Chapter 3 :
The shuffling of feet startled him. The blade bit into his finger and he let out a curse.
"Are you hurt?" Effie asked, worriedly.
"Just a scratch." Haymitch sucked the small wound to stop the slight trickle of blood, turning around to face her. The pale light of the kitchen lamps made her hair shine like gold – not that he would notice something like that… "You're not supposed to be out of bed." he scolded her. She had steadily been getting better for the last few days but Mrs Everdeen – how weird was it that the woman couldn't be more than two years older than him at most and that he was unable to call her by her first name? She was frightening – had still insisted on bed rest.
"I don't like being idle." she said, coming closer to peer at the mess behind his shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"Cooking." Or, rather, trying to cook. It was not something he was actually good at and it was not something he had done for… six or seven years, at the very least. He stepped aside to let her inspect the mess he had made of the squirrel he had bought from Everdeen. The miner was quickly becoming wealthier since they had gotten better acquainted but was clever enough to hide it from everyone in the Seam.
She made a disgusted face.
"I think I just became a vegetarian." she joked.
He didn't know what that meant but he didn't want to ask, he had been told by enough Capitol citizens how unlucky it was that he was so uneducated. Uneducated, in their mind, often meant stupid. He didn't want her to think he was stupid. He wasn't. And it would hurt if she told him that.
"May I do something to help?" she offered.
"Well, you may drop the formal talk, Princess." He grabbed the carrots he had bought at the market, directly imported from Eleven. "You can cut that if you want."
"I wish you would stop calling me that." she sighed, grabbing a knife and making even more of a mess with her carrot than he had done with the squirrel. "I have a name, you know."
"Given that's actually the only thing I know about you, I'm not about to forget it." He let his eyes trail on her body appreciatively. She was wearing his blue shirt again – and she could definitely keep it because it really looked better on her – and woolly white socks, and that was all. The shirt was too big on her: she had to roll up the sleeves and it was falling a little lower than her mid-thigh. No woman in District Twelve would ever wear that in front of a stranger but, by Capitol standards, it probably was longer than fashion dictated. She was a beautiful woman. She was a gorgeous woman. It was getting harder and harder not to notice it day after day. "You look like a princess to me."
Her blush spread from her cheeks to her throat and disappeared under the collar of the shirt… The sight was… riveting. Haymitch promised himself to find new ways to make her flustered.
"Thank you." She cleared her throat and put the knife down, presenting him with uneven pieces of vegetables. It looked as if those poor carrots had met an untimely and painful death.
"Have you ever done that before?" he asked, putting the carrots in the pan with the meat before lowering the flames a little.
"Not really." she winced apologetically. "My parents have a cook and I usually order take-away or go to a restaurant."
Present tense, he noticed The first time she had met him, she had said her family was gone. Either she had lied or their death was recent enough that it hadn't properly sunk in yet.
"Go and sit down." he suggested "You should mind the knee."
It was still slightly swollen.
"Oh, that's nothing." She smiled but perched on a chair nevertheless. "I've been wearing heels since I was twelve. I'm used to sprains."
He made sure the stew wouldn't burn and then joined her at the table. He immediately snatched the bottle he had left there and took a relieved swallow.
"You… drink a lot." Her voice was tentative and her face was guarded. "I've noticed."
He shrugged, faking detachment. He didn't particularly feel like being called a drunkard in his own home by a girl he was or wasn't fancying a little but he was used to it. Nothing new there.
"Sweetheart, you haven't seen me 'drink a lot' since you arrived." he chuckled bitterly. "I've been pacing myself." For her sake mostly, but he wasn't about to admit that aloud.
He was expecting disgust or judgment, her eyes only softened. "Why do you drink so much?"
He watched her for a long moment but she stayed silent, waiting for an answer he didn't know how to give. Why was he drinking? No one ever asked that before. They either knew or they thought they knew. They never asked.
"To forget." he said, at last.
