AN: Guys, I am so sorry about the wait. The holidays took up all my time, and then writing took much longer than I expected because I wanted to finish all of these last three chapters before I started posting—they're pretty interconnected and I needed to get the tone right in each of them. And that took ages. On the plus side, the story is now finished, so I should be posting much more often; I expect to finish the story in about a week.
. . . . . .
Day Eight
. . . . . .
The District 12 Unity Day celebration is more than simply one event; Rowan wanted to go all out, to give the residents of 12 a good time, and as such has planned a half-day of festivities: games and footraces and strength competitions in the afternoon, a big community dinner, and then dancing into the night. So Peeta hasn't planned anything for the eighth day of Effie's visit, knowing that they're going to be out so late—that and the fact that he volunteered to bring bread and cookies to the dinner, so he spends the first half of the day in the kitchen.
With nothing else to do, Katniss, Effie and Haymitch help him, or at least Effie helps him while Katniss performs whatever menial tasks Peeta can come up with to keep her occupied—the girl is useless in any baking situation—and Haymitch sits at the kitchen table and lets everyone else do the work, occasionally stealing a bit of cookie dough.
Finally, "Haymitch," Peeta says tightly, his famed patience visibly suffering, "you can't eat so much cookie dough. We need these for tonight."
When the boy has turned back to the oven, Haymitch gives Effie a sad look. She laughs and sneaks him a bit more cookie dough. Katniss sees this and rolls her eyes, and Haymitch can't help chuckling. It's been nice spending so much time with the kids this week. He'll have to think about actually making an effort to see them more in the future.
At 2:30 Haymitch returns to his house to change clothes; his have flour on them from the small amount of baking he actually helped with this morning. Effie gently suggests that if he's getting himself something warm, he should get himself one of his fancier Capitol-style jackets, since they're basically the guests of honor and should dress up. He obediently changes into something a little nicer (and less floury) and then heads back to Peeta's house. The other three have changed clothes as well at this point, and Haymitch catches his breath when he sees Effie. She's wearing her new hunting jacket from Delly's shop, as well as a scarf that Haymitch recognizes as belonging to Katniss, and she seems to have had Katniss do her hair because it's in that elaborate braided updo that Katniss popularized during her Games. The end result is that Effie has never looked more like she belongs in District 12. And with her dressed more casually than normal, and the other three dressed more fancy than normal, this is the first time since the Quarter Quell that they've all matched each other so well.
And there's one more thing making them look like a team. "You wore your pin!" Effie says, delighted, when she sees Haymitch.
Haymitch glances down at the lapel of his jacket and shrugs. "Yeah, well," he says, a little embarrassed at the sentimentality of that fact. But then he sees that the other three have their pins on as well. So at least it's not just him.
"We look like a team, don't we?" asks Effie. "Perfectly wonderful."
Haymitch smiles fondly at her exuberance, the expression quickly wiped from his face when he notices Katniss and Peeta watching him with identical expressions of amusement. Okay, so maybe lately he's been more-than-usually susceptible to getting swept up in her cheerful moods. It's not his fault. She's . . . infectious. Like a disease.
Together they walk to the Meadow, where the festivities are all being held. Haymitch knows from talking to Rowan yesterday that the group in charge of planning the celebration had a fierce debate about whether it was disrespectful to have a party over a mass grave. Eventually it was decided, though, that it was the best thing to do. The Meadow is the largest gathering place in the district, but everyone's been unwilling to use it because it is in fact a cemetery. Rowan is hoping that having the party here convinces people to use the space as a park, and also symbolically includes the deceased of 12 in celebrating the overthrow of the regime that destroyed their district.
Haymitch just tries not to think about it.
Everyone in the district has turned up, and they all seem thrilled to see the victors as they walk by; some even stop to shake their hands or say thank you for their part in overthrowing Snow. Katniss stares at these people as they walk away. "I don't understand why they don't blame us," she says lowly. "For what happened to 12. Why they don't blame me. I blame me."
"People are complicated," is all Peeta can offer. But he leans in close, brushing her shoulder with his as some sort of reassurance, and Katniss grabs his hand. "They asked us to come," he reminds her. "Don't think about anything else. Don't think about what you think you owe people or you'll never last the night here. Okay?" He reaches up with his free hand and brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. She looks at him a long moment, and then she kisses him.
"All right," says Haymitch, turning to Effie, "that got personal fast. You doing all right?"
