Even after he relaxes from the terror upon waking, Haymitch has to read his bedside clock twice; he doesn't believe the time at first glance. He sits up, pressing his palms into his eyelids in a hopeless attempt to relieve the familiar throbbing ache behind them. Giving up, he considers the pale light filtering through his window curtains. The clock's right, then: half past six.
He's not used to waking up this early. He remembers having to for school, and even then not on his own. Sometimes his mother would let Cory jump on him. The memory of his younger brother laughing and shaking him - Haymitch pushes it away, as he would Cory.
In District Thirteen, his schedule commenced at seven thirty, and so he woke up about fifteen minutes beforehand to shower, dress, and mentally prepare himself for the mindless bullshit in Command. Unlike the other men, Haymitch didn't have to shave, the past Capitol treatment slowing his facial hair growth considerably. He shaved the night before the Reaping for the Third Quell and then again in the Capitol for Katniss' trial, and by then it had only been heavy stubble. It saved him a lot of time to pull himself together after a long night of fitful rest. The set bedtime there had been something of an ordeal but after his solitary detox in the hospital, Haymitch didn't bother complaining.
His sleeping pattern was the worst while mentoring. Whenever his tributes were still in, he barely slept a few hours at all, hopeless determination and black coffee keeping him upright. That was particularly exhausting during the kids' Games, where he was moderately sober and on duty through the whole damn thing - though he'd only felt fierce pride at the time.
On a very bad night, without any responsibility, his stupor can last until the next evening. Otherwise, he's up and about by late morning at the earliest. Yesterday wasn't a bad day, but it wasn't great either; he drank at the usual rate after completing his work for the day.
Of course, work has challenged his usual routine, which explains his early rising today. He's honestly had to schedule drinking around answering calls and visiting the construction site. He goes along with Peeta, delivering bread orders, until they end in town, where Haymitch can inspect the progress and talk with the workers there. When he gets home, he directs any of the district's needs to his contacts and negotiates on their behalf. After that, he can drink - but by then, it's a nightcap.
Haymitch peels off the blankets and slides out of bed. Trudging into the bathroom, he scratches at his chin, decides to shave the bristle there.
As warm water from the shower beats against his back, Haymitch mentally outlines his objectives for today and remembers that District Twelve will have a doctor soon. How nobody has died yet with only first-aid supplies on hand is beyond him. Haymitch is expecting a call today for the details. Initially, his only candidates were the doctors who treated the kids in either the Capitol or Thirteen, and he doesn't particularly like any of them so he contacted Verbena Everdeen, who works at the new hospital in Four.
It's tense between him and Verbena. She'd left her daughter in his care in the Capitol, and while he understood her circumstances enough that he couldn't blame her, he empathized with Katniss too well to not resent her for it. Katniss needed her mother last winter more than she needed him or even the boy. She still does, really - but at least now they call each other.
Getting dressed, Haymitch notices the full hamper. Hazelle won't be here for a few hours, and he's got time to kill, so he carries the hamper downstairs to the laundry room.
Filling the washing machine, he smiles a little as he remembers he and his family's astonishment toward the thing. They were so surprised at how easy it was to operate, such an upgrade from a washboard, a tub, and lye soap. The other machine, the dryer, is a step up from a clothesline, where clothes could be stolen or swept away by wind. Knowing this, Haymitch had let Hazelle wash her own family's clothes at his house. She probably didn't know how to use these machines at first, either, but she never asked for his help.
As Haymitch waits for the wash and for the call from the hospital, he sits in the living room with a drink. He doesn't really need one now but figures he will soon. Switching on the television, Haymitch discovers why Plutarch hasn't been among his phone calls lately. A commercial for a new show about an indiscriminate post-war village promises wacky antics and heartwarming themes about family, community, and inner-strength. It has Plutarch written all over it. Haymitch remembers him offering Katniss a role in some singing program after her verdict. Plutarch must have regrouped once he realized she'd never reply, and now he's presenting to the nation a show on how to live when said nation is in shambles.
Haymitch rolls his eyes and switches to the news channel, reconsidering his unopened drink. The news is only another reminder, with reports of the government scrambling to piece the country back together between weather updates. There are more storms approaching the eastern region, and President Paylor is calling for a constitutional conference in two weeks, for the Hunger Games anniversary. Haymitch suspects he will hear from Plutarch about this again soon.
