"Sometimes, nothing can be a real cool hand."

- Cool Hand

The arena was nothing more than a mostly empty ash pit with a circle that had to be redrawn each time it was used. In theory, it was used solely for the official wrestling matches organised and maintained by the school, but the Twelve kids would use it to settle disagreements with bare knuckles and blood. As a rule, the teachers would turn a blind eye to this; knowing how to fight properly couldn't hurt the teenagers' chances in the Games, could it?

There was a crowd, because people liked free entertainment, and watching other people get hurt. The teenagers of District Twelve learnt their instincts for trouble early on in life, and before even the participants of the fight had arrived there had already been people waiting. The air was electric with excitement, for the outcome was yet to be prewritten. On one side there was a bulky wrestling champion, eighteen years old, well-fed and popular. On the other, there was a jumped-up little Seam kid with barely any meat on his bones and what was clearly a death wish. What kind of crazy would think they stand a chance against odds like that?

Haymitch Abernathy removed his shirt and handed it with a wink to the blonde hovering by his sideline. "Breathe, Ana," he told her, which had no effect on the pretty girl's fraught expression. "I'll be fine."

"He's twice your size," Ana replied, very determinedly not looking at the boy on the other side of the ring, "and two years older than you. Please, Haymitch, don't."

Haymitch remembered the switchblade in his pocket and spun it around his practised fingers, then dropped it on top of his shirt. He didn't want to have an unfair advantage. "What if I said I was doing this to protect your honour?"

"Are you?" Ana asked, wrapping his shirt neatly around the blade.

"Nope. But I'm not averse to lying."

That got a weak laugh out of her, and Haymitch took what he could get. He left a swift kiss between her eyebrows before turning and moving into the middle of the ring, folding his arms above his head as nonchalantly as he could manage. Opposite him, Leif spat at his feet.

It wasn't that Haymitch particularly wanted to fight the big ruddy-faced brute that was currently looking at him in a way that most people accompanied with the thought dinner. But the eighteen-year-old and a few of his friends had started following Haymitch around over the last couple months, and under no circumstances would he allow them to find out where he lived.

He harboured a faint suspicion that they did it because of Ana, to frighten him away from her. So really, he was kind of doing it for her, too.

"Ready to dance, Twinkle Toes?" Haymitch asked with a grin, which earned him a few snickers from the crowd that had gathered to watch. One of them, another Seam boy, rolled his eyes instead. That particular kid had been Haymitch's brother-in-arms for far too long to find him funny anymore.

"Ready to eat dust?" Leif responded, and Haymitch whistled in through his teeth.

"That stung," he replied, and without warning went in for the first punch with a well-trained fist to Leif's sternum. The bigger boy doubled over and Haymitch, instead of withdrawing the punch, brought it up and cracked into the underside of Leif's jaw.

If that had been his first ever punch, Haymitch's hand should have broken. But repeated trauma had hardened his bones and, aged sixteen, Haymitch had the hands of a trained bruiser. Still, Leif had good padding from an easy life and recovered quickly. Haymitch ducked a messy swing with a distance so fine that he felt a curl of his hair snag on one of Leif's fingers. Don't let up, a rough voice in the back of his head told him, and Haymitch straightened to deliver a neat right hook to Leif's jaw, catching his head as it swung with an identical hit from his other hand. His ears heavily boxed, Leif staggered away with a yowl. As a satisfying pain blossomed over his knuckles, Haymitch turned away and held out his arms to the crowd. "Well," he said, "that was –"

Leif's meaty fist connected with the back of Haymitch's skull and Haymitch connected with the floor, stars popping over his vision. Through the pink fog that was rapidly suffusing his brain, the phrase brick shithouse pushed itself to the fore of his mind. He tried to stagger to his feet before Leif could get another hit in, knowing that if he allowed that to happen the fight would be over already. It didn't help that the earth beneath appeared to be giving up on the whole "gravity" thing. The floor currently felt like it was flying around his ears.

His eyesight was gone, but with a Seam boy's instinct for danger Haymitch hazarded a guess at where Leif was standing and grunted with satisfaction as he felt his knee connect with someone's groin. Now he had his bearings, he grabbed at the back of Leif's head, drove his elbow into his nose and did the same to his right eye for good measure.