Effie looks around herself hesitantly, and Haymitch remembers how reluctant she was to attend, afraid of people hating her for being an escort. "I'm all right, I believe," she says, and then she adds, "Thank you, Haymitch." And indeed, no one seems to have made the connection that the lovely fresh-faced woman in the hunting jacket and leather boots is the same makeup- and wig-clad Capitolite who used to pop up in time for each reaping.
"Well," says Haymitch, "we should see what's going on. Shall we?"
Many people are mingling and talking, but at the back of the Meadow an area is set up for sports competitions. They've started with a weight toss competition, beginning with children under 12. Effie pulls Haymitch to a stop and exclaims for a while over the "adorable little children" trying to throw a burlap bag of tightly packed hay as far as possible.
"You should sign up for the adult division," says Katniss, appearing behind them, and Haymitch is baffled until he turns and sees that she's brought Peeta with her and is talking to him. "You were pretty good with tossing heavy things."
"Yeah?" he laughs. "Well, that was before I spent six months—" His smile falters. "That was before," he finishes awkwardly.
"You should try it," Effie insists, probably to cover the tension. "What's the worst that could happen?"
"Fine," Peeta agrees with a smirk. "If Haymitch does it."
"No way," says Haymitch. "Not happening. Don't much hold with competition. Or organized events. Or physical exertion."
But Peeta does agree in the end, and ends up getting third place for the under-25s. He's winded and sweating, though, when he returns to them. "I used to be better at this," he gasps. "Too many hospital stays lately."
After an hour or two of watching footraces, the final event is a series of tug-of-wars, and Effie decides she wants to participate. She and Peeta form a team with Simon, Leevy, Jo's husband Mat, and a hefty teenager named Deke who turns out to be quite the asset. They win their match and the team is awarded with ribbons (clearly made from worn out blue jeans, but considering the fact that Panem is war-torn and District 12 is barely scraping by, Haymitch can't blame them for making do with what they have). Effie hasn't looked this proud since she was presented by Caesar Flickman as the escort of the winners of the 74th annual Hunger Games, and she runs happily over to Haymitch and asks him to pin her ribbon to her jacket. For some reason doing this sets his pulse pounding. He's been shockingly touchy with Effie this last week—they've been walking arm in arm and sitting awfully close and everything—but each of those has been easy to explain away in his own mind as harmless. But for some reason, standing face to face with her with his hands on her jacket and his knuckles brushing her exposed collarbone . . . he doesn't quite breathe properly until the ribbon is pinned on and he can turn away from her.
. . . . . .
Finally it's time for dinner, which Haymitch is thrilled about for two reasons: he's really hungry, and also he knows that they've got booze at this party and it's finally going to be served. Only a small amount, though; when the war happened, production on most everything was halted, and alcohol production has been one of the last things to get up on its feet again. "It's not a necessity," Plutarch had explained to him, to which Haymitch had indignantly replied, "Maybe not to you." So while they do have some for the celebration, it's only enough for all the gathered adults to have one glass each, and Haymitch has been carefully planning when will be the best time to drink it. Not right away, certainly, but even the possibility of having some makes the whole evening rosier.
They sit at long tables and enjoy the meal, which is mostly the food packages sent from the Capitol, augmented with Peeta's rolls. It's simple—Haymitch eats much better when Peeta cooks—but the company is good and the bonfires scattered across the Meadow cast everything in a cozy glow. Jo and Mat and their family are at the other end of their table, and Haymitch finds himself smiling as he watches their little boys happily shovel food into their mouths—little boys who will never know the fear of a Reaping or the gnawing pain of starvation. Across the way is one of the families who lives next door to Haymitch; he's never bothered to learn their names but their children love to watch his geese, and as those children see him watching them they wave enthusiastically at him. And Haymitch finds himself smiling. He hasn't felt genuinely a part of District 12 since he was 16 years old, but no matter what the intervening years have done (and they have done a lot), this is his birthplace; these are his people. And his people are finally safe, finally free. In that moment, Haymitch is very glad that Peeta talked him into attending the Unity Day celebration.
"This is an absolutely charming event," Effie says, although Haymitch notices she's poking unenthusiastically at the lackluster potatoes; apparently she's not wild about the food either. "So rustic, so inviting, so . . . so sincere."
"So you're still glad you chose this over the Capitol Unity Day party?" Peeta asks with a smile.
