PSA: It's kind of smut near the end. Nothing explicitly stated, nothing actually happens happens like the last time, but enough to merit a warning.
It only takes us a month to find out, after the Games have finished and the fuss has died down without starting up again for the Victory Tour. The mentors, as they usually do, are staying in the Capitol until the end of the month, which means, somewhat unusually, I am spending most of my free nights in company. Finnick's presence in the Capitol, however, has made me no less popular, meaning these evenings are rare.
It is one of these evenings, when I have Haymitch, the Eleven mentors, Finnick, Beetee and a few other victors scattered around my lounge that I receive a message inviting Haymitch and myself to a meeting at Plutarch Heavensbee's house at midnight. It isn't midnight for a couple of hours yet though, so I continue with what I am doing.
Chaff pours a generous amount of the clear liquor into tiny glasses I had not previously known the use for, and adds a splash of white vinegar to each of them. I eye the arrangement suspiciously.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask.
"I know it's not a good idea," Haymitch mutters, leaning against the wall behind me, "because it's my liquor you're using."
"You're free to join in anytime you want, Abernathy," Chaff grins.
"Fine," he retorts, walking forwards to stand next to me. "What about you, Seeder? Pretty boy?"
Seeder, being the only sensible one among us, shakes her head, but Finnick steps forward- too cocky to back down from a dare.
"Down the shot," Chaff explains, "simple enough."
"No!" says Finnick. "Not when there's vinegar in it!"
"I guess you're right," Chaff nods, "too easy. Denna, you got a knife?" he asks, nodding to the fruit bowl. Haymitch pulls a tarnished flipknife out of his pocket and hands it to him, and Chaff slices a lemon in half, squeezing its juice into the glasses. "Right. That's better."
"I'm going to die," I mumble, and Haymitch snorts with laughter. I take the glass warily, trying not to gag at the fumes rising from it.
"Race you," grins Finnick, and I pull a face at him.
"One, two, three… down!"
Suffice to say I've had a number of things in my mouth I didn't want to be there over the years, but this is by far the worst. I think it might have actually set my throat on fire, and my entire body is telling me not to swallow, but I'm not backing down now- I choke the stuff down and double over, gagging and eyes streaming.
Haymitch and Chaff both seem unaffected, save for the latter grimacing somewhat; but they are both laughing hysterically. Finnick spat his out immediately and now has his head stuck in my kitchen sink, and Seeder is rolling her eyes at the two men.
"You're both despicable," she tells them, fighting to keep a straight face.
"I hate you Abernathy," I manage to choke out, and he rubs me on the back sympathetically. "Why did I do this?"
"Because you're an idiot," he smirks. With the shot still burning like hell, he's got a point. But he's holding out a glass of water, too, which is possibly the nicest thing he's ever done for me.
"That's more liquor, isn't it?" I ask him.
"Yeah," he admits. "I wanted to see your reaction."
"I hate you."
"You already said that."
I kiss him, because I have no comeback for that. Chaff wolf whistles as I break off.
Haymith glowers at him, and to my delight I see he is blushing slightly. He looks back at me. "I need to talk to you," he says quietly, and I raise an eyebrow at him. "Come on."
He takes my hand and leads me into my study, which is lit only by the glow of streetlamps and the windows of other houses. I wrap my arms round him and kiss him again- but he pushes me off.
"What are you doing?" he snaps.
I throw my hands in the air. "You said you wanted to talk to me, and now we're alone! What else am I going to do?"
"I actually wanted to talk to you, idiot." His expression softens. "You've been in the Capitol too long."
"No, I haven't!" I reply defensively. But what if he's right, a nagging voice in the back of my head points out. What if I've changed? I push the thought away. "What is it?"
He leans against my piano, away from me, arms folded. "We shouldn't go to that meeting tonight. It doesn't sound safe."
"Of course we're going!" I say, a little jumpy. "We've had an invite! You can't refuse an invite!"