She studied the bottle in his hand with a contemplative look. "Does it work?"
"Not really." He was about to have another go at the bottle when she placed her hand on his, preventing him from taking another swing.
When was the last time a human being had touched him with kindness and care rather than hatred and ill-intentions? Before the Games, he thought. Before they killed his family and his girlfriend. Before he became Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the fiftieth Hunger Games.
"May I be honest?" Her blue eyes shone with understanding. Not pity - that he would never have allowed - but understanding and it made all the difference in the world.
"You tell me." he joked, trying to lighten the mood. "You're the one running away from the authorities and being all mysterious about who you are. You could be a compulsive murderer for all I know."
She squeezed his hand playfully and he let go of the bottle to let their fingers intertwine. It was… weird to watch her small hand with broken nails that obviously had once been perfectly manicured pressed against his big calloused one.
"Yet, you took me in." There was a twinkle in her eyes when she smiled. "I could have killed you in your sleep."
"Two things I know about you, beside your name, sweetheart." he smirked. "You're a failed thief and…"
"I am not a thief." she huffed. "I borrowed your shirt. I would have given it back to you. Eventually."
"You could always give it back right now, you know…" he suggested.
He had intended it as a joke but their eyes met and the kitchen seemed small and oppressing all of a sudden. It felt as if there wasn't enough air to breathe. He couldn't help glancing at her mouth. She bit her bottom lip and it nearly was his undoing.
"Don't tempt me." Her attempts at levity failed spectacularly.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to look away. It would be dangerous to give in to the attraction he felt for her. He didn't allow people to get close to him and, yet, there she was, closer than most only after a few days… He knew nothing about her. She was just passing through in his life. She would leave eventually and he had a feeling that, if he let her, she would leave him heartbroken.
"Okay, three things I know about you, beside your name, sweetheart. One, you're a failed thief. Two, you're a flirt. Three…" He looked at her again. "You're no killer."
He was waiting for a smile or a retort, he only got regrets and bitterness.
"You might be wrong about that." She pulled her hand back. "Anyway, you switched topics. We weren't talking about me."
"Weren't we?" He lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. "But there's so much to tell…"
She didn't look very impressed by his open attempts at fishing for information. She frowned a little. "You're so young… You shouldn't waste your time away in that." She gestured to the bottle of liquor. "It won't help you."
"Nothing will help me." he sighed. He stood up, using the excuse of the stew to turn his back on her. "There's nothing left to help. My life is over, Princess, that's how it is. I'm just waiting for Death to catch up."
The chair scraped the floor. She approached him with caution, uncertain of her welcome. She didn't touch him but she stood close - closer than most dared.
"You shouldn't say such things." she scolded him quietly. "There's always hope. Look at me… I escaped from the Capitol, I… I did things I thought I could never do. You can't just… You can't just give up on life, Haymitch. You have to fight."
He didn't take his eyes away from the stew he was stirring. "Why fight when there's nothing left to fight for?"
He was half-expecting a lecture on pretty ideals and worthy causes – why else would she had been an enemy on the Capitol? But she surprised him.
She kept doing that, surprising him, it was getting annoying.
"Because so many are dead…" she said slowly, eyes full of tears. Some of them fell down her cheeks but she wiped them away angrily. "Because you have a duty to people who loved you and died for you. You have to stay alive for their sake."
He pondered that for a moment and then turned to face her properly. "The difference between you and me, sweetheart, is that you're still running. I've stopped a long time ago."
She was still in her arena. He had exited his only to find out that life after the Games was an arena of its own. There was no out from this life. She hadn't understood that yet.
"Maybe you should start running again, then." she insisted.
"You're so stubborn." He rolled his eyes. "What do you care what I do or not?"
"You helped me." She put her hands on her hips in an obstinate stance. "It's only polite to help you in return."
"You don't owe me, anything." he grumbled.
"Of course, I do." she argued.