Having given himself a moment with the three harsh jabs, Haymitch staggered back and smacked himself in the face. His vision returned to him just in time to see a big, bloody, angry Leif charging like a bull towards him, and then a hundred and ten kilos of well-fed muscle barrelled into his midriff and the two of them went flying, all the way out of the ring.

Excellent, Haymitch thought blearily, and Leif, resisting the arms of the people trying to pull him away, dropped a fist into Haymitch's face.

%

In the darkness, Haymitch heard two voices.

"Not two months after he got whipped, either," one of them was saying. "Some people might say he was asking for it."

"He was," another voice sniffed, one that made his heartbeat quicken. "Idiot."

"I'm actually really clever," he mumbled, and opened his eyes to see Ana and her apothecary friend leaning over him.

"Sure," said the friend, "sure you are, Abernathy."

"How's my face?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbows. He seemed to be lying on somebody's kitchen table. It was a big, solid-walled room with herbs and pots hanging from the ceilings, the sides of cabinets all scrubbed as clean as anything in Twelve could get. A nice house, one that Haymitch didn't really feel like he belonged in.

"Sadly," the friend said, "not broken. Leif missed the more brittle bones, somehow."

"I'm a tough nut," Haymitch said cheerfully. Leif appeared to have punched the sense out of him.

"You're concussed, is what you are."

"Also that. You got a bucket?" The friend handed him one, and he threw up in it. "Thanks."

"You won the match," Ana told him. Her fingers were curled like vices around his left hand, and he ran his thumb over hers to reassure her. "Leif forfeited when he shoved you both out of the ring."

"That was the plan," Haymitch mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand.

"You really expect me to believe that?" the friend asked.

"Well, it's the truth," he replied.

"Ellie," said Ana, ignoring him as most people who spent a lot of time around Haymitch learnt to do, "does he need to, like, take anything?"

"We've got some liquor in the cabinet," Ellie replied, "it might take the edge off the pain."

"No," Haymitch said flatly. He went to stand up and immediately fell over again as the world spun, sending his stomach flipping into a fully-fledged acrobatic routine. "I'm fine."

"Looks like it," said the friend.

"Your parents would be proud of your diagnosis, Elethea Hickey," Haymitch murmured, dragging himself to the back door. In his gut, the gymnastics display continued, and he could also now feel the hot, stabbing pains on the side of his face where bruised tissue was swelling. The rest of his body wasn't exactly in peak health, either. "Where's my shirt?"

Ana handed it to him and he struggled to pull it over his head, finding the arm holes on the third attempt. "Right. See you tomorrow."

"You can't go home like that!" Ana protested as he slowly made his way around the back of the apothecary building, one shoulder pressed against the brick. "You'll get arrested if you even stay conscious that long!"

"You worry too much," Haymitch informed her, and vomited again. "Urgh."

"I'm coming with you," Ana decided, and with a heavy sigh Haymitch grabbed her shoulders with both his hands - partly to reassure her, mostly to keep himself upright.

"Loitering somewhere," he told her, "is a scrawny little Seam kid that goes by the name of Roan. If you're that worried, go get him. But you're not coming into the Seam because of me."

Through a faint haze, Haymitch could see Ana's eyes were red and puffy. "You sure?" she asked him, her perfect little hands resting on his chest.

"Positive."

"Okay."

"I love you," he added. He could feel Ellie's disapproving gaze on them.

"I know. Please don't throw up on me."

"Then hurry up and get away from me," he said, and she ran off to find Roan. Out of the corner of his bruise-puffed eye, Haymitch saw Ellie fold her arms.

"The Seam's nothing to be ashamed of," she told him, as Haymitch slumped back against the wall.

"So says the merchant girl," Haymitch replied, wincing as he finally let the pain show. He hoped Leif was nursing a few wounds, as well. As official as his victory was, a vindictive little part of his brain wanted to give the wealthy town boy a permanent limp.

"If it's because of your father," Ellie continued, "lots of people have family who died in mine explosions. I'm sure Ana wouldn't care."

"Right," said Haymitch, "mine explosion." That old chestnut. "It's not that. The Seam's dangerous, and she's not going to get hurt because of me."