"Oh, absolutely," says Effie. "The Capitol event would have been glamorous, no doubt, but big and crowded and . . . and a bit impersonal, I think. Don't get me wrong, I love a big party, but there's also something to be said for a small gathering like this one. It makes me feel . . . like I'm really part of something here." And then, as though realizing the vulnerability in that statement, she looks embarrassed and looks down at her hands in her lap. Haymitch raises an eyebrow. Does she feel like she's not part of something in the Capitol? But then he remembers everything she's told them about how none of her friends in the Capitol understand or want to hear about what she went through in the war. Without thinking, he reaches out and takes her hand in his, squeezing gently, before he realizes what he's doing, at which point he drops her hand and tries to play it off like he hasn't done anything.
"Have you decided when you're going back to the Capitol?" Katniss asks. Effie told them, on her first day in 12, that she was playing her return trip by ear but that she definitely had to be back in the Capitol by early November.
"Well," says Effie thoughtfully, and Haymitch finds himself leaning in closer to be sure he hears her answer, "I still haven't made any definitely plans. There's a train tomorrow, but I was thinking that if it's all right with you, Peeta, I'd stay at least until the next train. Which is in, I believe, four days?"
"You are welcome to stay as long as you'd like," says Peeta.
"It's been nice to see you," says Katniss, and she sounds sincere.
Effie smiles at them and then turns to Haymitch. And the thing is that it doesn't make sense for her to do that; it's not up to him whether she goes or stays. But he finds himself saying, "Yeah, it'll be nice to have you around a little longer."
Effie beams.
Across the way there's a fiddler pulling his battered old instrument out of its battered old case; it's the same man who played at Annie and Finnick's wedding. Next to him, a young woman is tuning a new-looking guitar; clearly they're preparing for the dance portion of the evening. The fiddler runs up and down a scale, and then he breaks softly into a popular old District 12 tune as a warm-up.
"He played that song at the wedding," Katniss remembers.
"That was a good day," says Haymitch softly, and wave of grief sweeps over him for a moment; he normally tries not to think of . . . most things, really, but with that tune ringing in his ears he can't help but picture Finnick and Annie, radiant at their wedding. Finnick, his fellow victor and conspirator who eventually became his friend. Annie, never quite okay, now raising their child alone.
Katniss and Peeta's thoughts appear to be running down the same path, because their expressions have turned nostalgic and sad; Peeta, of course, wasn't actually at the wedding, but he was aware of what was going on then. Effie, though, clearly has no idea what wedding they're talking about, and she looks back and forth between them with polite curiosity. Haymitch doesn't volunteer any information, though. Maybe someday he'll be okay talking about it. Today is not that day.
"Remember that cake you made?" Katniss asks Peeta. "That was beautiful."
"It'd be hard to forget," says Peeta, not meeting her eyes, his voice taking on that low, mumbling quality it does when he's talking about things he doesn't like to remember. "When I think about that first little while in 13, it's mostly a blur, like . . . trying to remember a dream. A nightmare, more like. That cake is the first thing I can remember clearly." A humorless smile crosses his face. "Although I guess I'm glad. I don't want to remember almost killing you."
Effie looks at Haymitch, alarmed, but he shakes his head reassuringly. He doesn't want to interrupt their little heart-to-heart.
"Hey," says Katniss, "don't think about it, remember? Not tonight. Tonight is a party, okay?"
Peeta looks up at her, and his expression softens in a wry smile. "Deal." He jerks his head out toward the center of the Meadow, where tables and benches are being cleared for dancing. "You going to dance with me later?"
She makes a face. "You know how I feel about dancing," she says.
Perhaps emboldened by their moment of closeness just now, Peeta takes one of her hands in both of his and clasps it to his chest. "Please? For me?" he asks, deliberately absurdly earnest.
"Fine, I'll think about it," she grins, wrestling her hand away. "Just stop being . . . like that."
Peeta laughs aloud, and Haymitch rolls their eyes. On an intellectual level he's glad they're being cute together, but in a more practical sense, it's a little cheesy to have to actually watch. Effie, who has been watching this whole exchange with a warm smile, glances at Haymitch and laughs quietly at the annoyed expression on his face. Of course that makes his expression soften quickly.
It's nice, he thinks as they carry on eating, to have someone to share amused looks with when Peeta and Katniss do something . . . teenager-y. They're a cozy little trio these days, the three victors of 12, and he rather likes it; no one really understands a victor except another victor, so it's nice to have them around. For the twenty-four years between his Games and theirs, he was alone the vast majority of the time, only seeing other victors for a few weeks a year; Katniss and Peeta are the first people he's had in his life full-time since his family was killed. And yet, there is and always will be the tiniest bit of a line between him and them. It's got to do with their age—he's old enough to be their father—and it's also got to do with the fact that the two of them are slowly but inexorably moving toward becoming Katniss-and-Peeta, officially.
