Followers and Supporters… Woah. I haven't updated in forever. I am sorry. I lost all inspiration for this fic a while back and have been trying to take a hiatus from it to get a fresh outlook, but in the meantime almost forgot about it entirely... until a little bird named NefariousEnvy told me to get my ass in gear. So here I am!... after months. I'm currently doing NaNoWriMo and have (obviously, as such) been in the writing mood… NefariousEnvy, thank you for your persistence! This one's dedicated to you. I have a feeling you might like the next chapter better, but… ;)
I've lost count of the days during which I've been keeping my distance from all human beings, save my mother and Prim. Well, consciously, anyway. I haven't wanted to think about my scorning Haymitch, his telling me what I could and couldn't do with that survival talk, and the resurgence of Peeta. It was all too much. I'd been comfortable, so comfortable only a handful of days ago. And now I'm brooding at my kitchen table for what is probably the third day in a row.
"They're working." I have to blink myself back into reality before I make out the image of my mother sitting at the table across from me. She's not looking at me; instead her head is bent, her hand delicately grasping a rough excuse for a pencil as she inscribes shapes into the book in front of her.
I try to speak, but have to clear my throat. "What?"
"The quercus robur glandium," she says, turning the book so I can see.
Oh. The medicines she told me about for Haymitch. I bent my head, focused my eyes. Acorns? I looked up.
"Yeah, I guess so."
She kept scribbling at the book for a while longer, and I watched her movements with half-interest. Maybe I could add somethi… But no. I wasn't going to ask.
I'd been slowly coming to the realization that I needed something to do again now that I didn't have Haymitch infiltrating my days, something other than hunting, sitting, and talking to Cinna over the phone about stupid, imaginary clothing I was supposedly designing as my talent to be presented for the Tour. I felt useless, but seeing that book, I suddenly felt like that was something I could do. It was a family heirloom of sorts, the collection of drawings and phrases that described plants and remedies, started by my father from his knowledge of the woods, and supplemented by my mother and her knowledge for healing. It was a sort of encyclopedia for survival in my household. And depending on whether what I remembered of it was still valid, I could fill it in with a lot more. Plants I'd learned about in the years after my father's death, methods of trapping I'd learned from Gale, how to determine the best spots for hunting within the forest.
That, and having a cheat-sheet for Haymitch-Care was a tantalizing offer. It'd sure make facing him again a whole lot easier.
When she got up from the table, the book was still laying open where she'd been working on it. After a minute making sure she wasn't coming back, I reached out my arm to snatch the book towards me. I leafed through the pages until I found the acorns again, on a page titled Alcoholism and read, under Acorns and some words I didn't understand: For aiding withdrawal from alcoholism. Diminishes cravings, antidotes alcohol's negative effects. Diarrhea may occur during use, a curative effect. There was even more on the page below it.
Oats. Avena sativa. Begin treatment here, helps greatly in weaning off various damaging stimulants. Invigorates, improves focus and clarity while restoring normal heartbeat.
Normal heartbeat? I wondered. Okay… I read on.
Wild Lettuce. Lactuca virosa. Improves sense of well-being, calms, relieves pain. Cures insomnia, naturally sedates.
Calanatts. Acornus calamus. Reduces cravings, restores body-to-brain function. Improves appetite, remedies exhaustion.
Celandine. Chelidonuim majus. Detoxifies. Calms anger, depression, and general sluggishness.
Cayenne. Capiscum frutescens. Helps reduce morning vomiting, upset stomach, and cravings. Improves appetite. Lessens irritability, anxiety, tremors. I raise my eyebrows. These descriptions fitted the Haymitch from a few weeks ago to a T. If only I'd learned about these sooner. Oh, wait, I had known about it. I was just too proud to take a healer's advice because she was my mother.
I sit for a few seconds longer before slamming the book shut.
By the next morning I've ignored the gnawing in my gut and plucked up enough courage to trudge over to Haymitch's, a bag of game and greens over my shoulder, my father's old leather hunting jacket protecting me from the crisp morning air.
"You hungry?" I ask, walking straight in and slinging my hunting jacket over the couch as I pass. He's at the table reading a yellowed, crumpled newspaper, I can't imagine what for.
He doesn't even look up, just grunts non-committally.
I almost halt my stride to stop and inspect him – his cheeks look more gaunt than I remember, a deeper purple below his eyes. But I don't stop, simply stride over to the counter, thinking that food was definitely the right place to start. I divert my eyes to the cupboards, to the pots and pans I'm pulling out.
"I'll take that as a yes," I say.
He finally looks up from his paper when he hears the clatter of plates. Dinner is almost served, the bastard.
"Back so soon?" he asks, sarcasm dripping off his voice.
"Couldn't let you starve to death," I say, giving him barely a glance as I secretly slide more than his fair share of dinner onto his plate, hoping he won't notice. He really does look thinner.
I set our plates down in front of me as I slide onto a chair. I push Haymitch's plate across the table. He digs in. And I mean digs.
I almost sigh in relief; after reading that book, I thought I might have to force-feed him. But I've forgotten that he's past the difficult stages of withdrawal, and seems to be doing just fine. Still, I watch him for longer than is necessary, until I can't hold in my words any longer. "Have you even been eating?" I demand suddenly.
He looks up, a slight trace of amusement coloring his eyes.
"Figured I could stand to lose a few pounds," he replies.
"Haymitch!" I chide, chucking a pea at him with my fork.
"Hey!" he objects.
"I'm serious, you can't just not eat if I'm not here to make something for you!"
"I don't cook worth shit."
I make a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. "And mine is that much better?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says looking up from his full fork, "It is." I swear I see something glimmer in his eyes, but I ignore it. Instead, I knit my brow and go back to my peas. I finish first, and lean back in my chair to watch lazily as he eats. Finally, he scrapes the last bits from his plate and pushes it forward, slouching back in his chair.
We look at each other for a long minute before he says, "Why'd you come back."
He says it so flatly that it demands an answer.
I search my vocabulary for the right thing to say, but I just can't come up with the right thing so quick. Instead I settle for, "Had to make sure you were eating."
He looks like he doesn't quite believe me.
"Yeah."
I snatch the plates up and drop them in the sink.
"And it's a good thing I did, another day and you'd probably fall over dead," I say, turning to glance at him.
The words catch in my throat as I'm suddenly assaulted by a flash of images from a night at Haymitch's, of my couch-insomnia, of tearing up the stairs and rushing into his bedroom thinking he was dead, of checking his breathing, of leaning over him, my lips so close to his, of pressing them to his, of his kissing me back…
Something in my lower gut clenches and I can't help but glance at his lips. I want to shiver, but steel myself against it. I can't –
I see his brow wrinkle with some emotion I can't even begin to process before he clears his throat and says,
"You talk to Peeta recently?"
What? "No," the word shoots from my mouth like a harpoon, "and I'm not planning on it, either."
He sighs. It seems like he thinks I'm lying, or maybe he just wants to say more on the subject, but from the daggers I'm shooting at him with my eyes, he knows I'd stab him if he kept going.
I leave the dirty dishes in the sink and stalk into the living room. Despite my rush of animosity towards Haymitch for bringing Peeta up, I hang around for a while longer. Haymitch eventually turns up and takes his usual position in the living room, cozy in his dilapidated easy chair while I'm on the couch, watching a flickering screen as the post-meal shroud of sluggishness takes over. I'm barely even watching when a promo featuring Snow's putrid face amongst his libraries of books and fine art airs. It's his voice that makes me focus on the screen. He's going on about the Victory Tour, and I've seen this clip at least 20,000 times, and the Tour, it'd always seemed so far away before. This time it hits me like a cannon.
Shit. It's coming up. And fast. It's November now, and along with the changing of the seasons I can no longer ignore the fact that December is right around the corner, and with it, the required Tour.
"You'll get to see that in a month," Haymitch comments bitterly, watching Snow move stoically through museum-like corridors. Haymitch hates this stuff as much as I do, if not more. I'd expected him to be an ally during the Tour, but now I realize I'm still not so sure where we stand. So I don't respond.