Ellie half-smiled. "That's uncharacteristically sweet of you, Haymitch Abernathy."

"You don't know me," he said, and groaned. "My head feels too heavy for my neck."

"That is a symptom of concussion, yes," Ellie nodded. "Your friend's here."

Roan was a little shorter, a little slower, a little less attractive than Haymitch, but he was also a good deal kinder. He also understood his friend well enough to allow him to fight Leif. Haymitch would have done it anyway – at least, if he knew, Roan would be there to pick up the pieces. "Thanks for looking after him," he said to Ellie as he grabbed one of Haymitch's arms and looped it over his shoulder. "He didn't deserve it."

"It was no bother," Ellie replied, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

"You're blushing," Haymitch told her, and Roan stamped on his foot. "Ouch. I didn't need that."

"Any aftercare?" Roan asked.

"Just a good night's sleep, I think. I suggested spirits to help knock him out, but he refused. Don't let him get into any more scraps for at least another week."

"Noted," Roan nodded. "Thanks for not using any medication."

That might have sounded weird, but meds meant payment, and payment was something Haymitch Abernathy could never afford.

"No problem. Be careful."

Haymitch's feet dragged a little on the floor as he and Roan circled round the town square. It would be too risky to walk through the middle of it, where Peacekeepers were circling and looking for any excuse to use their fancy toys. Haymitch wasn't entirely sure they were breaking any laws, but they couldn't be too careful.

The cracked cobbles turned to dirt tracks darkened black with coal dust, and dusk began to fall by the time they entered the Seam. The mines were not yet closed and, save for the occasional washerwoman or kid out of school, they had the road to themselves. Haymitch's nausea had passed, and now all he was left with was a dizzying and excruciating pain in his head, hands, chest...

"Upright," Roan ordered him, and Haymitch released his friend. "You steady?"

"As I'll ever be," he replied. "How do I look?"

"Awful." Roan handed him a tattered leather jacket that was older than the pair of them, and Haymitch shrugged on the garment. The familiar cracked fabric was a comfort to him in the cold, early spring air. "You okay getting back the rest of the way?"

"Yeah. Do me a favour and ask the Hickey girl out. The Games are in a few weeks, and you might not get a chance after that."

Roan clicked his tongue. "Night, Haymitch."

Haymitch saluted, and they went their separate ways - Roan to the houses that bordered the woods, and Haymitch further south into the more sparsely inhabited scrublands. The houses became shacks and the shacks became fewer, smaller, until he was right on the fringe of the Seam. Even the miners looked down on this part of Twelve.

Officially, the Abernathys still lived in the centre of the Seam. But that home had burned down years ago and they had not had the money to rebuild, so the three of them had moved here instead. Haymitch's home was one room, with holes in the ceiling and holes in the walls, and he slept on the floor by the never-lit fire.

This was why nobody could know where he lived. Haymitch was proud, far more proud than he could afford to be, so he did his damn best to keep up pretences. It was for the same reason that everyone thought Mr Abernathy had died in a mining explosion.

Sat outside his home was a scraggly little mutt with a length of rope around its neck; it ran up to him, yapping madly, and Haymitch scratched it behind the ears.

"I got nothing," he told it as it sniffed at his pockets, "unless you eat headaches."

He pushed aside the heavy cloth that served as his front door and his mother, with eyes like a hawk in the gloom, darted up to him.

"What on earth happened to you?" she asked, reaching up to push his hair back from his face. Haymitch had been taller than his mother for years. "You look like you've come straight from the Dark Days."

"Some asshole," he said, catching her hands and pulling them away. "I'm alright, really. Where's Denton?"

"At Mrs Mill's," his mother replied, still fretting over his face. "She's letting us borrow her stove for the tesserae bread."

Haymitch swore under his breath. What with Leif and everything, he had forgotten to barter at the Hob. He had nothing to trade but his hands, but still - they were skilled hands, and people would pay decent money for a bit of manual labour. His surname helped, as did the fact he had no problem with the more illicit of trades. Beggars can't be choosers, the rough voice in the back of his head always said. What was the punishment, really, if the crime could feed the family?