So it's nice to have Effie there, to exchange looks with when those two are being lovey-dovey . . . and to share some of the burdens in his head with without making him feel guilty for unloading his problems on a couple of kids. In an odd way, she fills a hole in their little group, one he didn't even know was there before: she's closer to Haymitch's age than the others, so he doesn't feel like the only grown-up in the group. She's a woman, so Katniss isn't the only girl in the group. And she's good-hearted and determinedly optimistic, so Peeta doesn't have to bear the entire burden of keeping their little group from falling into gloom and misery.
Yes, having Effie around has been an unexpected comfort, for all of them. He's glad that she's not leaving yet. In fact, he admits to himself, there's some part of him that's sorry that she has to leave at all.
. . . . . .
Rowan gives a speech after dinner, blessedly short, about unity and rising from the ashes and all that. He thanks Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch for coming tonight and for what they did for Panem, and the three of them dutifully smile back; Haymitch wonders if the other two have to remind themselves to make it look convincing, like he does. He doesn't much like making public appearances; never did. Not after age 16, anyway.
Then the fiddler and guitarist take their places on the makeshift stage. Before the dancing starts they perform a slow, lovely District 12 song that Haymitch hasn't heard in years, the girl singing and strumming, the old man weaving clear, sweet harmonies through her words like a stream winding through a forest. It's almost hypnotic, and Haymitch is taken back to the last District 12 dance he attended, when he was 15 years old. He asked Lina from next door if he could walk her to the Meadow, and they danced together all night, and on the walk home he kissed her for the first time. He'd thought then that he might marry Lina, but President Snow took that decision out of his hands a year later when he had her killed, along with Haymitch's family.
Some of what he's thinking must show on his face, because he feels a delicate touch on his wrist and looks up to see Effie looking very concerned. He shakes his head, both to assure her that nothing's wrong and to shake those thoughts out of his head. It's been nearly three decades, and he's over the grief, or at least he's as over it as he's ever going to be in this lifetime. But he does grasp the hand Effie has on his; it gives him the strange sensation of anchoring his footing more firmly to the ground.
The song ends and is met with a roar of applause, although not from Haymitch; clapping would require letting go of Effie's hand, which he's not interested in doing just yet. Effie simply calls out "Bravo!" which makes Haymitch laugh because it's probably the first time that the old man and his fiddle have ever been bravo-ed at. And now people are clearing tables from the center of the Meadow and choosing dance partners, and Haymitch finds his heart rate subtly accelerating. Because the thing is, he told Effie earlier in the week that he had no intention of dancing, which was reasonable because he doesn't like dancing. But as the week's gone on, he's started to question just how willing or unwilling he is to participate, because the thought of being so near her, touching her hands, touching her waist when the steps call for it . . . . it's just no longer the worst thing he can imagine, is all he's saying. So he's not entirely sure what he'll say if she brings up dancing.
Across the table, Peeta is trying to talk Katniss into dancing with him. "You said you would," he reminds her, his hand in hers.
"I said I'd think about it."
"It could be fun," he cajoles, but Katniss isn't smiling back at him.
"The last time I danced was with Prim," she says, stubbornly, defiantly, the way she does when she's trying to avoid talking about things that make her feel vulnerable.
Peeta's expression is sympathetic, but his hand doesn't move. "I know," he says softly. "But Prim wouldn't want you to be unhappy forever."
She looks at him a long moment, and then her face softens, and then she covers that moment of softness by rolling her eyes, and then she stands up. "Fine," she says. She looks over at Effie. "You guys coming?"
Haymitch hesitates, but Effie laughs. "I need to watch a few first," she says. "I don't know the dances you do here." So he's spared making a decision just yet.
The dancers start with the easiest dance, everyone joining hands in a circle, while the musicians play Cuckoo's Egg. Haymitch and Effie watch in silence, along with the few other scattered people not dancing. The sun is nearly set and the Meadow is mostly in shadow, but where Haymitch and Effie sit is still in a patch of sunlight. It bathes Effie in a golden glow, and Haymitch has the sudden thought that she's the most beautiful woman he's ever known, and he wonders how it is that someone hasn't already snatched her up and married her. The men in the Capitol must be idiots.
She glances over then and sees him looking at her, but when he quickly turns away with a muttered apology she just laughs. "You know," she says after a moment, "I've been meaning to thank you."
"What for?"
"Putting up with me this week. I know when I showed up I was the last person you wanted to see, but you've been very kind . . . you know, after our rocky start."
Was it really only six days ago that he made her cry in Peeta's kitchen? It feels like forever. It feels like he's lived a lifetime since that day. "Yeah, I was kind of a jerk to you, princess," he says. "Sorry about that, by the way."