"Of course you can," he points out, then adds, "What sort of invites have you been getting?"
"What do you think?" I ask him, avoiding meeting his gaze. There's an awkward silence, which I guess is the closest I'm going to get to him apologising. "I want to go, Twelve. If it looks like anything is off about it… well, after all we've been through already, what's the worst that can happen?"
"Death."
"They can't kill us- they couldn't even kill Mags. That's one benefit of being a victor, at least." That's not exactly true- I'm on my last chance with Snow, and if he finds out I'm doing anything even remotely suspicious, I'm dead. But Haymitch doesn't need to know that.
"Fine," he says. "But nobody can know we're going, okay?"
"Please," I say wryly, "I spend my entire life sneaking in and out of people's houses. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and drink about four gallons of milk to stop my throat dissolving."
%
Fortunately, the jacket Haymitch is wearing this evening is hooded, and still reasonably in fashion, so it is unlikely he will be noticed. I pull my own hood up and take his hand as we leave via the fire escape of my apartment, and begin to weave through the shadowy back alleys of the Capitol. He's drunk, naturally, and he stumbles quite a lot, making me jump every time he does so. It's not until I hear footsteps that the fear really begins to boil, though.
We are at the end of a wide side street, with no bins or anything for cover. I recognise the regular, heavy footfall of Peacekeepers on patrol and try not to panic, casting around for an idea. Without anything better to do, I fall back against the wall and pull Haymitch against me.
"Put your hand up my skirt," I hiss, as the Peacekeepers come closer.
"What?"
"Now!"
The white uniformed officers round the corner and I watch them out of the corner of my eye. One of them pauses, begins to come closer to ask what we are doing down a back alley at this time of night, but when he sees the… "situation" we are apparently in he backs away awkwardly, nods to the other one with flushed cheeks I can see even in this darkness, and they continue on their way. I wait for the noise of footfall to fade, then shove Haymitch's hand off my thigh.
"We can't let them get close enough to see our faces," I tell him as we walk on. "Victors moving around on foot rather than being driven is too unusual to let go."
"Are we likely to get into a position like that again?" he asks.
"Oh, shut up."
The rest of the journey, thankfully, is without interruption. Heavensbee's home is a large manor on the outskirts of the city, too large for a Gamemaker of no significant rank- he must have inherited it. We follow the high walls encircling it until I find a back gate, most likely used for deliveries, that has been left ajar.
"You sure you want to do this?" Haymitch mutters behind me.
"Yeah." The gate swings open silently at my touch, and we are met by an Avox, his head bowed. He leads us through a heavily-scented rose garden to the side door of the manor, along thickly-carpeted corridors and into a candle-lit dining room.
About two dozen people are sitting round an overlong table, which has had extra mismatched chairs pulled up to it for the occasion. I know most of them- some only by sight, some I have been introduced to, and a couple have paid for my company. Heavensbee is sitting at the head of the table, but he stands up and shakes us both by the hand, wearing that funny smile again.
"So glad you could come," he greets us, waving towards two spare chairs, "please, make yourself comfortable."
I glance at Haymitch, who lifts a shoulder and sits down. I perch uneasily in the seat next to him.
"Now that we're all here," Heavensbee begins, settling himself back down and clasping his hands in front of him, "I should explain to our guests why we are here.
"Nearly seventy years ago, during the Dark Days, District Thirteen was one of the Capitol's greatest weapons. While the rest of Panem thought they were really a mining district, they were in reality producing nuclear weapons for the fight against the rebellion."
Haymitch raises an eyebrow at me; he must be as surprised as I am, although he is much better at hiding it.
"But when District Thirteen threatened to join the uprising," Plutarch continues, "the Capitol turned against it- they dropped what was apparently a nuclear bomb on the area, wiping out all life forms.
"But the bomb wasn't nuclear; District Thirteen had withdrawn all that they had supplied to the Capitol. The blast was devastating, but out of all of them, Thirteen was the district most prepared for a situation like this. They retreated to an underground complex, big enough to hold their depleted population (not all of them had survived the blast, of course) and began the wait for revenge.
"The Capitol knew, of course- but since Thirteen had as many nuclear arms as they did, a deal was created- Thirteen would go silent, apparently dead to the eyes of the districts, in return for being left alone. But of course, they had not given in with their fight against the corruption in the heart of Panem- even now, they are plotting against the Capitol, waiting for a spark to start a revolution.
"We know this," Plutarch finishes, staring directly at us, "because we are in contact with them. You're looking at the rebels of the Capitol."
A shiver runs down my spine, and I am flooded with an emotion I haven't felt for years, perhaps ever… Hope. These people- District Thirteen- can do what I only hoped to achieve- unhinge the Capitol, save the outlying districts. And they can save me, too, from the painted life I lead. I can be free.
Haymitch, naturally, is much more cynical about this revelation than I am.
"How do we know you're telling the truth?" he asks sharply.
"You don't," Plutarch replies smoothly, "neither can we prove it to you. Proof is evidence of our conspiring against the President, to have proof is to have a death sentence. But why would we lie to you, Mr Abernathy? Look around at us. What would a group of people like this have to gain from receiving your trust?"
He's right; there's no explanation that would account for this being a scam.
Heavensbee takes our silence as our agreement. "We have been wanting to contact you both for a while, as a matter of fact. Neither of you played the Games the way the Capitol wanted- in fact, Miss Lazuli, if you had succeeded in your original plan, we may have taken that moment of usurping their Games and overthrown them."
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't die," I snap back, emotions still high. Haymitch hides a grin behind his hand.
Heavensbee looks quite taken aback at this outburst, but to his credit he recovers quickly. "Denna, your participation in particular could be invaluable to us. We already know how you prefer your… clients to pay you-" the few people in the room who have rented my company shift uncomfortably in their seats "- and the information you have, and no doubt will continue to obtain might well be instrumental to our plans."
My part in this is becoming clear. Far from wanting to rescue me, they want to use me, my body, just in the way the Capitol has, except this would be against Snow and his city. Same means, different ends. But if it results in the freedom of the districts, no matter how long it takes, is it worth it? To die my own self, not a plaything of the elite, with those I have always wanted to protect finally safe?
I look to Haymitch, his gray eyes stormy. What do they want with a depressed drunkard, I wonder? He's clever, I suppose. Good at plans, from what I know of him, and what I remember of his Games. But surely they have other minds- clearer ones, less lost and addicted. But then I realise, they must have known I wouldn't do this alone.
I lean over and whisper in his ear. "What do you think?"
"Seems too good to be true," he murmurs in reply.
"Does it?" I ask him. "We're most likely going to stay how we are now for years, until they find that spark they mentioned. It makes sense, everything they said. We'd be stupid to turn them down."
He purses his lips. "Fine," he mutters, "if it ends up in you- us- getting away from the Capitol for good."
"Thank you." I kiss his cheek, then turn back to face Heavensbee. "We're in," I tell him, my voice strong. "What do you want us to do?"
"I'll talk to you both in private when the meeting is over," Plutarch assures us, then turns to the group in general. "Now, intelligence reports have reached us from District Eight, but they've been corrupted…"
No, I don't listen for the rest of the meeting. I try, for a few minutes at least, but I've never been much of a planner- my technique is just… throwing myself at things, often literally. But I can tell Haymitch is listening (although he's making an effort not to look impressed, slouching in his chair); his eyes are following the discussion. I stifle a yawn- he doesn't notice and I yawn again, slightly louder. Still nothing.
I rest my right hand on his left knee, watching him out of the corner of my eye. Heavensbee is engaged in a very important sounding argument with someone across the table, and appears to have completely forgotten us. I slide my hand up his thigh, slowly enough for nobody to notice the movement.
He affords me a glance, and almost imperceptibly shakes his head, just a fraction of an inch. I smile back at him, and he looks away.
