A/n. Thank you all who have reviewed this story, they mean a lot to me. :) Thanks for the alerts too ofc! I'm happy that you are interested in this and if you can give some feedback that would even be more awesome!

All the characters in the Hunger Games belong to Suzanne Collins.

x

"Haymitch," I call as I knock on his door three times. As usual, his room is my first stop when I make my morning round to get everyone to breakfast. Despite his usual state, he actually manages to wake up to a simple knock on the door when he's here. Probably his conscience tells him that he's in the Capitol and he has to be accustomed to waking up early. Getting him up for the reaping becomes much harder throughout the years. In my first few years as an escort, he'd wake up to the sound of me knocking; I didn't even have to come inside. In the last few years however, it took me longer to wake him up, leaving me to resort to shaking his body that got me slashed with his knife and two years ago, I just made a loud noise by knocking his bottle over. I knew it was impolite but my memory from getting slashed was still fresh that I rather coming off as rude than getting hurt.

I knock on his door again and hear the sound his feet make as they hit the floor. Ensured that he's awake, I start to move towards the tributes' rooms. I'm not too far away from his when I hear a loud sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Concerned, I go back to his door and knock on it again, "Haymitch, please open the door." There is a sound of quick footsteps but it fades away instead of sounding closer to me. Thinking that something wrong happened, I open the door deciding that I will just prepare myself for any rant on personal space later.

I hear the sound of him retching from the bathroom. Being used to see him in hangover state in the morning I grab a glass from his bedside table and bring it to the bathroom, I need to get him hydrated. Just as I expected, I find him crouching over the toilet bowl puking his gut out with his hands grabbing the bowl tightly. I fill the glass with water from the sink and when I thought his round has ended and about to hand him the water, he vomits some more to the bowl. I set down the glass on the sink and get the nearby towel instead and give it to him. He groans, his voice hoarse from the sick, before he wipes his mouth clean while I wait with the water in my hand. I take the towel from his hand and hand him the water as he sits still on the floor by the toilet. I throw the dirty towel to the laundry basket and walk back to him offering my hand to help him stand up. He gives me the empty glass instead and backs away trying to get up on his own; he's too proud for my help.

"Here, take this," I tell him as I shove a pill container into his hands. "It will help with the stomach."

When I didn't know any better that I was pregnant, I used to have some pills for my stomach to relieve the uneasiness after vomiting. I am very fortunate that it didn't have any effect on the baby, apparently they were made from natural ingredients; a rare jewel among many Capitol chemical goodness. I didn't realize that I still have them in my purse all this time.

"Can't afford to have your favorite victor sick for another big, big, day eh sweetheart," he scoffs. Coming from Haymitch, that was as good as a thank you.

"That's absurd. Who says you are my favorite?" I reply before I walk out of his room.

Mabel, our tribute girl, has softened her attitudes towards me in the past few days. She just nods and keeps quiet to whatever I say, never giving me an angry scowl. It is a sign that I have seen on some tributes. While most of Twelve tributes are solemn after their reaping, there have been a few who are simply angry with the situation. These were usually older tributes. Some have their anger died down after a few days while others use it as a motivation albeit the latter are few and far between. Mabel's calmer demeanor lately fits these signs but unfortunately it's because she's given up. Even Haymitch doesn't bother to give advices; I mentally shake my head at this. I do my best coaching them on their etiquette and body language for the interview. Sponsorship can come unexpectedly and the least we can do is to make them likeable, why drive potential sponsors away? I won't let the almost nonexistent sponsors we had for the past years belittling my hope.

Haymitch once again slipped from my view. I've been looking to talk to him about the incident the other day but we're always surrounded by other people whenever I have the time. I smile to myself when I realize how he still has his agility despite being drunk, he managed to sneak away just for the seconds I sent the kids to their prep team, or maybe it's just me who's too oblivious.

I gasp when I see the first tribute makes her appearance and only relax when I realize she's not naked, unlike my initial thought. Her sparkly body hugging dress gives that impression when the light hits her wrong. The loud applause is getting raucous especially from the male audience as she sashays on stage. How original, I thought. 'Desirable' is definitely her angle, just as it has always been all these years for One's female tributes. Flaunting sex appeals during the interview is One's old trick that never gets old. The cheering gets deafening again when Sparkle, thus the dress, is leaving the stage.

"Poor girl," I mumble, knowing her likely fate when she comes out a victor.

"And poor father must have had a heart attack seeing her almost naked," I say coolly.

"Yeah, he must have had a heart attack from that," jeers Haymitch.

I look at him and he stares ahead ignoring me, as if the interview fascinates him. It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying before I realize my stupidity. Of course if the father had a heart attack it would be from the reaping or when she dies, not from some silly revealing dress. I resist the urge to put my face in my hands to hide my embarrassment, can't let him know he made me feel dull. Still feeling ashamed, I take my drink in one gulp. This, he notices. He takes out his bottle and hand it my way, I shake my head in response. I've had enough and I have to be sober for tomorrow, there are so many things to handle on the first day. He tilts his head as he mutters a barely audible, "Suits yourself."

I've tossed and turned in bed for the past hours, can't bring myself to sleep. There is no particular thing that bothers me but unconsciously, knowing that something is going on outside my knowledge gets to my nerve. I give up my attempt to sleep and head to the dining room instead trying to find a soothing drink. Since the interview ended pretty late, I decided to stay in the training centre tonight and I will have to start early tomorrow anyway. I switch on the light easily, knowing every single part of this penthouse after all this time.