"Haymitch Abernathy saying sorry without being prompted?" She feigns shock. "I wish I'd known how to make you be this polite when I was your escort."
He chuckles. "Yeah, I don't really envy you having to deal with me back then. I mean, I'm not sorry that I wasn't more cooperative with the whole Hunger Games thing . . ." His expression darkens, but then he shakes his head. "But you were just a cog in the machine. I blamed you for a lot of things, but you really weren't responsible for much . . . beyond lecturing me about table manners."
Effie smiles a little but her face is still sad. "I do regret it now, being such a willing pawn. But at the time . . ."
They've already hashed this out and made their peace; he doesn't want to do it again. So he grins wryly at her. "I'm sorry I was such a miserable old drunk," he says. "You were probably pretty disappointed when you got assigned to babysit me."
She hesitates, and in the low light he can see a look of embarrassment cross her face. "Actually . . ."
"Whoa, actually what?" he demands.
"Actually, I was . . . excited." She gives him a funny little smile, like she knows how ridiculous that sounds.
"Excited?"
"Yours is the first Hunger Games I remember seeing, the first one my father let me watch. I was only six years old, but I remember it so vividly, and I was rooting for you from the moment you teamed up with that girl from your district. When you won . . . after that, I always thought of you as my victor. Of course after that other victors came along, and by the time I was a teenager you were already drinking like a fish, but still, when I was assigned to escort my victor . . ."
"Wow," he says. He knows he had fans in the Capitol, but he never realized Effie was one of them.
"Of course, it didn't keep me from trying to get promoted to a better district; I had my career to think of. But . . ."
"But you were my biggest fan," he chuckles.
Her laughter is like a bell ringing. "Actually, I have to admit something: I had such a crush on you when I was a little girl." Her smile grows more bashful. "Actually, I had a bit of a crush on you when I was an escort, as well. You know, when you weren't vomiting on the floor."
Words leave him. He never even suspected—she was always so annoyed with him—
In that moment of silence, Darling Molly ends and the dancers applaud. Rowan materializes next to the table and beams down at them both. "Why aren't you two dancing?" he asks.
It is the most unwelcome intrusion that Haymitch has experienced in a long time, and from the look in Effie's eyes, it's a safe bet that she feels about the same way. But she doesn't forget her manners. "I'm trying to watch and learn the steps," she tells Rowan with a smile.
"Can't learn a dance just by watching," Rowan says cheerfully. "Got to get out there. Dance the next one with me?" He extends a hand to her, then glances back at Haymitch. "You don't mind if I steal your conversation partner away for the next dance, do you?"
Haymitch hesitates. "No, of course not," he says. "She's all yours." But he keeps his eyes fixed on her as she gives him a half-smile, then stands from the bench and allows herself to be led to the dance area.
The musicians strike up Bonypart's Retreat, and Haymitch watches Effie laughing and smiling at Rowan as she attempts to follow the steps he's doing, and then he stands up from the bench. He thinks it's about time for that drink.
. . . . . .
The woman in charge of handing out the booze gives him his glass with a stern reminder. "Only one tonight, remember."
"I got it," he says, and, cradling the glass like something precious, he finds his way to the nearest bench and sits down. The first sip is heaven; his body's been craving this for what feels like forever. It burns in all the best ways going down his throat, and he tells himself he's going to take the glass slowly but before he knows it he's downed the entire thing, and then he leans back with a contented sigh. The past week he's done a decent job of ignoring how much he hates being sober, he thinks, so he's earned this. After a lifetime of drinking, a single drink doesn't affect him too much, but it does give him a mild buzz, a fuzziness at the very edges of his mind, a looseness to his whole body. Oh, he's missed this.
And in this pleasantly relaxed state, he sits back and watches Effie dance. She's not great at it—the boots she's wearing make it hard to be graceful—but she keeps up with Rowan and she's obviously having the time of her life. Rowan, he thinks with a sense of irritation. Couldn't he see that Haymitch and Effie were having a serious conversation? And while he doesn't dislike Rowan normally, he finds himself disliking the man more and more as Effie keeps smiling at him with her insanely white teeth.
Finally, as the song draws to a close, he can't stand it anymore, and before he can think too much about what he's doing, he stands and strides over to the dance floor. "May I, Miss Trinket?" he says, all over-exaggerated politeness. She laughs and takes his hand, and Rowan beams at them both.