He shook his head and leaned against the counter, crossing his arm. "Fourth thing I know about you, sweetheart : you're annoying."
A teasing smile appeared on her lips. "First thing I know about you: you're infuriating. Second thing: underneath all those uncaring speeches, you're a big softy. Third thing: you're a good man. Fourth thing…" she stopped suddenly and blushed a little.
"Fourth thing?" he prompted, because it had to be good to make her cheeks flush like that…
Had she ever backed down from a challenge in her whole life? He would bet on never.
"You're quite handsome for someone from District Twelve." she said. "But don't let that go to your head."
He could have gone without the bit about District Twelve, though… Capitol…
"Fifth thing." he replied, lifting an eyebrow. "You're prejudiced."
Which brought the question of how she had ended up in her predicament. He couldn't see her as an activist…
"Fifth thing. You're rude." she snapped, as if it were the worst insult in her arsenal. It probably was.
He liked the way her eyes sparkled in anger.
"Says the woman who broke into my house and then criticized my homekeeping skills…" he snorted.
"I was so tired I couldn't see straight, alright?" she admitted in a sigh. "Had I been more awake I would never have stumbled into your bed. Happy, now?"
"Not so much." he smirked. "But you're always welcome into my bed… I'm sure I would be happier, then."
She rolled her eyes but there was a smile tugging at her lips. "Sixth thing: you're depraved."
"Sixth thing." he shot right back. "You love it."
She grinned but didn't reply and sat back down on her chair, rubbing her knee a little.
"Are you ever going to tell me how you did that?" He was curious about the whole thing but had refrained from questioning her those last few days since she was so obviously ill-disposed to tell him why Peacekeepers were after her.
"I told you." She winced at the memory. "I jumped."
"Not so high but fast, yeah, I remember." He shrugged. "'Isn't much of an explanation, though. Where did you jump from?"
She picked at a loose thread on the hem of the shirt. "A train."
At first he thought he had heard wrong but it became obvious pretty quickly that it wasn't the case. "A train. You jumped from a train. A running train?"
She seemed to shrink back on herself. "There was a lot of snow, it wasn't that dangerous. The speed was frightening…" She closed her eyes and turned her head away.
"What happened to you, Effie?" he asked softly. "The whole story."
How did a girl from the Capitol who didn't seem to be particularly opposed to the system found herself having to jump from a train to save her life?
"I can't tell you." she whispered.
"You don't trust me." He could understand that. He probably wouldn't trust anyone if he were her. That was the wisest thing to do. People were desperate and afraid of the Capitol, they wouldn't risk anything for a stranger. Never mind a Capitol stranger…
"I trust you." she swore defiantly, turning to face him again. Fat silent tears were rolling down her cheeks and despite her best attempts to wipe them away more kept coming. "I just… can't."
Because telling it would make it real, he figured.
"Okay, Princess." he said. "It's fine. I will just have to trust you not to murder me."
She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "I think I will go rest a little, now."
He watched her leave the kitchen, wishing he knew miraculous words to alleviate her pain. But there were none. Or if there were, no one ever shared them with him.
He sat back at the kitchen table and stared at his bottle of liquor. He could hear her sobs from downstairs. He was longing to drink but he knew it wouldn't be a single mouthful or even a mere glass. If he as much as touched the bottle, he would down it and probably another one too. She would come back to the kitchen at some point and she would find him passed out drunk and… And what? What did he care what she thought of him?
But he did care.
Because he knew she wouldn't judge or reprimand him. She would probably look after him and feel sorry for not knowing how to help him, she was that kind of girl – big heart, not good when you were on the run for your life. And she had enough on her plate already.
So he listened to her sobbing and stared at the bottle and wondered how long he could resist the pull. Everything was perfectly balanced for now : he yearned for liquor nearly as much as he thought about her. But at some point…
At some point, something would give and he didn't know what he would make of that.
Thank you for the comments, I realy love your crazy theories! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter!