Chapter 5- Scared

Its late in the evening when Buttercup wakes me from a restless nap, in which I was floating in and out of consciousness. He lets out an angry mmrow and sits on the floor, eyes narrowed. "What?" I demand.

Its only then that I hear the knock at my door. Loud. Heavy. I haul myself out of the tangled sheets, dragging myself down the stairs to the door before wrenching it open irritably.

My mood dampens considerably as I register who it is.

I move to slam the door in Haymitch's face, but he shoots out a hand and grasps the door, stopping it. "May I come in, sweetheart?" His voice is mocking, but its futile to fight him when he's obviously in a better condition than I am, even as a drunk.

"Go away, Haymitch." I'm surprised at the venom I manage in my voice despite how tired I am. But it does not have the desired effect as Haymitch shuts the door behind him and swaggers over to the couch, dropping himself down with a huff.

He watches as I sit across from him on the coffee table, then says, "As welcoming as ever."

"After that stunt you pulled at the train station, can you blame me," I retort.

"You really thought we were going to go pick up some more alcohol from the Capitol? I can buy all the booze I want at the Hob now that there's tons of merchants moving to 12," he says, chuckling to himself.

"Go screw your-"

"Sweetheart, you need this." The urgency in his voice stops me, but it doesn't extinguish the anger I still feel towards him.

"What exactly do I need, Haymitch," I hiss. "To ruin his life again?"

"You didn't ruin his life, sweetheart. The boy had it coming when he announced to the world that he loved you on television," he says flatly. "Can't you see that he still does?"

He's partially right, but I refuse to let him know that. "So the hijacking wasn't my fault? They did that to him because of me! They wanted me dead! So they used him!"

Haymitch gives me a hard look. "But he's not ruined, sweetheart. And if you didn't run off right when he got back to 12, you would have realized that."

I shoot him a deadly glare, but he just guffaws rudely. "I never thought I'd see the day Katniss Everdeen was scared."

"I'm not scared," I protest, but we both fall silent, letting it sink in.

Damn him. Haymitch. How can he always see the things I'm not aware of, then present them to me as if they were obvious?

I am scared. But not for myself. For Peeta. After everything we've been through, I've always been more worried for his safety than for myself. And to be completely honest, he's suffered maybe more than I have. He was just as responsible for murders and deaths as I was- Cato, the morphling who sacrificed herself for him in the Quell, Finnick, the men in our District 13 squad. He lost family as well- his brothers, his mother and father. He was tortured endlessly by the Capitol. He lost his memory, replaced with Tracker Jacker venom.

With a pang, I realized that I was the only one he had left. The only one besides Haymitch and Johanna that has been through it all.

And I pushed him away.

I curse myself. I should never have been so insensitive. I still have my mother. I was safe in 13 while he was a prisoner, tortured and forced against his will to fight us.

Haymitch pushes himself up off the couch and stands, moving to where I sit, hunched on the table. He crouches so he can make eye contact with me. Gray Seam eyes meeting. I blink, feeling my anger evaporate and guilt threaten to spill over.

And as Haymitch opens his arms, I throw myself into them and start crying. Its simply not fair. I never wanted all of this. Haymitch just holds me as I curse the world, curse the rebellion, curse the Capitol for putting Prim's name in the Reaping ball, curse the Quell.

When I finally pull away, sniffling and wiping my red-rimmed eyes with my fist, he looks at me with sympathy. "I'm sorry," I say.

"We have nothing to be sorry for," Haymitch says, grasping my arms.

"I know."

"Its the Capitol. But they're gone."

"I know," I repeat, my voice bleak.

"But its not too late for us to move on." He gets to his feet and helps me up. "The boy is baking bread for supper. Its almost 9. And I need some food in my gut to temper the alcohol."

"You can't just live off of bread, Haymitch," I sniffle, but his lips tilt up in a smirk.

"No, but its a good place to start, sweetheart."