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.

Just Dance
by FanficAllergy & RoseFyre

oOo

Theme: 32: Dance
Words: 2555
Summary: Their romance was a dance. Full of twists and turns, highs and lows. Together the three of them moved in unison, until one day they didn't.

oOo

Coal oil lights twinkled in the twilight like fireflies in June. Excited and drunken voices randomly burst into song to cover the cries coming from two houses in the Seam. It was the Post-Reaping celebration in the Meadow. The first one Violet Nightengale was allowed to attend. She was twelve.

Twelve and alone.

All around her, teens and tweens danced and celebrated another year safe. Another they survived. A few were kissing. Some were sneaking off to the slag heap, confident that even if the unthinkable happened they'd be safe. Everyone was dancing. Everyone was laughing. Everyone was happy.

Everyone except her.

No one wanted to dance with the dumpy apothecary's daughter. Her face was too fat and dotted with pimples, an anomaly in Twelve. Her thin white-blonde hair hung limply in front of her face, hiding it from the world. She wished she hadn't come. Wished she'd stayed home, curled up with one of her family's weathered and beaten medical texts. But Maysilee had insisted. Forced her. Cajoled her. After all, who knew if they'd ever attend another? They needed to live in case they might die.

So she came. And wished to the stars above that she hadn't.

"Can I have this dance?" a voice on the cusp of manhood asked, cracking slightly on the last word.

She looked up to see a handsome Seam boy, holding out his hand to her. "Me?" she asked, not entirely sure it wasn't some cosmic joke. Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

His eyes twinkled in the twilight. "Honestly?"

"Yeah." She crossed her arms under her budding breasts as if daring him to lie to her.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Solomon Everdeen dared me to."

Her heart sunk. Then a low fire of anger kindled in her belly, spreading higher and higher, until her cheeks were flushed with its heat. "Then you can tell Solomon Everdeen he can fuck off and he can find some other girl to make fun of." She eyed the boy. "And you can fuck off too!" She stood up, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at the two teens in front of her. "In fact, you should just fuck each other!"

She expected her heated words to have an effect. She'd hoped it'd make the pranksters go away. What she didn't expect was belly-clutching laughter. Both boys broke down into gale upon gale of laughter. Laughter so loud and long that the other kids turned to stare at the three of them.

Normally all of the attention would have Violet shrinking away, like the old saying. But instead she stood her ground, calling out, "Anyone else want to make fun of me? Just line on up and get it over with so I can get on with my life."

As one, the gaggle of teens edged away, seemingly cowed by her bravado.

The boy in front of her grinned at her, his teeth gleaming in the low light. "Girl. I like you. The name's Haymitch Abernathy and I think I'd like to dance with you for real."

A tiny flame of hope rekindled inside her. "No joke?"

"Nope."

"No dare?" She still didn't quite believe it wasn't a trick.

"Nope."

"Solomon can fuck off?" Her eyes flicked to the handsome boy a year or so older than her and Haymitch.

"Solomon's going to ask you to dance too," the boy in question called out.

"Then yes," she said in her haughtiest voice. "I'll dance with you."

oOo

For the next four years, Violet danced between them, the homely Merchant caterpillar and the two brilliant Seam flowers. Sometimes Maysilee would join in, or some other girl of the moment. Seam. Merchant. Mix. But they never stayed long. Never understood the complicated steps weaving the three together.

Under their appreciative eyes, she underwent a metamorphosis, transforming from dumpy and awkward adolescent to lithe and lovely teen.

Other boys started noticing her. Courting her. But she ignored them, like they'd ignored her before her blossoming. She only had eyes for her boys. And they for her.

Then the Quell happened.

With two flicks of a jeweled wrist, her world shattered. Her best friend and one of her boyfriends stood on the stage erected in the town square with two other terrified classmates. She visited both Maysilee and Haymitch - of course she would. She needed to say goodbye. Let them know just how much she loved them.

But as soon as she walked in the room, Haymitch grabbed her tight and whispered in her ear, "Don't give them anything they can use. They know about Fern," he said, referring to the girl he was feeling out, in hopes she might become their fourth. "I couldn't bear if they knew about you and Sol too."

She knew what he meant. The Capitol always kept a close eye on those closest to their tributes. While everybody knew the three were friends, they didn't know just how close the trio truly were. They were an enigma and no one knew just what they were to each other. It'd been a running joke between the three, but now it was a lifesaver. Best to keep it secret. Hidden. Safe.