The lash marks on Haymitch's back still stung sometimes, but they hadn't been too bad. It had been worth it, for enough money to feed his dependents and even the blasted dog for a month.

"I'll see if I can beg some ice off someone," his mother offered.

"No, don't," he protested, "please. It's not worth it."

"Haymitch, sweetheart -"

"No," he repeated. "It'll heal. Nothing's broken."

"Ma, I got the bread but I kinda burnt one end of - WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE?!"

Haymitch wiped the surly expression off of his face as soon as he heard that voice. Turning, he saw a skinny kid with a mop of dark hair standing in the doorway, an expression of sheer delight on their face. "Did you get in a fight? You got in a fight, didn't you? Did you win?"

"What do you think?" Haymitch asked, folding his arms. "Course I did."

"Awesome!" Denton declared, with that idolising look that can only be found on younger brothers.

"No, it's not," his mother interrupted. "Let's have a look at that bread."

As Mrs Abernathy inspected the slightly blackened discs that were supposed to be food, Haymitch sat down on the pile of blankets in the most insulated corner of the room, where his mother and brother slept. Denton dropped down next to him and stared at the bloody bruises with unabashed fascination.

"Should I be flattered or insulted that this is the most interested you've ever been in me?" Haymitch asked, pulling off his boots.

"Dunno. Do they hurt?"

"Nah," he lied. "Don't poke them, though - ow!" He grabbed Denton and wrestled him to the floor, the ten-year-old giggling as they pretended to brawl. "Since when did you get so strong?"

"Boys," their mother called, but Haymitch could hear the laughter in her voice. "Behave."

"He started it!" Haymitch yelled, picking up Denton and slinging him over his shoulder. He ignored the pain of his bruised ribs as his brother pounded on his back.

"Lemme down!"

"Never." But he dropped him back onto the blankets anyway. "You have a good day at school?"

"It was alright. We had to do history, though."

Haymitch frowned. "But that's the best subject."

"Is not."

"Is too."

Haymitch liked bickering with his brother. They had been doing it since time immemorial, and it allowed him to forget just how bad their current family situation was. Haymitch was too smart with his mouth to get a job down the mines, but now half the Hob knew him and as soon as he was out of school, he could work down there full time. Anything to stop his mother begging on the street, to get rid of the hollow look in Denton's eyes, to drag his family out of the mess his father had left them in.

Still, Haymitch figured, it's not like my life can get much worse. On his mother's orders, he walked up the street, still wobbling a little from the hit to the head, to the water pump and filled the bucket. He held it from the bottom, his palm covering the hole worn into the base. The icy water stung his hand and mingled with the ash that had coated it, settling in his burst knuckles and dripping onto the earth. He splashed a little of it into the tin can half that served as the dog's bowl and handed the bucket off to his mother.

"Are you going out tonight?" she asked him.

"Do you need me to? I can scrounge something up at the Hob."

"No, we're fine." Haymitch raised an eyebrow. "We can last until the weekend, anyway. I just wondered whether I should put the fire on for when you get back."

"I'm staying," he assured her. He didn't much feel up to dogsbody tasks in his current state. "I've been told I should get a good night's rest."

His mother laughed. When she did that, she looked so much like Haymitch's first memories of her that he felt only three feet tall again. "What I wouldn't give to see that. Go help your brother with his homework, will you? I don't have the brains for it."

"Fine. But I expect three courses by the time we're finished."

His mother clipped him lightly round the back of the head. "Useless boy," she chuckled.

Okay, so maybe, if he lost these two, his life might get a little bit worse. And Ana too, of course. But really, apart from that, everything was terrible. His concussion was going to last for days.

A/N hello, everyone. I like Haymitch too much to leave him alone, so I'm (slowly) writing my way through the 50th Games. Also, worldbuilding is fun, so expect a lot of it. If you came here from Alliance, I love you. If you're new to my stuff, I love you too. I hope you like this, and please let me know what you think. Um. I've completely forgotten how to write an A/N. Cool.

Oh, and if you hadn't already clicked, the description for this story is based off the Choose Life speech from Trainspotting, which you should totally read/watch if you haven't already. The title is a parody of The Breakfast Club, obviously. Not gonna lie, I'm drawing from a lot of wells, here. Enjoy!