Disclaimer: The Hunger Games Trilogy is property of Suzanne Collins. This is a parody fanwork by fans for fans. No money was made off of the creation of this fanwork.

Footloose Man
by FanficAllergy & RoseFyre

oOo

Theme: 27: Liqueur
Words: 1200
Summary: Kid deserves better than an old drunk like him.

oOo

He didn't start drinking until the words appeared. Green. Glowing. Glistening. And reading, "So, you're supposed to give us advice."

He knew right away what the words meant. Who'd say them.

A tribute.

His tribute.

A kid who'd have a snowball's chance in hell of making it out alive. Someone who'd be remembered as just another tribute from Twelve. Just another person he'd care about that he knew he was destined to lose.

Fuck, he hoped that whoever they were - this green-loving advice seeker who had the bad luck to be born in April or May and be his soulmate - they didn't get their name pulled from the bowl until they were older. Eighteen. Seventeen at the least. He didn't know what he would do if the person who was supposed to be his perfect match ended up being some twelve-year-old kid.

Kill himself most likely.

Kill them both.

oOo

The white liquor kept most of the nightmares away.

Most.

But not all. And not enough. Each night was filled with conflicting dreams. Dreams of him losing his soulmate in the Games. Axe. Mutts. Exposure. But worse were the dreams where he saved his soulmate, only to lose them to Snow's perverse sense of humor. Those were the worst. The ones that left him weeping with his throat raw. The ones he couldn't chase away with Ripper's liquor or Poppy's pills.

In the 65th Games, he thought he might have been mistaken. For a moment, he dared to hope. When he met the new mentor, Effie Trinket, and she greeted him with, "So, you're supposed to give me advice." For a moment, he started to believe the universe wasn't out to get him.

But his grunted response of, "Fuck off!" got no reaction. And the moment was over. Reality crashed down upon him like a ton of bricks.

He realized later the words were similar, but not the same. "Us," not "me." What a difference a single word could make. That night he drank even more than he had before, emptying the contents of his stomach over Trinket's bright blue open-toed shoes. Served her right for getting his hopes up.

Served him right, too.

People like him didn't deserve hope.

oOo

The year of the 70th Hunger Games, Haymitch scanned the crowd with burgeoning worry. This was it. The time of reckoning. From now through the 76th Games, he'd have to be on his guard. Out there someplace in the twelve-year-old section was his soulmate.

He pitied the kid. He didn't know what words would be scrawled on their body; he just hoped it wasn't something too horrible, like "You're gonna die." He made a vow that whatever he said first to that kid would be something he could live with. That they could live with. After all, he'd have to live with sending them to their death. The last thing they needed was to be sporting "Fuck off!" or something like it on their skin.

Maybe if he was lucky, his soulmate would be someone in the Quell. The Capitol liked to change things up. Maybe they'd only Reap from people over the age of eighteen. Wouldn't that be a twist?

Yes, if he was lucky, his soulmate would be in the Quell.

He deliberately chose not to remind himself just how old his soulmate actually was. He was great at fooling himself that way.

Or, at least, the alcohol was.

oOo

For four years, he lucked out. Nobody Reaped was in the same age range as his soulmate.

But then, as if summoned from hell, both of his tributes for the 74th Games fit the criteria. He couldn't remember exactly when the bright green words appeared on his arm, just that it had been spring. And both of his tributes happened to be born within weeks of each other. He couldn't eliminate either.

He had enough sense, even in his drunken haze, to make sure not to say anything directly to either kid. Being known as a drunk had its uses. As did drinking himself into an alcohol-steeped stupor.

And for a while it worked. He managed to get away with either addressing the room or no one in particular.

At least until the first morning on the train.

First the boy cornered him with a penknife, saying, "If you ever are that drunk again, I will take this knife and shove it up your ass."

Not his words. Words that in no way could be mistaken for his words.

He was so elated that the boy wasn't his soulmate that he threw caution to the wind, greeting the girl with, "Sit down! Sit down!" when she finally showed up, grumpy and wearing an emerald green sweater.

She didn't even react to his words, sitting down and promptly getting into a discussion with the boy about the comparative merits of baked goods in hot chocolate.

Maybe it wasn't her.

Maybe he was lucky.

oOo

He wasn't lucky.

Soon after they arrived at the Capitol, Cinna, their new stylist, pulled him aside. "Both of them have soulmarks."

"Fuck." The Capitol never went easy on those with soulmates. It was probably the only reason Haymitch was allowed to win his Games. The Capitol favorite, a boy from One, had a soulmark. So did a well-liked girl from Two. They'd both died in one of the bird attacks, before they even had a chance. Both Haymitch and the last girl from One were blanks.

And now he had two kids marked for death.

"What are their words?"

"The boy's are 'That's my doll.' They're gray, so I think his soulmate is already dead."

Not too terrible. A dead soulmate could be ignored. Or he could spin it, tell the Capitol the boy was only worthy of winning after the soulmate died. His mind raced, the possibilities opening before him.

"And the girl?"

"'Sit down! Sit down!' in a deep wine purple."

Haymitch sat down. Hard. On the floor. "Fuck."

The pity in Cinna's eyes said it all.

oOo

He had to save her.

And unlike his previous tributes, his soulmate had a chance. A good one. A damned good one. Seneca Crane liked her. Really liked her, and if Crane wasn't obsessed with Finnick Odair's ass, Haymitch would have been suspicious of the Gamemaker's motives.

Even better, the boy loved her. Truly loved her. Not because of some mumbo jumbo scrawled across his abdomen, but because of something deep inside her.

Something Peeta could see.

Something Cinna could see.

Something Haymitch could see.

Between Crane's adoration and the boy's infatuation, Haymitch might, just might, be able to save her. Might be able to save them both. It'd mean creating a love story. The Capitol adored a good romance, and this year he had a humdinger of a story for them.

Sure, he'd be pushing her into the arms of another, deciding her future for her, making him no better than the gods or the Gamemakers. But damn it, Katniss deserved better than an old drunk like him. She deserved to live. To be happy. No matter the odds.

And damned if he wasn't going to give it to her.

oOo

AN:
Written: 4/13/18
Revised: 4/20/18

More randomization! Because we've been in a randomize-y mood. The title comes from a lyric in the Rolling Stones' song "You Can't Always Get What You Want" which so optimizes Haymitch and in a way the Hunger Games Universe that we couldn't not use it. LOL

So we could go further with this story. The universe is open. There's a lot of directions we could take this, but we also like the potential. Potential is like being in a room with several open doors, but once you go through one, you can never go back. Or if you can, the path before you isn't the same.

We do think Haymitch and Katniss would be an interesting pairing. We can also see Haymitch/Katniss/Peeta… because we're like that. LOL But it's interesting to think about. Tell us what you'd like to see! We want to hear from you.

You can get more information about our original writing here:

Website: RoseLarkPublishing

Let us know what you think! Your reviews inspire us to write more. This is especially true with fic. Since we don't get paid for this. ^_^ To those we do review, you're the reason we haven't abandoned our fics. We love you.

Thanks for reading!