Chapter 25 : Make Sure It's Buried With Me
Haymitch had never been good at goodbyes.
How many times had he stood in that corridor, sending tributes to bed knowing he would never see them again? It was odd to be back on the other side of the line.
He hugged the boy, smirking when Peeta shot back his words from the previous year… Stay alive… But he didn't linger. He clapped the girl's shoulder, told her he would see her the next day, and he just… slipped away while Effie hugged Katniss so tight he thought she would never let go.
His room was just like he had left it earlier.
He gathered the meager belongings he had brought with him, stuff that could fit in his pockets really, and gave a last look around. It looked less messy than usual. Probably because he hadn't spent a single night in there.
It was odd how familiar the room looked. He had never thought about it before, never spared a thought for the four walls that sheltered him during his stays in the Capitol but now… How odd was it that it felt exactly like the house in Twelve? Not quite a home, never a home, but… Comforting in its familiarity. It had been his place for twenty-five years. He wasn't one to get attached to walls and objects but he still couldn't help a pang of… regret.
He waited until there was no more noise to sneak into Effie's room.
She was sitting at her dressing table, staring at her reflection, her diamond necklace forgotten in her hand.
Her carefully painted face had melted with the tears she had shed.
He sat on the edge of the bed and, for a second, he stared into space too. It was one thing to know it was coming, it was another to reach the finish line.
He let it sink.
He let the weight of that knowledge settle on his shoulders.
Eventually, she picked up some cotton ball and a bottle and started erasing the Capitol war paint from her skin. She slowly appeared under the mask. Pale skin, rosy lips, bright blue eyes…
"We have to talk about…" he heard himself say and then stopped because he couldn't quite get the words out. We have to talk about what happens when I'm a corpse didn't quite sound right. "I've got favors to ask."
Her movements faltered but she didn't stop. Her hands kept moving, darting around her face, removing earrings, unpinning the golden wig… Preserving some semblance of normalcy, of routine.
"That's yours." He started with that because it was the easy one.
He leaned in to place a silver flask on the table near her elbow. She had gifted it to him, years back, it had been her grandfather's and he didn't want it to get lost or tossed away. She had made a big deal of it not having any meaning but he had known better even at the time, had been reluctant to accept it full point – particularly given the T branded on the side.
She didn't acknowledge it, barely pushed it further down the table where it was hidden behind bottles of perfumes.
The wig was placed on the plastic mannequin head she kept in her room and she moved on to unpinning her hair. It was braided close to her skull, he realized. A Katniss braid. Another quiet rebellion he wished she would give up.
He placed his old knife on the table next, blade pointing away from her. The handle of that knife was in a pitiful shape, damaged by years of clutching it in his sweaty palm at night. He had won the first Quell with that knife, had pulled a tantrum until they had accepted to give it back to him when he had woken up in the clinic… It was Chaff who had convinced them. It had been the only thing that had made him feel safe for many years.
"Once she's out… Give it to Katniss." he requested. "She'll get the message."
Her fingers brushed against the familiar knife almost warily. He had almost accidentally stabbed her a couple of times with it during the first years, when she hadn't yet learned how to deal with his night terrors properly, when she had still been a stupid little Capitol drone who couldn't phantom the sort of pain he was constantly in.
"What's the message?" she whispered.
He almost didn't explain. Katniss would get it so there was no need to spell it.
He surrendered to the sorrowful eyes that were watching him in the mirror.
"Fight. Survive." he shrugged. "Find a way."
She blinked hastily and gave him a shaky nod.
The knife disappeared in the drawer of her dressing table, lost in a sea of hair ties, pins and various hair accessories.
"What else?" Her voice was purposefully detached. She ruffled her braided hair until it was loose on her shoulders, a crumpled mane of curls that made his stomach clench with want.
The picture wasn't easy to let go of. It was the difficult part. The one that made his fingers shake.
He placed it where the knife had been.
"Make sure it's buried with me." he demanded.
Her golden nails caressed the faces on the yellowed paper that had never really been glossy. It had been an extravagance, that picture. A birthday gift for their mother. So worth it though. He would have forgotten her face by now, like he had forgotten Mabel's. He would have forgotten how crooked Hayden's smile was.
"Of course." she answered finally.
She wouldn't attend the actual burial, of course. They never did. They saw to it that the bodies were released and the coffins sent back but that was the extent of their involvement. Mentors remained in the city until a victor was crowned. By the time he went back to Twelve, tributes were usually long in the ground.
She would have no trouble getting something in the coffin though.
He had gone every time at first. In the first few years after his victory. He had felt he needed to, to pay his respect or… whatever. He had stood there and had watched as they had placed the bodies in the coffins, he had made sure everything was done right since the families couldn't… He had stopped quickly enough. It was too painful. It was too much… involvement.
She could do it herself if she so wished or pay off one of the staff members. Or ask the boy. Either way, he had no doubt she would respect his wishes.
"If you can get in touch with Undersee somehow…" he hesitated. "I'd like to be with my family. Not in the victors patch. Nobody's gonna come and check and I don't need the glory in death kind of thing."
She placed the picture in her jewelry box and picked up her hair brush. Her hand was shaking but she ran it in her curls all the same.
"I will do my best." she promised in a voice that sounded too cheerful.
She was trying to keep her mask on, she was clinging to the escort persona because…
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "Maybe it's easier if I go back to my room, yeah? 'Cause…"
The hairbrush bounced back on the wall and landed on the carpet with a disappointing lack of noise.
"You are mine." she declared. "For the rest of your life you are mine, that was the point of putting crumbs all over my room, wasn't it? I won't be robbed of a night just because it would be easier. It won't be easier. Nothing about this is easy."