She didn't know what to say. If Haymitch came back, who knew what might happen. What would become of them. But if he didn't - and the odds weren't in his favor, with a field of forty-eight - these would be her last words to him. How could she tell him what he meant to her? How could she not?

She was torn.

She opened her mouth to speak, but a curt gesture from him stopped her.

His eyes caught hers and glanced up, urging her to follow his gaze. In the corner, by the ceiling, a light blinked. A camera.

She understood.

She squeezed his hand, sending all of her love, all of her hope, through her fingertips, hoping he'd get the message. "Don't kill Maysilee," she said instead of what she really wanted to say.

"I won't." A pause. A look. A wink. "But I expect a dance with you in return."

oOo

He didn't kill Maysilee.

In fact, Haymitch did his best to keep her best friend alive. It wasn't his fault that she walked into that nest of pink mutts. It wasn't his fault that she bled out in his arms. And it wasn't his fault that, as Violet cried over the loss of the only girl ever to give a damn about her, she found herself engaging in the most ancient of dances with Solomon.

Her indiscretion probably saved her life.

Just like the rest of Twelve, the Capitol didn't know what to make of the trio's relationship. But when she fell into Solomon's arms and his bed, she changed their classification of her in the blink of an eye. No longer was she Haymitch's love interest. Only a friend of a friend. Uninteresting. Unnecessary. Unimportant.

Fern wasn't as lucky. Less than two weeks after Haymitch won his Games, her house and the house Haymitch was born in burned to the ground in fires so hot that not even the pouring rain could quench the flames' fury. It was a clear retaliation for Haymitch's actions in the Arena. Everyone knew it.

The Capitol wanted them to know it.

As Violet stood next to the trio of graves, she slipped one hand into Haymitch's limp one.

"I'm gonna have to take a raincheck on that dance," he said, his voice hoarse and husky from smoke and tears.

"I'll wait." She shot a glance over to where Solomon stood, watching them. "We'll wait."

He shook his hand from hers, reaching into his pocket to pull out a flask. "Don't."

oOo

They didn't.

Together, she and Solomon moved on. Defied expectations. Got married.

At their wedding, they danced with each other. Only with each other. It didn't feel right. Something was missing.

Someone.

A figure dressed in gray, flitting along the edges of the dance floor. Once sparkling eyes narrowed, never leaving their forms, like a moth circling a flame. Desperately wanting to get close, to steal the warmth, but frightened, scared. Afraid of burning up in the flame. Afraid of extinguishing it. So Haymitch stayed away, drinking himself insensate.

And Violet and Solomon tried to move on. Unstable. Longing. Alone.

oOo

Four years passed. Four years of love and laughter and loneliness.

She built a life for herself with Solomon. Built a home.

But not a family.

Not that they didn't try. Each month they waited with bated breath, hoping, praying. Each month she bled away their dreams.

She couldn't help but think the reason they couldn't conceive was because her body knew it was missing a piece of itself. A Haymitch-shaped hole nothing and no one else could fill.

She and Solomon watched their third drown himself in drink: white liquor almost as poisonous as the crystal clear waters of the Second Quarter Quell. He was willing himself to die. He needed a reason to live. And the terrified twin tributes each year weren't enough. After all, he'd survived without a mentor. So could they.

No, he needed a long-term reason. A concrete reason. Something he could see everyday.

Something that would return him to his rightful place in the three-person dance they'd always shared.

Violet whispered her thoughts to Solomon late one night after he'd washed away the black from the mines.

He agreed with her observations. And, more surprisingly, with her solution. "How?" was the only thing he asked.

She cupped his cheek and smiled. "I'll think of something."

oOo

She didn't have to.

A week or so later, and Haymitch's crumpled form was unceremoniously dropped on her and Solomon's bed.

She stared at the trio of Peacekeepers in shock. "What are you doing?"

"We found Abernathy passed out in the middle of the street," one of them, a bleary-eyed man called Cray, said. "Town doc's a worse drunk than he is, figured she'd kill him as much as cure him. Snow wouldn't like that." A snort of derision. "He wants Abernathy alive."

She didn't think too heavily about the statement, that the president of Panem wanted to keep Haymitch alive. Instead, she focused on the comatose man in front of her. His eyes were dilated, blown, and his skin was clammy. He stank as if he hadn't bathed in weeks, possibly months. "I'll do my best," she said, dismissing the Peacekeepers.

