Warning: These one-shots feature heavy subjects, including alcoholism, drug abuse, and torture... so far. I'll add more as the story wears on, just in case.

AN: Credit goes to HannahSongla for the story idea. Please go check out her Hayniss story similar to this - Sweetheart. Credit goes to Suzanne Collins for the verse and the characters. I don't really own anything but the text of these one-shots. And no, that doesn't mean the song lyrics. Enjoy c:

Song: Still by Daughter

Still

Two feet standing on a principle
Two hands longing for each other's warmth
Cold smoke seeping out of colder throats
Darkness falling leaves nowhere to go

Haymitch stared at the glass in his hands, his vision swimming from morphling and drink. The smell of blood fills his nose, and he realizes that he's not holding the glass anymore, but shards of it. He balls his hands into fists and the pain brings him out of his haze. His head aches because all he can hear is her sobbing, and his heart aches because he remembers that he is the cause of the tears.

He remembers the hate that had spilled from his throat, the evil things he'd said to her. She'd said things to him too, things that had injured him and his pride. He remembers the way he'd used his words to inflict a pain on her that he would never used his fists to do. The chill that had coated the room when she'd called him a coward. He remembers all of that, but he can't seem to remember what they'd been fighting over. It could have been the smallest of things at this point.

"I don't know why you stay with me," he says suddenly, not looking up from the glass shards that have embedded themselves so deeply in his palm that he's sure he'll need stitches later. The blood spills from his hands and onto the table, where it mixes with the amber liquid of spilled alcohol. Her sobbing quiets into sniffling, and he can hear her desperately trying to get herself together. There's the ruffling of blankets and a loud thud as something hits the floor. Her voice comes back, hoarse and coated thick with sadness.

"I don't know why I stay either. Maybe you're what I deserve."

"Hardly," he replies, picking a shard from his palm. "I don't deserve someone that puts up with my shit. I don't deserve anyone, sweetheart. You know that." Silence, it becomes so quiet that he can hear the drops of blood mixing with the whiskey. He doesn't even know she's left her spot on the couch until her hands are running down his chest and her lips are planted on his forehead.

"Still," she whispers in his ear. "You're what I deserve, Haymitch." He snorts so hard that it causes a pain in his nose. But then when there's a chill on his cheeks, he realizes the pain in his nose is because he's starting to cry. Her lips find each tear, and she kisses them until there are too many to clear up.

"Never, sweetheart," he replies. "I hate you." He doesn't mean it. He doesn't even know why he voices it. It's not true. What could he hate her for? For being so beautiful he couldn't help but play with her flames? For drawing him in and leaving him cold? For loving him as fiercely as someone as damaged as she could love someone as shattered as he?

She laughs, her voice bitter as the laughter passes her lips and falls like a screwed melody on his ears. Tears fall harder and a choked sob escapes his throat, and his head falls onto the counter. He can feel another chill as she pulls her hands away from his chest. Without his permission, Haymitch begins to cry. He's hurting the girl he loves, simply because he doesn't know how to love openly and freely. And here he is, denying his every emotion and repeatedly hurting her, but yet she still stays with him. He can feel her rubbing his back.

"You don't hate me," she whispers, the bitter laugh dancing around the edges of her voices. "You hate yourself." He barely is able to nod his head, but she gets the message because she sighs.

"I hate myself too. I thought I hated you, but it's just me hating myself. Maybe that's what Peeta meant when he said we were much too alike - we get so caught up in our intertwined stories that we confuse our hatred for ourselves for hatred for each other. But maybe I can love you, so that you don't have to love yourself. And you can love me, so I don't have to love myself. And maybe, day by day, we can take away that self-loathing." Haymitch looks up at her, his teal eyes tinted with tears. He finds that she too is still crying.

"You'll... you want to stick around with me?"

"I will always want to stay with you."

It's spiraling down
Biting words like a wolf howling
Hate is spilling out each other's mouth
But we're still sleeping like we're lovers