And for the first time in nearly thirty years, Haymitch prepares to dance. He's worried he won't remember the steps; he still knows all the music because he loved listening to the old timers play when he was young, but he was never much of a dancer. And not only has he not danced, he hasn't even attended a District 12 dance since before his Games (unless you count Annie and Finnick's wedding). But it's worth it to have Effie away from Rowan.
And he lucks out, because when the old man on the fiddle calls out the next dance, it's the Oak Pick Waltz. Haymitch doesn't dance much, but if there's anything he knows, it's the waltz; he had to do it enough at Hunger Games social events for the last twenty-five years.
"Just a waltz?" Effie asks. "I think I can handle that." And she steps toward him.
And now he's thinking that maybe this wasn't a good idea, because there's something about the waltz position that makes his heart pound. He's been closer than this to Effie before, but they've never been so . . . face-to-face. He's never put his hand on her waist like this. It's not that he doesn't like it; it's that he likes it a lot. And that terrifies him.
It's fully dark now; the bonfires around the edge of the dancing area illuminate the darkness, casting everything in an orange glow. The music starts, sweet and sad, and everyone begins to dance. Haymitch is more graceless than usual on the dance floor, but Effie makes him look better than he ever could on his own; she was right when she said she could waltz. The first little while is rough; he's so focused on not making an idiot of himself (and on how much he enjoys having his hand on the curve of her waist) that he's tense and silent. But as the song goes on he becomes more confident in the steps, and suddenly the dance becomes enjoyable: beautiful music, beautiful partner . . . he understands why people might like dancing. Still, he finds himself looking down at his feet; it's easier that way because then he's sure he's not stepping on her toes, and also looking her in the eye when she's so close to him makes him rather anxious, the few times he tries it.
"You know," Effie says, "you're a very lovely dancer. After all your griping, I thought you'd be terrible."
"I am terrible," he says without looking up. "I'm only doing this well because I'm following you."
She laughs, then falls silent a moment. "This has been a wonderful trip," she says. "I don't want it to end." She hesitates. "And it's partly because how much I've come to like 12, and a lot because I've gotten to see Katniss and Peeta, but . . . it's mostly been because of you."
Haymitch doesn't respond. And then he looks up slowly and meets her eyes. Somewhere along the way they stopped dancing—he can't remember that happening—and they're standing at the edge of the dance floor, in a patch where the firelight doesn't quite reach, although he can see enough of her face to know that she's giving him a look that he hasn't seen a woman give him in a long time. He stares at her for a long few moments. And then, without thinking, without meaning to, but with a sense that this is something he can't fight any longer, he leans down and kisses her.
For ten glorious seconds, it is perfect. Effie doesn't seem surprised by the kiss at all, and immediately and unhesitatingly she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him back. And Haymitch, trying hard to remember how this whole kissing thing is supposed to work, is surprised to realize that while the thought of kissing her didn't occur to his conscious mind until just now, some part of him has been expecting this just as much as Effie seems to have been.
But it doesn't last. Once that first rush of surprise has passed, one insidious thought creeps into his head: the mouth he's currently kissing has also been used to call out doom for the children of 12.
Primrose Everdeen.
Peeta Mellark.
Katniss Everdeen.
May the odds be ever in your favor.
He breaks the kiss off abruptly, his heart suddenly pounding. Effie still has her eyes closed and doesn't seem to have noticed his distress, because she keeps her hands looped around his neck—hands that delicately chose slips of paper that determined who would die.
Ash Monroe.
Chicory Ryman.
Bo Eldridge.
Six years. Ten tributes. Two survivors.
He takes a step back; Effie's arms fall from his shoulders and she opens her eyes. "Are you . . . all right?" She's still smiling from the kiss, and he's suddenly shaking, as though he's very cold.
"I just . . . need a drink," he says.
She smiles understandingly, which she might not do if she had any idea what's going through his mind. "All right."
He turns and all but runs from her.
. . . . . .
It's easy to find his first unsanctioned drink; there's been a changing of the guard at the booze table, so he simply sidles up to the old man there. "We get one of these, right?"
"Yep," says the old man, simply and trustingly, and Haymitch smiles and walks away with a glass, which he downs fast.
His next drink comes from Jo, who he sees sitting standing near one of the fires, scowling at the glass in her hand. "Mat grabbed it for me," she explains when she sees Haymitch looking curiously at her. "I don't really want it, though."
"I'll take it off your hands," Haymitch offers.
And Jo, either not seeing any problem with that or not wanting to offend her boss, hands it over.
