Chapter Two: The Icy Cold of Death, but Whose?

The expensive bed frame squeaks beneath him as he thrashes in agony. One may assume that sleeping on a train set for the Capitol would be easier when you weren't the one being torn from everyone who loves you (especially for Haymitch, who has no one left who loves him), but it isn't. All he hears is the crashing of gears against metal rails, all he feels is the stagger of the car that makes his head spin and his stomach turn.

All he knows is fear, and dread, and the looming sense of absolute chaos.

So, when he escapes from his unconscious trip down memory lane, the first thing on his mind is the orange liqueur sitting in the dining car — not bright orange, Haymitch notices, but soft, like the sunset. As he sits up in bed, dreaming — excuse the poor choice of words — of the drink, his fingers sweep across his face, and they come back dripping with sweat. He's very hot. Burning, really.

He wants ice in his drink. Even if the little bastards water it down when they melt. He'll just have to drink fast, then.

Luckily for him, there's already a glass on his bedside table from the bar car. Wonder why. He picks it up carelessly between two fingers and teeters towards the door (in the general direction of the door), catching himself on the vanity when he falls. His head is throbbing, as though someone has bashed his skull in with a wooden club again. Ah yes, he remembers that. But he wishes he didn't.

Then again, that's what the drink is for.

When he finally reaches the dining car, he makes a beeline for his sunset drink. Like a waterfall, the orange liquid cascades into his cup, and the aroma wafts up to his nose. It's not a delicate, youthful smell — it's hard, fast, efficient liquor. Just the way he likes it.

But his nightmare left him in a pool of his own sweat, and while he loves a warm drink on occasion, today is not one of those days. So his fingers close around the lid of the metal ice-cooler, and he pries it open as enthusiastically as he can muster… but it's empty.

There's no ice.

Panic rises to his cheeks, and he flushes, grower warmer and warmer. He didn't just want the ice — he needed it. Haymitch doesn't get upset over things that don't matter, but this does matter.

It's so hot.

He stares at the soft-looking boy tribute in a way that makes him flinch away from the dishevelled, broken man. "Where's the ice?" Haymitch asks in a hushed voice, the quiet kind of dangerous, the subtle kind of precarious.

"I don't…" The boy trails off, swallowing loudly. "I don't know."

Throbbing gathers between Haymitch's eyes, and he slams down the lid before rubbing the tense area. Both tributes jump, startled, but Haymitch doesn't give two shits about them. Not yet. He grabs the whole bottle — because he still hasn't given up his drink-fast idea — and falls into a plush seat.

Just as he brings the cup to his lips, Peeta says, "Okay, so… when do we start?" Haymitch clenches his jaw, holding back his irrational anger, and leans back in his seat. The nerve of this kid.

"Woah, so eager," he comments harshly. "Most of you aren't in such a hurry." He sips his drink, barely feeling the stinging down his throat.

"I want to know what our plan is. You're our mentor, so you're supposed to g—"

"Mentor?" Haymitch spits out, almost choking on his drink. The only thing he could teach these kids was how to forget that they would soon be dead in the back of a hovercraft. Maybe years ago he could have been useful to them, but not today. Not now.

Now, he didn't want to. Not if they would die anyway. He'd learned his lesson after the first two — don't get your hopes up. They never win.

Peeta's eyes narrow. "Yeah, our mentor. You're supposed to tell us how to get sponsors and give us advice." Haymitch can tell that he's already doubting his usefulness. Good. The sooner they realize, the better. For the both of them.

If he has to be harsh to get that across, then so be it. "Okay, um… embrace the probability of your imminent death. And know, in your heart, that there's nothing I can do to save you." He finishes his drink and pours another one, only to chug that one down. Plus all the drinks he had before he fell asleep… he's drunk. Very drunk. Then again, when isn't he?

"Why are you here, then?" The girl jeers. Haymitch already doesn't like her. There's an angry air about her, a stubborn, selfish air. Which is ironic, considering why she is here in the first place.

Katniss is complicated, and Haymitch doesn't like complicated.

"For the refreshments," he gushed, having another drink.

"Okay, I think that's enough—" Peeta tries to take away his drink, so he shoves him back with his bare feet, digging into his chest. How dare he…

There's a stain on his new pants, so he lets out a string of curse words that the baker's boy has probably never heard before. "You made me spill my drink." At the sudden movement, a wave of nausea hits Haymitch, and he keels over and vomits on the carpet. He can almost hear Effie shouting in his ear like a phantom.

To wash the bile out of his mouth, he takes another swig. The tributes watch him incredulously, and they begin to spin. Wait, no…

The last thing he sees before he passes out are Peeta's concerned blue eyes and Katniss' judgmental ones.


When he comes to, his clothes are wet and sticking to his skin, and he's… cool. Chilly water barrels down onto him, stripping away the sweat and heat from his body. This is so much better than ice in his drink.

Groggy, he opens his eyes and blinks to defog his vision. It's only then that he registers Peeta's hands holding a soft washcloth, wiping away the vomit on his chin. "What're you doing?" he protests dizzily, swatting at the boy.

"Cleaning you up," he replies, determined. "Or at least trying to. Forgive me, but you're a mess, Mr. Abernathy."

He narrows his eyes. "Haymitch. And I'm no invalid, boy."

"No, you're just a drunk." Peeta sets the washcloth aside, picking up a sponge. "I thought some water would sober you up, even if you aren't drinking it. Plus, you smelled like puke and alcohol."

"Get used to it, buddy," he growls, but he doesn't protest as Peeta washes the grime off of him. "What's it to you, anyway?"

"I need your help, Haymitch. So does Katniss. Which means we need you sober." He pauses. "Sober enough."

"You do realize only one of you can win, right?"

"Yes."

"And you realize what happens to the other?"

"Yes."

"And you still want me to train both of you? You want us to be a team?" he spits the word out like a rotten fruit.

"Yes."

Haymitch leans back as shampoo runs down his face. "Why?"

"Because I'm not willing to go down without a fight. Because I think Katniss could win this. Because there are people back home who need her."

Haymitch notices how he doesn't say that he could win, or that there are people who need him, and he remembers the boy on stage, searching for his family in the audience, only to be left there alone. He knows how Peeta feels, because neither of them have anyone who loves them. Not like Katniss. She has someone to fight for.

"Okay," he finally replies. "Okay, I'll help you. Tomorrow morning, breakfast."

Peeta grins and embraces the man (because he's already soaked, so why not?). "Thank you, Haymitch! Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he deflects, shoving the boy off of him. "This doesn't mean you're going to win." A moment of silence between the two enlightens him. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Peeta doesn't reply. The only sound in the room is the patter of the shower against ceramic bath tiles. Haymitch sighs heavily.

"A word of advice? Don't get too attached to her, son. A girl like that will be the death of you."

Neither of them acknowledges the truth of the words.