Ouch. I feel I sharp pain on my foot. "Oh for heaven's sake, Haymitch!" I shriek. I stumbled on pieces of broken glass on the floor, undoubtedly a broken alcohol bottle, and there is a pretty large shard stuck between my toes. I hop to the nearest chair with my good foot and sit down to take a better look at it. I grimace at the sight and cry out when I pull the sharp thing off my foot. With this low tolerance of pain, I wouldn't last five minutes in the Games. Make it one.

Out of nowhere, Haymitch comes and sit on the chair he dragged next to me with a first aid kit in his hand. He takes my damaged foot to his lap and start attending to it while I glare at him fully knowing that the broken glass on the floor was his doing. I mewl in pain when he pours his white alcohol on the wound that I have to focus on my breathing to keep my tears from flowing.

"It's just a small wound, it doesn't even need stitching," he says as he looks up to me. Apparently he can't stop taunting me even when I'm in pain.

"What," I snap when he is still looking at me.

"Shit, you're beautiful," he curses.

He reaches out, his free hand starts moving towards my face, pulling a lock of my hair and rub it in between his fingers. I can feel blood rushing to my face and my eyes widen; I didn't put any make up on! I've never felt more vulnerable in my life especially now that he pushes my hair back behind my ears revealing my bare face that it once curtains. Even my mother always sees me in my full attire these days. I feel his hands linger and he stares at it for a second and I continue freezing when his hand brushes my cheek as he pulls it back. I panic. I thought of running to my room but I can't move anywhere because he still has my damaged foot in his lap.

Thankfully he doesn't say anything and goes back to fixing my wound ever so softly. Who knew this rough man has it in him. He would be so good with Rosie. But would he be happy to know that he has a daughter? Is having a family something that he would want? I know he lives alone back in Twelve and he never shows any desire for one.

"Haymitch,"

"Uh huh,"

"How come I've never seen you with a companion?"

"Have you never? I thought nothing would pass you."

"You have one? Who?," I say with excitement.

He cocks his head towards the liquor and chuckles when he sees the look on face, clearly filled with disappointment.

"Just because you have plenty doesn't mean I need one," he says.

"I don't."

"Really? Isn't that where you've been off to for the past few days?"

"No. Don't turn it on me, you're the one who's been missing. Does that have something to do with - AWW!" I whelp as he wraps my wound too tightly. "Oh, was that too tight?" he asks sarcastically, tapping the bandage into place and drops my foot off his lap to the floor. All the softness was gone.

"Haymitch, wait," I say as I try to get up as fast as I can when he's already few feet ahead of me. It's amazing that someone who's drunk can move that fast, no wonder he could disappear that easily this afternoon.

I try to open his door but it's locked. "Haymitch, I need to talk to you …"

"Go away."

"Open the door, Haymitch. Let me in."

"I'm not gonna just go away," I say after a while when it's apparent he's not going to open the door. I know he's not sleeping so I stay outside, knocking on his door and calling his name repeatedly. When that didn't work, I try something new.

"I didn't know you're close with Finnick," I say as I lean on the wall next to the door, "I mean I know you guys are fellow victors but –" he opens the door in a second cutting me off.

"What is your fucking problem?" he hisses, "If you like Finnick so much, the elevator is just over there," he says as he points to its direction.

"You know that's not what I –"

"I know what you want," he says before he moves towards the elevator. I guess there's no point arguing that it's not Finnick that I want to talk to. Instead of getting to the elevator, he walks past it towards the stairs. Confused, I follow him anyway since it seems to be the only way to talk to him. Few flights up and we arrive at the rooftop. I can't believe I've never been here before, it's actually really magnificent. The view of the Capitol from above with all the buzzing lights and the bustling celebrations of the Games is pretty captivating. I look around to locate Haymitch and I see him by the garden. In such a windy night, the wind chimes over there surely make a lot of noise. Whatever it is that is happening, it seems that he doesn't want anyone to overhear. Can't repeat the same mistake twice.

He turns to me when I was close enough. "What the hell were you thinking?" he hisses, "talking about it was bad enough and you had to do it in the freaking training centre?" he asks harshly. I feel my body shrinking under his furious glare.

"I just want to know if you're doing anything dangerous," I say calmly.

"What good is it for you? Afraid to be associated with me? Whatever it is I do has nothing to do with you, sweetheart, you're just my escort," he says. Yes, your escort who was pregnant with your child.

"Haymitch, seriously, if there's anything I need to know –" he cuts me off again.

"No. There's nothing. You just stay there and be pretty and make sure we're on schedule. Can you do that sweetheart?" he asks dismissively before he walks past me to the door.

"Sure. But I can also watch your back, talking to people you don't know, and getting people to like you cause I'm not sure vomit is an attractive smell," I say, my back towards him. I feel his hands on my shoulders turning me around. I try to keep my composure as his grey eyes bore into mine.

"Do you understand what you are getting yourself into?" he hisses.

"No, I don't, so make me understand," I say desperately.

"Not here," he says putting a flower that I didn't know he has behind my ear. My face warms when his hand remains cupped on my cheek.

"There, now you might be pretty enough for Finnick," he says with a snicker. I stand there dumbfounded thinking exactly, what am I getting myself into?