry about this," he muttered, "but I'm sure it's expected..."
He didn't even have to finish his sentence. I unfastened and unzipped his pants, watching him shimmy out of the rest of his clothes. He was quite large, I realized, much larger than any of the men I'd had to meet up with, but he wasn't hard. In a way, that was almost reassuring. He found nothing exciting about having to sleep with a girl so much younger than him who was scared out of her mind.
"All right," he sighed. "Lay back on the bed. Get comfortable."
I did as I was told, nervous, a bit confused, and trembling with fear already. Haymitch followed me, crawling under the sheets beside me, his hand pulling me closer to him as I tried to calm my breathing.
"See," he whispered. "We've not even done anything and you're already panicking. I'm not going to hurt you, Scarlett. You need to relax. All right?"
Nodding, I tried to relax.
"Close your eyes," he said softly in my ear, and I did so. I gasped when I felt his lips on my neck. It felt... surprisingly good. "Relax," he whispered. "Imagine I'm whoever you want me to be."
But who did I want him to be, I wondered as his lips moved lower down my body. Finnick? Most girls in Panem would think so. That Draven who'd winked at me? There probably more than a few girls who would picture him as well. But I didn't know how I felt about anyone anymore, except that Haymitch seemed to care about me in his own way and I didn't mind him, so I decided to open my eyes and not picture anyone.
His mouth seemed to know what it was doing, kissing parts of my body that surprised me at their reaction to the sensation. When he parted my legs, I shivered nervously, but he whispered for me to relax again and he used his mouth and fingers to massage the area out of the tension that had filled my body, but instead an intense, overwhelming sensation of pleasure.
As his fingers dipped in and out, his thumb massaging some magic spot, he looked up and said, "Does it hurt?"
"No," I whispered truthfully.
"How does it feel," he whispered against my skin.
"Really, really good," I admitted, almost summoning enough presence of mind to care that my words came out more as a moan than anything else.
He smiled at me.
"Good," he said. "Now, I'm going to ask you to do something that's going to probably bother you, but I promise that it's a good idea to do it. It makes it more enjoyable as an experience for the man you're with, and the lubrication will make it hurt less for you, as well."
And then he proceeded to teach me how to get a man hard with my mouth.
He was right; it didn't hurt at all when he thrust inside me, and when it combined with the sensitivity from his previous actions, it actually felt quite good. Judging from the look on his face and the sounds escaping his lips, it felt pretty good for him, too.
And then something happened that had never happened before... Haymitch called it a climax, my version of when those men would cry out, explode inside me, and then be too tired to move. It felt so good that I could understand their crying out, and it certainly felt something like an explosion and left me feeling rather tired.
I realized that our bodies were covered in sweat as he rolled over, facing me, his arm draped over my waist as he caught his breath.
"The most important thing to not getting caught up is setting a boundary," Haymitch whispered when his breathing had calmed. "My recommendation, something I personally live by, is not to kiss someone you don't feel something for, not on the lips. That way, you can say to yourself that the part that means something hasn't happened and you don't feel so cheap."
That made a lot of sense, I decided, as I leaned my head on his chest and fell asleep with his arms wrapped comfortingly around me.
When my consciousness began to return the next morning, I could hear whispers and feel someone's warm arms around me.
Haymitch, I recalled. Haymitch was holding me. Haymitch had helped me. But who was whispering?
Haymitch was beginning to stir as well, and we lifted our heads simultaneously to see Blight and Chaff peaking at us through the bedroom door and whispering to each other. I groaned.
"Slept well, you two?" Blight teased. Chaff guffawed.
I groaned, rolling over tighter against Haymitch, who wrapped his arms more snuggling around me.
"Go away," I muttered. It felt so comfortable in the warmth of Haymitch's arms that I didn't want to get up. Besides, it couldn't be time for breakfast yet. I felt as though I'd barely closed my eyes a moment earlier.
There was even more laughter, but the door did close and I felt Haymitch nuzzle the side of my face with his nose.
A few peaceful minutes later, he whispered, "Sweetheart, it's time to be getting up. The day is about to start."
"I don't want to move," I moaned, feeling his fingers gently brushing the hair out of my face.
"Scarlett, you'll be expected. We both will. We need to make an appearance. It's part of our job."
His voice was so warm and gently, just like his hold on me and it made it even harder to open my eyes and look up at his face, admitting that he was right and we couldn't just sleep away the day like that.
"Will you be here again?" I whispered, feeling myself blush. "I mean, on one of my nights off?"
His face was usually hard, although it hadn't been since he appeared on my bed the night before. In that moment, though, his face softened even more.
"Sweetheart, I don't think that's a very good idea."
I felt like a child all over again, which I knew I was, in a way. I was old enough to be forced to give my body to rich old men, but I wasn't old enough, had I not already been a victor, to escape the reaping. Even though Haymitch's voice had been nothing but kind, I felt as though I'd been chastised for something.
"Why not?" I asked, still feeling like a child, small and stupid, probably naive to boot.
"Scarlett," he sighed, brushing a bit of hair from my face. "This isn't a good idea, keeping on like this. For me or for you, and you need to trust me."
I blushed.
"Not... not this. I mean... Well, I didn't have any nightmares last night and..."
I trailed off, knowing my face and neck were probably as red as my hair from the sad, knowing look he gave me.
"They won't go away that easily, sweetheart," he said almost gruffly. "You need to sleep on your own when you can. You wouldn't like the knife I sleep with normally."
I tried to laugh good-naturedly, but I couldn't, not properly. Haymitch was usually right, just as Blight and Mags and the other veterans were usually right. The longer they'd been around, the more right they usually were, and Haymitch had been around for about as long as I'd been alive. As much as I wanted him to hold me again, I knew he wouldn't because it wasn't right.
But I was grateful for his help all the same. I didn't know what it would amount to, but even a single night of proper sleep was worth something. I wasn't sure how I was going to be able to get another night's proper sleep, or how I was ever going to thank him for giving me the first one I'd had since my Games. I was determined to think of something.
"Thank you, Haymitch," I sighed, wrapping him up in a hug and sighing with relief when he wrapped his arms around her again with only brief hesitation.
"Any time, sweetheart," he whispered, kissing my hair gently and ignoring the fact that my tears were leaking down his bare chest.
Baby steps.