"Though the artwork sure makes the place pop." I freeze up at his comment. No, Haymitch wouldn't…
"This ol' place could use some paintings, don't you think, sweetheart? Too bad all you can make is dresses."
I whip my head around to look at him. He's smirking at me. Smirking.
I make an incredulous noise at him from the back of my throat. I seriously can't take this anymore. So I push myself off couch and stride out of the house as fast as I can, making sure to slam the door behind me.
I do come back in another day, force myself to, despite the fact that I'm still feeling especially mutinous towards Haymitch for his endless allusions to Peeta last time.
Once again, I find him sitting in his kitchen. No newspaper this time. "You hungry?" I ask, again striding in and slinging my game bag onto the counter, unpacking it without sparing a glance at him.
"No," he answers. I turn to look at him in surprise, though I don't show it. What, is he cooking for himself now? I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Had a bowl of stew for lunch," he says. I say nothing.
"What?" He demands after a pregnant pause. I raise my shoulders. I don't know what you're harassing me about. "I didn't know if you were planning on coming back," he spits out. "You're not the most reliable, you know that, sweetheart?"
I deflate and start repacking my game bag. I stop when I hear his voice from behind me.
"Would've tasted better with some bread, though."
Come on. But I force myself to shrug, and my feet take me into the living room, to my spot on the sofa. Though it's all I want to do, I somehow feel like I can't leave him here, not like this. So here I am on the couch, not watching the screen as always, and after some amount of time, I find my hand running over the spot Haymitch used to occupy beside me. Occupied during that brief alternate universe, at least. When I recognize what I'm doing, a sadness creeps into my throat, and I stop.
"Isn't the bakery missing you?" his voice carries over to me from the doorway. I tense up in my seat, staring straight ahead at the screen.
"Can you stop bringing him up?" I mutter.
"Who, Bread Boy?" His disembodied voice plays at oblivious.
I don't respond.
"Lover Boy?"
I steam. Whenever he calls Peeta that, I'm taken right back into my first week of the Games, being coveted by the Careers and thinking Peeta was on their side; how Cato had him in a – But no. I won't let him take me there today.
"Shut up," I say, but it comes out as a horse whisper of sorts.
"The star-crossed lover from District Twel-"
"I'm serious," I say, louder this time, "shut up, Haymitch."
"Not until I get some reaction out of you, sweetheart."
Now I turn to look, no, turn to glare at the doorway. I find Haymitch, half in the shadows, half in the flickering orange light, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. My brow twists without my consent and I notice in passing that it's mirroring my stomach.
"What are you trying to do, huh?" I ask him, twisting my body around to better face him, bringing my foot up onto the couch. I'm barely concealing hysterics in my words.
His arms flap out to his sides. "I'm just trying to be a good mentor." He says it like he means it, but it's not good enough. Not tonight.
"No, I mean it, what are you trying to do?" I enunciate. "This, and fucking everybody needs love to survive? What was that load of bullshit about? Peeta? And now you're just throwing me at him again like we never even-" but I stop myself, terrified of what I was on the verge of saying, and restarted. "Is this some kind of sick mentor strategy of yours?"
I can't really see his face because he's half in the shadows, but he butts in and I can feel the scathing anger in his voice. "A strategy? No, it's not. I'm done playing games. And frankly, sweetheart, I could ask you the same question. So before you come in here again ready to lounge around like you used to belong, I want you to tell me why. And as far as I care, you can have your bread boy. Just stop coming here and telling me you care when you so obviously don't give a damn."
With that, he turned and stalked up the steps to his room, slamming the door behind him.
When my vision was tear-less enough to see again, I slipped out of the house in the dead of the night. Fat chance I had of sleeping, though.
As seen (way) above, your comments are my motivation for writing. So if you want to see more, I encourage you to drop a line! Since I'm in dat mood, chances are another update might happen soon(ish) if y'all are still interested. Thank you for your continued support, lovers!
-Lanks