Anger faded just as quickly as it had flared.
Her shoulders slouched and she swallowed hard, pushing the stool back to stand up. He looked up at her, remaining silent because he didn't know what to say.
There were too many words to utter and not enough at the same time.
Too many things to say.
Too many things to confess.
They stared at each other for a long time and then she turned away, struggling with the fastenings of her dress. Her fingers were trembling, she was upset and she tugged too hard. She cursed when the fragile fabric tore.
Not that she would ever be wearing that dress again, he figured. It was, after all, his funerals.
He watched as she squirmed her way out of the golden fabric, his eyes caressing the naked lines of her spine.
"I don't want to lose you."
It took him a few seconds to realize it was him who had spoken.
She froze.
She turned around eventually, the golden dress crumpled in her fist, completely naked. He watched her, committed every part of her body to memory and it wasn't even… It wasn't even lust or desire. It was…
"You are not losing me." she objected, dropping the dress on a heap on the floor. "I am."
"I know." he admitted. "And I'm sorry."
Because the pain he felt at the thought of losing her…
He shook his head and stood up, shedding his jacket. "I'm gonna grab a shower."
It would be his last one. There would be no time the next morning.
"Do you want company?" she hesitated.
"Don't I always?" he smirked.
He wasn't oblivious to the way she put his shirt aside when she helped him undress. He wasn't oblivious to the fact she had regularly been snatching shirts, undershirts and tee-shirts away from him since the beginning of Training and that they were now stashed in her pink suitcase. He didn't comment on it though.
If his smelly shirts could comfort her once he was gone, he wasn't going to deny her.
There was no real funny business in the shower. He chose the plainest setting and they mostly hugged under the streaming water. Hands wandered but only to touch not to start anything. They clung to each other, skin flushed against skin, her lips mouthing the same relentless words against his neck again and again, as if they were about to be torn away from each other.
When she finally turned the water off, he kissed her.
For a brief moment, he was reminded of the last night of the Tour.
It wasn't their usual brand of despair. It wasn't the familiar urge to take.
It was…
He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, pushed her wet hair over her shoulder…
When his hands rested under her ass and she hopped and locked her legs around his waist, he didn't pin her to the shower's wall like he usually would have. He carried her to her bed.
They never stopped kissing.
Not when he almost tripped on her discarded shoe and not when he tugged on the bed covers so he could lie her down on silky sheets.
Not when they clumsily adjusted so she could rest with her head on the pillow, with him heavy between her legs.
Not when they started touching each other.
He couldn't stop kissing her.
At that moment, she was oxygen.
He needed her to survive.
He stroke her slowly, without displaying any of the dirty tricks he had developed with her along the years. It was pure touch. Basic. He just wanted to feel.
She seemed to be of a similar mind.
There was no real finesse to the way her hand was slowly running up and down his dick, not enough pressure to make it a sweet torture.
When he was sure she was ready, he caught her hand and entwined their fingers. They ended on the pillow near her head. He drew back to look in her eyes when he entered her and she arched her neck, struggling not to close her eyelids in pleasure, to keep staring at him.
The next second, they were kissing again.
His thrusts were slow, almost lazy. He let pleasure build by itself.
They had spent the previous day and a good part of the night fucking to the point he had thought he had exhausted his allotted number of hard-ons for the rest of his life. This wasn't about sex.
This was… more.
They were one.
At that moment, they were one.
And it was…
Everything.
He wanted it to last forever. He wanted to live in that moment: buried in her, her tongue in his mouth, safe in her warmth.
Their climax was shattering.
It destroyed the illusion of peace.
Eternity gone in a flash of a bliss.
They settled on their side, facing each other, her left leg trapped between his, ankles hooked, hands entwined between them, foreheads pressed together… They breathed each other's breath, doze off only to wake up and kiss the other with a sudden terror that it would be the last time…
His rest was fretful and not just because she was clinging to his hand with despair. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand table, over her shoulder, from time to time, and the red numbers made him feel sicker and sicker.
It would ring half an hour before the stylists would show up to take the tributes away. He would have time to go back to his own room, to get dressed, to… prepare. If anything like that was possible.
The clock didn't stop.
It never stopped.
The closer it got to the time it was supposed to ring, the more frantic his kisses became.
Effie was trying so hard not to cry.
He was trying so hard to look strong.
"I love you." he whispered, two minutes before it was set to ring. His own personal brand of farewell, except he would be the one dying this time around. He had been thinking the words for a long time now but they had always remained stuck in his throat, heavy in their simplicity.
She rushed hers out, almost relieved to finally be allowed to say it out loud instead of mouthing it against his skin. She almost choked on them. "I love you. I love you so much…"
Her kiss was hard, demanding, and it only turned soft when the beeping of the clock echoed in the room. His face crumpled in the middle of it but he kept on kissing her, desperate to have one last second, one last…
It took a long time to talk himself into letting her go.
He briefly cupped her cheek but left her bed before he could falter, before it became impossible to do so, before he forced Peacekeepers to drag him out of her arms…
She sat up, her lips wobbling until she bit hard on her bottom one, hard enough to draw blood probably.
He searched for meaningful last words and realized they had already shared them. Anything they would say after that would feel… less.
He took a deep breath and turned away, walked out of the room.
The moment the door shut behind him he heard her burst in painful sobs.
He wasn't surprised that their last kiss had the salty taste of tears.
Soooooo how much do you hate me? What do you think of Haymitch's requests? Did you like their last night together? Did you think he would say those words as a goodbye? It was a really emotional chapter to write! I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know your thoughts!
(for those of you who read April Showers, I won't be updating Sunday because I won't be there but I will be updating on Monday instead so we don't miss a week so keep an eye out for it ;) )