I move my hand further up his leg, curling my fingers round the inside seam.
"Stop it," he whispers.
"Fine," I murmur. And I do stop moving it- I leave it resting at the top of his inner thigh. Haymitch purses his lips, grabs my hand and pulls it off his leg, dropping it back in my own lap.
I scowl, and go back to being bored. The rebellion can't come soon enough, I think.
%
I wake up before him the next morning, and start making breakfast for two. It's a meal I very rarely have, and when I do it's normally just a hastily downed cup of black coffee, so I'm making the most of this opportunity- according to official records, I am still at Heavensbee's manor in the form of his "lover", which means I effectively have the day off.
Dawn was a couple of hours ago, and now the sun has fully risen over the slumbering city. Victors and districts welcome the lull in activity after the Games, when the Capitol lose interest in them again. Victors and mentors leave late this afternoon, and I mull over what- or rather, who- Heavensbee wants me to do afterwards as I clatter round my kitchen, searching for food that hasn't gone off. People I know, people who pay me in secrets already; nothing I cannot handle, for now.
I'm in such an uncharacteristically good mood that I start singing. It's a song from the far west of District One, where a tiny part of the border meets the coast, but it's so old I think it goes even beyond inherited memory. It was the only song my mother knew and thus it was my lullaby, so it's ingrained into my brain.
My singing voice falls flat and I can never reach the high notes, but I don't let that stop me-
"Out of my window, looking at the night
I can see the barges' flickering light.
Silently flows the river to the sea,
As the barges go by silently."
I drop bacon into the frying pan next to the eggs, and slam a drawer closed with my hip.
"Barges, I would like to sail with you,
I would like to sail the ocean blue.
Barges, have you treasure in your hold?
Do you fight with pirates brave and bold?"
From my bedroom, I hear the sort of thud associated with a very hungover man falling out of bed, called by the smell of cooked breakfast.
"How my heart wants to sail away with you,
As you sail across the ocean blue.
But I must stay beside my window clear,
As the barges sail away from here."
I hum the chorus again, turn and grin at Haymitch, who is hanging off the doorframe. "You haven't thrown up everywhere, have you?"
He shakes his head. His overgrown hair's a mess, he needs a shave and he slept in his clothes, so they look about as bad as he does.
"You look wonderful."
He ignores me, and looks longingly at the frying pan behind me. "Please don't burn that. Please."
"Are you begging, Haymitch Abernathy?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. When he doesn't reply, I turn around and pull a slice of bread out of the bowl of whisked eggs with some tongs, and drop it into the oiled pan. I hear a small moan behind me. "How were the nightmares?" I ask him, pushing my hair back from my face.
"Manageable," he replies, voice coarse. "Thanks for leaving me the knife."
"Figured you might panic otherwise," I say. "Thought I'd clear out of the way before you woke up, though."
"Wise choice." He walks forward, and two heavy arms wrap around me. "What was the terrible singing about?"
"Charming," I mutter, pushing his arms off so I can move freely. "And it was about running away to sea." I flip the bread. "Well, wanting to." I lift my eyes to the window, and the view of the Capitol and the mountains beyond it. I've seen the sea twice; once when training to be a Career, and they taught us to swim in choppy waters, and once on my Victory Tour. Its emptiness was both terrifying and oddly enticing; I associate it with a freedom I've never known.
But I must stay beside my window clear,
As the barges sail away from here.
"It's just a song," I assure us both.
"Right." He pushes himself up to sit on the kitchen side, and watches me cook while chewing his lip impatiently. He catches a strand of my overlong hair and braids it as he waits, wrapping the uneven strands around each other the same way I remember Cossie doing, years ago.
I swallow, and pull my hair out of his grasp.
"Is it ready yet?"
"Nearly." I drop the food onto two plates. "Now eat your heart-stopppingly greasy breakfast."
"Gladly." He takes the plate, and wanders off.
