Katniss' POV
I open my mouth to say something, anything, to fill the cold, awkward void between us, but Haymitch holds up his hand, running the other through his hair.
"Look, Katniss, I'm sorry," he starts, and I can't help but wonder why he's apologizing.
"No, no, it's fine. You—deserve a drink," I mumble, looking around for the mason jar surely to contain the chopped chiles, peppers and tomatoes that have added spice to this afternoon's affair.
"No, I don't," he counters bitterly.
Yes, yes you do. You've been through more shit than anyone I know, darling. Drink if you must, if it keeps you sane, because I don't have that privilege. At least, you won't let me, anyways. All of this is on the tip of my tongue, but I keep it inside, feeling as if it's not my place to conjure up all of those feelings and memories. I'm trying my hardest to keep the evening light, free, unhindered by the iron grip of the Capitol us tributes have grown to hate and hate even more. That is, if we're still alive.
"Katniss, I'm really sorry that you've… I'm trying to quit, you see." The words come out choppily, fragmented and sheepish. This statement causes me to actually drop the fork that I was using to distribute salsa into the tiny metallic bowls, and turn around to look at him. His graphite-colored eyes are cast downwards, intent on shoveling the proper amount of tortilla chips into the bowl and I swear I can see a hint of a blush on his cheeks.
"Really?" I blurt out, bewildered. I can hardly contain my curiosity. Haymitch Abernathy, the man with the liquor, lawfully wedded to his bottle in every district, circumstances be damned. "Why?"
The man takes his time to answer. He extracts a particularly sharp gem, a perfect concave triangular beauty, and examines his find, no, analyzes it. I can't help but think of his look as the same of one in the mines, examining every bit of rock for choice coal. He closes the physical gap between us and plumbs the depths of salsa with his chip before carefully bringing it towards his perfect mouth. I wonder why the Capitol never employed this kind of torture.
I watch him slowly consume the combination, one elbow on the counter as he's facing me, contemplating whether or not he still intends to reply to my simply, monosyllabic query.
"Because, he answers, and I feel myself growing hot, and not just because he is inches away from me, shirt unbuttoned, hair tousled just so, looking so perfectly imperfect. I finish replenishing the bowls of salsa before whirling around to get a proper explanation.
"What kind of answer is that?" I demand, my hands subconsciously curling themselves into fists. Since the Games, all of my anger and frustration tended to manifests itself in either physical violence or other self-destructive behaviors, and tonight, I was feeling a bit of the former.
"Whoa," admonishes Haymitch. "Take it easy, sweetheart." It is in this instance he does something quite unexpected from Haymitch. Suddenly his hands close over mine, unfurling the fists until he can hold my hands properly. He draws them up from my sides so that they are front and center, and it is then that he announces, " I am trying to quit for you."