A/N: This little thing was originally part of an idea for a larger fic that would feature the characters of the Hunger Games in roles and a story that reflects Les Mis. Kind of like if the story of Les Mis took place in the world of the Hunger Games instead of 19th Century France, and Haymitch = Jean Valjean. I think I had this vision of the cast of the Hunger Games singing "Can you hear the people sing?" and I got all excited about it and dashed off this first chapter, then immediately lost interest and will not continue it. If you like the idea and want to adopt, have at it.

I wrote this like 7 years ago and found it again in my files recently, and I'm just going to post it as a one-shot so that I and the few others who might read this can belatedly glean a little enjoyment from my aborted efforts.


If he hadn't stolen that bread, he wouldn't be here.

If he hadn't stolen the bread, he wouldn't be trying to sleep in a moving train, in a bed that was far too soft to put him at ease. He wouldn't be hiding from his mentor, who had been trying to talk to him all evening. He wouldn't be a pawn in this twisted game the sick freaks in the Capital were playing. He wouldn't be hungry because he was too worried sick for anything to pass his lips.

Actually, he would probably still be hungry.

Hunger wasn't exactly a new experience for Haymitch. He'd gone to bed many, many nights without any supper. Or lunch. Or breakfast, for that matter. So hunger was nothing new.

But the rest of it was.

And if he hadn't stolen the bread, he wouldn't be experiencing any of it right now. He'd take hunger over this any day. He should have picked hunger when he'd had the chance. But that bread had been so tempting, still sitting in the window display after hours, unsold and going stale. The baker wouldn't sell it now. It would probably go to the pigs. Why shouldn't he take it? He had hungry mouths at home to feed. His sister and her children had no one left to support them but him, and he wasn't old enough to earn money by working in the mines. You had to be eighteen for that, and he was only sixteen.

He remembered thinking of what would greet him if he came home without any food for the third night running. Rory and Vick would be so disappointed, but Rory would put on a brave face, stiff upper lip, and Vick would try to imitate his older brother but without as much success. Hazelle would just sigh and scrape the bottom of the can for the last of Posy's infant formula. If only Posy had been born just a few days later. Then Haymitch could have signed up for tesserae for her too, and maybe they wouldn't be in such dire straits.

If only Hazelle's husband hadn't died in a mine accident, then things would be okay.

If only Haymitch's parents were still alive, they could have helped out.

If only wishes were horses, then Haymitch would have a whole herd and he'd ride off into the sunset and never return to Panem.

If only he hadn't stolen that bread…

But he had. He'd broken the window and taken it, and as he'd run away he'd felt a thrill of adrenaline so strong it made him lightheaded—or maybe that came as a result of not having eaten in three days. Before he'd even made it one block he heard the cry of alarm raised by the baker, who had heard the breaking glass, and suddenly there was a Peacekeeper in his way. Haymitch threw the bread away to try to hide his crime, but he'd already been seen. The Peacekeeper blew his whistle.

Haymitch was pretty strong, even malnourished as he was, and he'd managed to bowl two Peacekeepers over and dodge another three before they'd finally brought him down with a stun gun.

Then they'd taken him to the jail and held him there overnight. In the morning they'd taken him to the town square where they flogged him until he lost consciousness. He remembered catching Hazelle's eye just before the whip was laid on and seeing the tears running down her face. He hadn't looked at her again after that. He couldn't stand seeing her cry and knowing that it was his fault. He hoped she had left Rory and Vick at home so they didn't have to see their uncle's public shaming.

He'd woken up back in his cell in jail, almost unable to move his back hurt so much. He didn't remember much of the next few days because he was feverish, fighting off infection. He'd thought then that he would die, but what had actually happened was worse.

He was held in jail for two weeks after his fever broke. Two weeks, and then they dragged him out of his cell, through the streets and to the square. He'd thought they were going to flog him again. Instead they led him to a roped off area with all the other sixteen-year-old boys in District 12 and shoved him in with a Peacekeeper standing just behind him to make sure he didn't cause any trouble.

It was Reaping Day.

Haymitch had pretty much forgotten it in light of all that had happened in the last few weeks, but now all the dread that usually accompanied Reaping Day came flooding back to him at once. He looked around for Hazelle and the kids until the Peacekeeper hit him with the butt of his gun to get him to stay still. They hadn't been allowed to visit him in jail. Or maybe they just didn't want to after what he'd done.

He hadn't been surprised when the flamboyant escort called his name. He'd almost been expecting it even. He'd long suspected the Reaping was rigged. The Capital probably wanted to make an example of him. They possibly also didn't want a thief like him stirring up trouble in the District. Or maybe the Reaping wasn't rigged at all; maybe it was just karma that had pulled his name out of the hat. God knows he deserved it after what he had just put his family through, and for what they were about to face because of him.

He'd wanted to tell Hazelle how sorry he was, wanted to apologize for doing something so wrong and stupid and leaving her and the children vulnerable. He'd wanted to clap Rory on the shoulder one more time and ruffle Vick's hair and kiss Posy's soft little cheek. But they hadn't even let him say goodbye. They'd taken him straight to the train.

And now, huddled in the too-soft bed that was swaying with the unfamiliar motion of the train, his chances of survival even slimmer than normal due to the increased number of tributes this year, all he could think about was what his family would do without him. How would they survive? How would Hazelle take care of the kids and the house and still find time to earn money to buy Posy formula and Vick clothes and Rory school supplies? Would Rory have to leave school? Would Vick wear pants that were torn and much too short?

Would Posy get sick from malnutrition and…

He shouldn't have stolen that bread. He should've thought about all of this before he went and landed them in this mess. If he had stopped to think about it for one minute, he would have remembered Hazelle's Golden Rule, never to be broken: Treat others the way you would want to be treated. He should've done the right thing. He should've made the right choice.

And yet, he couldn't help but wonder—why was the choice he was faced with between hunger…and the Hunger Games?