Haymitch wakes up to the sound of someone else snoring. He scrambles up in bed, searching, frantic for his knife.
"S'okay, 12, just your buddy, Chaff."
Haymitch stills, hand on his knife, and listens. He is fully awake, and fully disorientated.
"Where are we, Chaff?"
He thinks he woke up in his room in the Training Center, but he can't stop thinking Chaff might be a mutt. Why is his voice coming from the floor?
Chaff must hear the fear in his voice, because he nearly whispers, "All okay?"
Haymitch closes his eyes, even though it's pitch black in the room already, and thinks. He's not injured, he definitely feels like he's in the Training Center bedroom, though he is wondering if it's his.
"Yeah," he whispers back, eventually. "All okay."
He grips the knife handle, not daring to move his arm and rustle the sheets, but trying to prepare himself for a Capitol prison room with a Chaff-mutt as a cellmate.
Chaff stands up from the floor.
"I'm getting the light."
Haymitch hears footsteps and closes one eye, keeping the other one open, but slit nearly shut, knowing the sudden light will blind him if he doesn't.
Chaff turns on the bedroom light. This room looks like his. He sees his shoes next to the door, and Chaff's shoes next to them.
"This is my room, right?"
Chaff nods.
"Mind if I turn off the light? We can talk if you need to, but I've got a Panem-sized headache."
"Okay."
Chaff turns the light off again, and lays down on the floor.
"You took my pillows," says Haymitch.
"Yeah, District 12, I wasn't sleeping on your hard floor. I'm an old man."
Chaff is 21.
"You're making me nervous. Why are you on the floor?"
"Oh, shit, am I making you nervous? I thought I saved you from Gamemaker detention."
"What?"
"Aw, they got a dry out tank for those of us who can't control themselves. It's not fun, but you survive."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Chaff laughs, then stops, suddenly.
"Please, don't make me laugh, 12."
It's quiet again. He slides back down to the mattress. It feels weird without pillows.
He's starting to feel sure that Chaff is not a mutt, and this isn't a dungeon room made to look like the Training Center room.
"I can control myself," he says.
Chaff is laughing again, and then groans. "Come on, man. Stop making me laugh, and go to sleep, you're doing my head in."
Haymitch squeezes the knife handle again, to assure himself he knows where it is.
Haymitch doesn't feel good.
"Come on, brother. Time for a shower."
Haymitch is sitting up. Then he's laying back down.
There's laughter. Whose? A handsome, brown face swims before his eyes, laughing.
"Go away, Chaff," he says from under the duvet.
"No such luck, 12."
Suddenly, he's on the floor, in a tangle of sheets. His head hurts, his mouth is dry, his eyes hurt, and now, his back and butt hurt.
He stands up.
So, this is a hangover, he thinks.
He's had them before. Not like this. He pukes twice and does something to the toilet that offends all five senses.
Haymitch showers. It feels like standing outside on a chilly, wet day, when, no matter how many layers you have on, your skin gets soaked, and you're cold from the inside out, and wet to boot.
When he's done, Chaff points to clothes he put out for him on the bed. It's not embarrassing getting undressed and dressed in front of Chaff, some part of him recognizes.
When he's done, Chaff says, "All right. Go back to sleep. I'll come get you, if you're wanted."
Haymitch doesn't question the order to get back in bed, and is asleep in minutes. Every time he wakes up, it's daylight, and he knows where he is.