This is all the prompting Haymitch needs, and over the next ten minutes he pulls the same trick on two other people. Then he notices the table momentarily unguarded, and he strolls casually by, grabbing a drink in each hand before disappearing into the shadows to down them. (By somewhere around the fifth drink, he can tell that he's had enough; even his rather hardened system is struggling with so much alcohol in so little time. But he keeps going. He can't help it. It's been this way for a long time: once he starts, it's all but impossible to stop.)
And he doesn't want to stop. He wants the alcohol to cloud his brain, to make him stop thinking. Over the years he's grown very good at dealing with the dead who haunt him, with 47 Quarter Quell tributes and with the 46 tributes he mentored, with friends killed in the most recent Quarter Quell and the ensuing war, with his family, with Lina: he compartmentalizes. He tucks them away and refuses to think of them, and if ever they escape from their tidy little box, well, that's what the alcohol is for. (Well, that plus the fact that he's addicted to the stuff now.) And kissing Effie has blown that box wide open. He has a flashback to that old dream he used to have, the one where he has to bury the other 47 tributes, only now he imagines doing it with Effie standing primly by his side while the corpses look accusingly at him with dead eyes.
Effie chose to become part of the Hunger Games. She stood by and did nothing while the eight tributes they had together before Katniss and Peeta died in fear and agony. The system she chose to endorse destroyed everyone he ever came in contact with.
But Effie's sorry. Effie was told her whole life that the Hunger Games were normal and good and even necessary, and she sees now how wrong that was and she's sorry.
Is that enough?
He walks these circles in his brain for he doesn't know how long, or at least he walks them as well as he can in his inebriated state. At some point he finds himself collapsed on a bench, too drunk and lazy to sit up straight, when he hears someone calling his name. It's her, of course, and he hates the impulse he has to stand up and kiss her again. May the odds be ever in your favor.
She's standing over him, and he can see the disappointment in her face as she sees how drunk he is. "You weren't kidding when you said you were going to get yourself a drink," she says. "How many have you had?"
"Not enough." He leans back against the table and tips his head back so he's staring at the starry sky. He can't look at her. Not when he's not sure whether he wants to kiss her or kill her.
She hesitates. "Haymitch," she says gently, "can we talk about what happened back there?"
"Nope." He draws the word out and makes a popping sound on the 'p.'
She still thinks he's joking around, apparently, because she gives a little laugh. "We can't pretend it didn't happen. You . . . kissed me. And I was rather glad, because it saved me the trouble of kissing you first." She hesitates. "I'm saying that I like you, Haymitch. I like you a great deal. And based on that kiss—"
"It was a mistake."
He almost sits up and looks around to see who said that, because he certainly didn't intend to. But no, it was definitely him—it just popped out of him without his meaning it to. The truth is that he doesn't know if the kiss was a mistake. Or rather, it probably was a mistake, but it doesn't follow that it's a mistake that he's sorry he made. But his mouth is moving without his permission.
He finally sits up and looking her in the face just in time to see her expression fall. And he hates the way it makes his chest clench to see her suddenly look so hurt.
"What?" she says softly.
He takes a moment to think about what to say, and in that moment, his mouth moves again without his meaning it to. "It was a mistake to kiss you, and it won't happen again." How are these words just pouring out of him? He supposes it's just the alcohol—isn't it?
In vino veritas, Plutarch likes to say with a smile. In wine there is truth, apparently, in some dead language. Maybe the alcohol is revealing how he really feels. Maybe deep down he can't or won't forgive Effie. Maybe that moment when he first kissed her, when it occurred to him that he wouldn't mind doing this again, and again, for the rest of his life—maybe that was an impossible lie he was telling himself. Unbidden there comes into his mind again that image of Effie looking on, uncaring and unconcerned, as he buries the other tributes. It steals his breath, makes him slightly ill. Maybe kissing her, maybe even befriending her, is a betrayal of his dead—of 93 tributes, of Finnick and Chaff, of Lina, of his brother and his mother. Maybe it's a betrayal of himself, of a personal promise he made after his Games that he would never willingly be part of their system and he would never forgive.
All of this is swirling in his head, the guilt and the dead eyes and the alcohol, and he can't think—he can't think—
It doesn't help that Effie keeps talking. "But . . . all week you've been so . . ." Her voice is hesitant, her expression pained and confused. "I'm not trying to twist your arm or anything, but you've certainly acted like you're . . . interested."
And that's it. That's the thing that breaks the dam and lets all the darkness swirling in his mind pour out. "Interested? In you? In an escort?" He doesn't recognize his own voice; he feels like he's standing to the side and listening to someone else shout at Effie—someone he can't stop. "You know better than anyone what a nightmare the Hunger Games were for me—you were there, you saw it. Why would I be interested in someone who basically was the Hunger Games?"
