A/N: With one drabble-ish exception, Blurred Memories is my first fanfic in almost two decades. Thank you to those who have already commented or added me to your story alerts. Fanfic fans are always so warm and supportive!

I used to have a cardinal rule that I never ever ever hit "publish" until the whole thing was finished. With this story, I broke that rule, mostly because I was super-excited about the first chapter - which I thought could function as a stand-alone - but also because felt secure enough in the story's outline and structure that it would just be a few more days until the whole thing was done. Of course, as soon as I did that, the structure I had been so secure about started to shift into something else. So it's a little concerning to try and feel my way through a piece that is growing increasingly interesting to me, and yet know that with every update, I have less and less flexibility about the characters' development. I plan to update regularly, but am simply making a plea for understanding if I'm a bit slow! (Also - anyone else have this experience?)

As always, the characters belong to Suzanne Collins. I promise to play nicely with them. By which I mean "no canon was harmed in the making of this 'fix."

-JellybeanThief

Chapter Two

Haymitch didn't remember the moment when the girl on fire first earned her name, either. There was no shame in that - no lost memory, no sense that he should know something he did not. He chose not to see the presentations, as he chose not to see them every year.

And of course, he chose to not do that with a drink by his side.

Also, because it was the Capitol, he wasn't drinking alone.

Chaff was the victor the year before Haymitch's Games. District 11 didn't have a large pool of victors, but at the Quarter Quell, they had three more than District 12. So the youngest and most inexperienced one was assigned to 12's tributes - to learn the business of mentoring in what the Capitol escort had cheerily described as a "low-stakes environment."

There had been a female mentor from District 2 as well, but it was obvious early on that her advice was meant simply to secure victory for her district once again. So Haymitch and the others ignored her.

Chaff, though, honestly tried. He had compassion for his four charges, and wanted to give them the best chances he could, even if the best chances still weren't great.

And somehow, Haymitch came home. Not really through anything that Chaff had done - Haymitch was the first Victor who had received exactly zero sponsors - but Haymitch remained grateful, and the two became friends of a sort. As much as you could be friends with someone living in a different district, and therefore with whom contact - outside of an annual trip to the Capitol - was forbidden

In the early days, they'd met for dinner before the presentations, and - by unspoken agreement - reconvened to raise a glass each time one of their tributes fell. Four years after Haymitch's Games, while memorializing the first fallen tribute of District 11, the "raise a glass" session had turned into a full-on drinking binge; the next morning they were both too hungover to pay attention to the ring, and their remaining tributes had all died stupidly. Not that they could have done much - watching later, it was clear that the deaths were unexpected and immediate, but to Haymitch at least, not being there to witness the deaths in realtime seemed like a failure in itself.

That was the beginning of the end. These days, they just drank. Sometimes Chaff roused himself enough in the early part of the games to mentor his kids. Sometimes he didn't.

The bar was noisy and the television screen above the bartender was playing the presentations in the background. The two men purposefully sat with their backs to it. They sat in silence for the first hour - there was no family for either to catch the other up on, and Haymitch guessed that a recitation of Chaff's days would be strikingly similar to his own: "Woke up. Had a drink. Realized I was almost out of drink. Went to the Tradepost, bought more drink. Drank it. Went to sleep." Maybe throw an occasional meal or difficult crap in there, to spice things up.

And of course, they didn't want to talk about the obvious topic at hand.

Well, maybe "hand" was a poor choice of words, given Chaff's infirmity.

Chaff was the one who finally broke, though.

"How are yours, this year?" he asked, once the first round had been consumed and the second was well on its way.

Haymitch shrugged. "Brave," he said. "Stupid. Yours?"

Chaff smiled. "Is smart better?" he asked. "I dunno. The girl's young. Mincemeat. But the boy might have a shot."

"If he's so great, why are you holding down a barstool instead of at the presentations where you belong?"