She did, forcing water and nourishing salt-filled broths down his throat. When Solomon got home, together they stripped Haymitch bare, throwing his Capitol clothes into the corner to take to the Hawthornes' later.

They each took a side and a sponge, removing layers of accumulated grime from his nude body. It tore at her heart to see their third like this, ribs visible, fingernails ragged and bleeding, hair limp and crawling with lice.

"We've got to save him, Vi." His eyes met hers over Haymitch's emaciated form. "Do whatever you have to do."

She would, but... "I won't force him."

Solomon's head tilted and a hand reached out to stroke Haymitch's cheek. "I don't think you'll have to. Bastard's been awake the whole time."

"How'd you know?" Haymitch asked, his voice rusty and hoarse, one bloodshot gray eye creaking open.

"I've watched you sleep enough times that I know what you look like like I know the veins on my cock." Solomon reached up to smooth away a little line between Haymitch's eyebrows. "You don't have this when you sleep."

Violet lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. "We've missed you, Hay. We were worried about you."

Both eyes opened to meet hers. "Don't you see I'm dangerous? Snow has it out for me and anyone I love."

"I think Snow's moved on. It's been six years. He's got other Victors to torture." Solomon cupped Haymitch's cheek, stroking his thumb along the cheekbone. "Besides, isn't it our decision to make? We love you, Hay. We want you with us."

She saw the moment Haymitch gave in, finally letting himself have what they all wanted. Finally rejoining the dance.

"And I want to be with you, too." He clasped her hand and reached out for Solomon's. "But first we're going to need a few ground rules."

Violet squeezed his hand. "We can live with that."

oOo

For three months, they were able to use Haymitch's collapse to keep him with them. Three glorious months filled with laughter and dancing and pleasure.

Then the Reaping came, and once again Haymitch was torn from them, sent to the Capitol with two doomed children and a heart full of guilt.

When he returned, cracked and broken, they resumed their relations. But carefully, quietly, covertly.

Every month or so, Haymitch would drink himself insensible, then collapse someplace public. It was a cover, a charade. But also frighteningly real. While he recovered, they were able to eke out a few days, and in one glorious instance, a week together.

Then the one thing Solomon and Violet had been praying for happened. She was late.

Once month passed. Then two. Then three.

They broke the news to their third in hushed voices.

When he heard the news, Haymitch cried. Not tears of joy, but of despair. "This is gonna have to end." When Solomon opened his mouth to protest, Haymitch shook his head. "Snow can't know. He already knows about you two. Not that we're this," he motioned to their entwined bodies, "but that I care for you. You're safe. But a child, they'd be a prime example. Someone Snow could destroy, even if they never took out tesserae."

Violet's heart sunk.

"We'll figure it out," Solomon said, his voice firm. "We're not willing to lose you."

Haymitch slipped out of bed and put on his clothes. "You already have. The Capitol killed me seven years ago."

oOo

Haymitch drifted out of their life, burying himself in his so-called talent. Why he'd picked interpretive dance, Violet didn't know, but the whip-thin instructor from the Capitol monopolized Haymitch's time and energy for months.

She still saw him, briefly, when he limped into her living room, seeking treatment for blisters and swollen ankles.

When he thought nobody was looking, his fingers would slip out to ghost along her belly, so fast that she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it. Imagined the caress or the tears he rapidly blinked back after each visit.

When the time came, on a morning early in May, she grasped Solomon's hand and wished there was another beside her.

After the midwife left, and she held her black-haired daughter in her arms, her eyes met Solomon's and she whispered, "please."

Her husband knew what she meant, and with a nod he disappeared.

When she opened her eyes a few hours later, Haymitch was there, the blanket-wrapped infant held reverently in his arms. She watched, heart aching, as the father of her child, one of the two men that she loved, danced with the daughter he could never acknowledge, singing lullabies the infant would never remember.

Clasping Solomon's hand, she watched the only father and daughter dance Haymitch and Katniss would ever have. It was beautiful. Poignant. Heartbreaking. Letting the two have this stolen moment, she tore her gaze away and cried.

oOo

AN:
Written: 6/26/18
Revised: 6/28/18

Haymitch and Mrs. Everdeen came up in our randomizer, and we decided threesome. Because threesome. So we've invented another pairing, yay! We also wanted to explore Haymitch being Katniss's biological father within a universe that's at least close to canon.

We may or may not continue this at some point (we have ideas...we always have ideas), but it's complete for now.

You can get more information about our original writing here:

Website: roselarkpublishing

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