He's done it: he's made her teary-eyed. "We've talked about this," she said. "You know how much I regret everything that happened. You know I . . . I didn't understand back then."
"Regret doesn't fix it." Words are pouring out of him, words he didn't even know he had in him—born of some unholy union of too much booze and a lifetime of dark thoughts only just held at bay. "Regret doesn't bring all those people back to life." He glances at her jacket. "And dressing up like Katniss doesn't make you one of us. It doesn't clean the Capitol off of you, okay? It just makes you look ridiculous."
The tear tracks on her face gleam orange in the firelight. "Then what am I supposed to do, Haymitch? How would you have me atone for my sins, since apparently nothing I've done is good enough for you?" She sounds angry.
Tipping his head back again to look at the stars, he shrugs. "Nothing. Some things can't be fixed. Like us. Like me. All we can do is wait to die and hope the next generation gets things right."
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Effie standing very still. She stares at him a long time, tears dripping from her chin. And then she makes a strange sound, a sort of gasping sob, and she turns and runs into the darkness, away from the Meadow.
That sound, that sob, jars Haymitch from the haze he's been in, pulls him back into his own body. He lifts his head and watches her go, suddenly feeling strangely like he'd like to cry himself; there's a twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks he'll have to either cry or vomit it out. It's true, what he said to Effie; it has to be true. He can't move past his past; he'll live with this pain and this isolation forever and someday he'll die of it. He can't imagine a future that doesn't turn out this way. And yet a part of him—a big part of him—is suddenly yelling at him, cutting through the drunken haze over his mind to tell him to go after her, telling him that no matter how screwed up this all is, he can't leave things like this. It's reminding him that an hour ago, he didn't want her to leave 12. It's pointing out that he wanted to kiss her then, and truth be told, he wants to kiss her still.
And the yelling grows so loud that he actually gets to his feet. He hesitates, looking back at the dancing crowd warmly lit by firelight, and then looks out at the cold darkness Effie's disappeared into. He has an internal struggle that seems to last ages, though it's really less than a minute. And then he starts down the path toward the Victors' Village.
He can't move quickly; it's quite dark, now that he's away from the party, and the light from the moon helps only a little. Plus, of course, he's still drunk off his head and it's quite hard to keep his balance.
Finally, after what feels like days, he reaches the Victors' Village and finds himself standing helplessly on the path between his house and Peeta's. If Effie were anywhere in sight, if he could even see a light on, he would knock. He would talk to her, though he has no idea what he'd say; he's not even sure whether it'd be an apology. But the house is completely dark; not even her bedroom window is lit.
He stands, staring at the dark house, for a long time. Then he stumbles to his own house, collapses face-first on his sofa, and sleeps.
. . . . . .
AN: Sorry, things couldn't be sunny forever! As adorable as these two are together, they've got some serious baggage they've got to confront first. Mostly Haymitch, obviously.
But the real reason I'm here: geek moment. I'm a huge bluegrass and old time music fan, so I had the time of my life imagining what folk music in District 12 would sound like (so yes, I loved Songs from District 12 and Beyond, although I prefer the District 12 to the Beyond). I decided that the music would be largely unchanged, but the titles of the tunes would have been altered over time, especially if they referred to things that the people of 12 no longer knew anything about.
Cuckoo's Egg is a corruption of Cuckoo's Nest.
The Oak Pick Waltz is the Ookpik Waltz by Frankie Rodgers; it's already a title sometimes used for the song because of a little some-something called folk etymology, wherein people look at a word they don't understand and try to reanalyze it as a word or words they do understand. I figured that since the people of 12 would have no idea what an ookpik is (an Inuit handicraft owl, if you'd like to know), only the Oak Pick version of the title would have survived. Also, it's a gorgeous song. You should listen to it, either Rodgers' version or Chris Thile and Michael Daves'.
Bonypart's Retreat is, of course, Bonaparte's Retreat; it seems that the book characters know nothing about pre-Panem history, so the name Bonaparte would eventually become meaningless to them. Bonypart is actually a reference to a fabulous old recording of the song by a Kentucky fiddler named William Stepp, recorded in 1937 by folklorist Alan Lomax. (If you have any interest in Aaron Copland, you should check out Stepp's version on YouTube because Copland used Stepp's variation on the song, note for note, as the main theme of his Hoedown.) In the middle of the recording, Stepp calls out to his listeners, "That's the bony part!" Get it? It's a joke, guys.
/geek moment