"Don't eat in my bed!" I yell after him, and he veers off obediently to the lounge. I load my own plate and follow him, wondering if this is how normal relationships work.
Once we've both eaten and showered, we both silently agree that he's staying here for as long as possible. We've got a bottle of liquor each, and conversation grows louder and more surreal.
"How do you do it?" he asks me. I'm sat upside down on my couch; lying down, legs hooked over the top and head dangling off the side. It's making drinking somewhat difficult.
"Do what?" I squint at him; he's slouched on my barely used desk chair across the room.
"The-" he waves his arms in the air "-oh, Mr So-so, tell me all your secrets now you've bent me over a table," he says in a falsetto voice. I fall sideways on the couch, giggling.
"Not like that," I tell him. "You'd make a terrible whore."
"Well, I'm a very good alcoholic," he points out, and I laugh again. "You haven't answered me, y'know."
I swing my legs round and stand up, place the bottle on a side table. "Want me to show you?" I say.
His lip curls. "Go on, then." He pushes himself up, but I shake my head. After last night, I know how to play him.
"Stay sitting." I speak with a now-familiar confidence, and unbutton the shirt I am wearing over my underclothes. I run my tongue over my lips and tease my fingers through my hair as I walk towards him, slowly, on tiptoes, hips swaying. He swallows, and his fingers curl around the narrow arms of the chair.
I stop when I'm standing with my legs either side of his, put a finger under his chin and tilt his head upwards so he's looking me in the eye. I try not to feel like he's pinning me down with his familiar gaze, and remind myself that I am in control. "So it starts off like this," I tell him. "And now you do what I say."
"Sure," he says with his usual sarcasm, but just slightly too quickly.
"Keep your hands still," I order him, "and off of me. And don't make a noise." It's all about the tease, but if he starts touching me I'll get distracted.
I lean forward a little, kneel on the wide base of the chair so I'm straddling him. Still oh so slowly, I start to unbutton his shirt, run my fingers along his collarbones, then pin him to the back of my chair, palms against his shoulders. I press my body against him and he purses his lips, looks away from me- of course, he'd view this as a challenge. His heart is hammering as fast as my own, beating tattoos against our ribcages, and I lower myself onto his lap. I know every one of his muscles is tense, every nerve is on fire. And it's taking him every ounce of self-control not to grab me. My thighs are pressed against his hips, my skin flushed where it has rubbed against the coarse fabric of his trousers.
"Look at me," I say, and his eyes snap back to mine. I let my own flick downward for a moment, leaning back, and as I look back up I run a hand down his chest. His breathing is fast, impatient, and I slip my other hand round his neck and pull him up so my lips are millimetres from his. Then, still without kissing him, I take his jaw in my hands and tilt his head sharply to one side, fingernails digging into his skin.
"This is the part," I whisper, hoping he can hear the smug little smile in my voice, "where you tell me your secrets."
I let go and he tilts his head back and moans, almost too quietly for me to hear.
I clap my hands together and jump off of him, grinning. His knuckles are white as he grips on the chair, still looking upwards with his chest heaving. "You lose," I declare, "you made a noise."
"That was…" he drops his head and clicks his jaw. "Fuck."
"Didn't even get that far," I say. "Didn't even kiss you."
"You didn't have to stop."
"Why?" I glance at the clock. "We've still got a couple of hours, if you want to try again."
He quirks an eyebrow. "I think you already know the answer to that."
A/N Huge thanks to everyone for reviewing since I last acknowledged you all: melliemoo, Guest(s?) and BrySt1, who left one of my favourite reviews I've ever received; "it's amazing in like every way but it's also kind of depressing". That is EXACTLY what I was aiming for, although hopefully this one was a bit of light relief.
DISCLAIMER: A bit of information about the song - it's not mine, but a campfire song that I think's been around since forever. I've been told it's the story about a girl on her deathbed, it's all from her point of view- you hum the last verse and chorus because she dies before she manages to finish the song. I always thought it was very pretty and very sad and suited Denna perfectly.