"He told me he was going to handle himself on his own. He thinks pretty much anyone else can take a flying leap." The darker man took a deep draught of his drink and then smiled at Haymitch. "Thresh reminds me a lot of another tribute I mentored, once upon a time."

Haymitch laughed. "Well, then, it sounds like you've got it sewn up. How about we all just go home and get a start on next year?"

Chaff snorted. "Yeah. Let's just tell the Capitol that we got it all figured out, and have saved them the trouble of having a Games at all. See what they say."

'You do that. I'm going to stay right here, with my drink."

Chaff smiled for a moment, but then got serious. "Would that we could."

The two sat in companionable silence a little bit longer before Chaff started in again. "Really, Haymitch - your tributes? That girl? The volunteer? What's that about?"

"She's hardheaded and stubborn. Nearly mugged me on the train to get me to pay attention to them."

"And?"

"And I told them I would stay sober enough to train them."

"Actually train them? Or train them like you usually do?"

"I have my priorities," Haymitch responded raising his glass in salute.

"Now, that's just wrong," Chaff said, despite the fact that he laughed and clinked Haymitch's glass with his own. "You've got a volunteer, and you're not even going to let her put on a little show?"

"Not a chance. She volunteered, but I call the shots from here on out." He drained his second drink and signalled the bartender for a refill. "Of course, she's so obstinate that she'll probably do the exact opposite of whatever I say, so you might still get something from her."

"She might surprise you, Haymitch. You've been surprised before."

Haymitch shook his head. "You might have been; I haven't."

Chaff rolled his eyes and was about to respond when something caught his attention - everyone but them had been watching the TV, cheering and yelling as favorite tributes swept into view. Now, suddenly, the room's tenor changed, flattened, slowed. Quieted. Chaff turned to look.

"Haymitch."

Haymitch ignored him.

"Haymitch - you should see this."

Slowly, admittedly already a little buzzed, Haymitch rotated on his stool, and by the time he got in view of the TV, the girl was gone.

And the whole room was filled with chatter again, but now, only of the girl who was on fire and the boy who held her hand. Chaff turned to look at him. "Good stylist," he said.

"New talent learning the business in a low-stakes environment," Haymitch offered with a smile.

Chaff shook his head at his onetime charge. "Listen to the room, Haymitch. It's more than that. People were already talking about the volunteer from 12. Now they're buzzing about this girl on fire. You might have something here."

"And so might you," the other man shot back. "We can't both bring them home."

"And most likely, neither of us will," Chaff responded. "Look at District 2 - that boy could break your neck with his bare hands. The girl, too, actually. But don't we owe it to ours to try? What would you have done if I'd have given up on you before you even started?"

"Same thing I ended up doing," Haymitch growled. "Winning."

Chaff shook his head. "Not without hope, Haymitch," he said. "Not without hope."

Haymitch looked back up at the TV, finally catching a glimpse of the District 12 tributes. Chaff was right: the stylists had done their jobs well for once. No sexy coal miners this year. Instead, they looked like gods rising from the flames. Classic. Heroic. Victorious.

The linked hands were a nice touch, too - they made the tributes more accessible. Human. Good for sponsors, yes, but also a subtle dig to anyone in the Capitol who had somehow missed the fact that actual children with actual feelings were being sent to die in the Arena.

Haymitch just hoped whoever came up with that idea knew what he was doing - it would be hard to forgive those entwined hands when the same hands were circled around each others' necks.

Haymitch shook his head. "Chaff, a little hope is a dangerous thing." And with that, he drained his glass. He had about 90 minutes before he had to meet his fiery tributes for dinner. It was time to regain at least a semblance of sobriety, if only so he wouldn't have to deal with an accusatory glare from #48. Forty-seven was halfway to doing as Chaff's tribute had, and telling her mentor to shove off, but 48 took the drinking as a personal affront. And while the kid was already as good as dead, his angry glares spoiled the meals. And even if he hated everything else the Capitol stood for, Haymitch had to admit the food was pretty good