Watching the new government play out on screen, Haymitch remembers Sae's call for a trial. She only knows a small part of it all - but Haymitch doubts he knows of everything that went into winning the war himself. Maybe even Paylor doesn't. He wonders whether passing such verdicts would set the pace to dismantle everything all over again. But there are right things to do and there are smart things to do, Haymitch supposes. While the right thing to do is to hold everyone accountable, the smarter route is to move beyond it and survive. Somewhere in that, he can see the same mentality that kept the Hunger Games on air for decades.
It's not lost on him that the likes of Plutarch Heavensbee - who not only bypassed the war tribunals, but attended every single one - could've prevailed either which way.
Frankly, if it wasn't for Plutarch and his damn offer, Haymitch could drink all he wanted without risk of botching any consults that could succor Twelve. That's reason enough to want the man behind bars.
But with that thought, Haymitch remembers the time again. It's the earliest he's ever been voluntarily awake and sober in a while. It feels normal.
Leaning his head back on the couch, considering the ceiling impassively, he mutters to himself, "I'm thinking too much." He shuts off the television and leaves his drink in the living room, then opens a study window to the backyard in case the phone rings.
Outside, the scattered gaggle raise their necks as if standing on their tiptoes as they notice him approach. Haymitch holds out a stale heel of bread, and he still forgets how loud and abrasive geese sound when they honk in reply. "Easy, it's just a snack."
As he crumbles and scatters the bread, Haymitch hears some neighbors talking and moving about. Nathan may be among them, heading for the site.
Haymitch wonders what his cousin's life was like before the war. He appears to be without family - maybe they didn't survive the evacuation? Was he married? Did he have kids, giving Haymitch younger relatives to worry about? Of course, he worried for all the children in District Twelve.
"The book helped," he tells Nisskat, also known as the only one that's tried to attack him, thus the inverted name. "But it didn't save them."
The goose continues to bob and shift around for food, and Haymitch realizes he's being really pathetic.
When he heads back into the house, it's not even eight yet. He's supposed to go over to Katniss' house for breakfast at ten.
Haymitch considers calling Johanna or Annie but decides against it, one reason being he shouldn't busy the line while he's waiting for a call. Remembering the mail system, he writes two short letters at his desk instead, asking how they've been and inviting them to call or even visit here. Haymitch feels guilty for not trying to contact them beforehand but he didn't want to bother them. He also didn't have much to say, and now he does. He sets the letters aside to drop off at the train station later.
After changing the laundry and adding bedclothes to the washer, it's still only eight o'clock. He sighs and opens the damn bottle.
When Hazelle arrives at the house, Haymitch is sitting in the living room with a bottle in hand and the television on mute.
"You're up early," she comments, retrieving a broom from the pantry.
Haymitch makes a noncommittal noise around the bottle.
Since her conversation with Peeta two days ago, Hazelle has been less forward with Haymitch. And since he's been leaving for the morning until afternoon, as Hazelle is finishing up for the day or has already left, it's been easy to keep her distance - as usual, really.
Haymitch turns toward her, and Hazelle notices that he has showered and shaved. "You can take the day off," he says from the couch.
Hazelle sweeps the kitchen floor, her brow creased. "I need to do the laundry."
"Already did that."
She glances up with mild surprise. "Well, thanks. But I still need to mop the floors and prepare lunch and varnish the banister." That's only a portion of her mental list.
"I can make myself lunch. And who cares about the bannister?"
"I do; I have to clean something." She kneels to lay the dust pan on the floor, and her knees make a snapping sound, an unkind reminder of her age.
"You're aware I don't actually keep track of that, right? I never have. You could come here, spit on the floor, and leave, and I'd still pay you for the day."
Heat rushes to Hazelle's face, and she isn't certain whether it is more from anger or embarrassment. "So this is just charity," she states. She would've accepted the money if she desperately needed it - she doesn't - but it aggravates her that she's working hard yet apparently being an annoyance to him for pay that she'd receive anyway.
"Let's keep in mind you employed yourself. I can do whatever the hell I want. Besides, it's the least I can do." The frankness of his words hits Hazelle in the stomach as she stands. She falters both in mind and movement, though the latter is thankfully subtler.
"What do you mean?"
Haymitch shrugs as he tries to balance his bottle on the armrest. "You shouldn't worry about not having enough while I'm around."
Despite the generosity of his sentiment, it's not much of a comfort. Hazelle glowers, thinking him condescending. "I've spent my whole life worrying about that. Times like now are stressful for people who need to work, who don't have more than enough money. Don't think you alone control whether I can get by because you don't."
Haymitch considers her with pity but it isn't as lofty as Hazelle wishes it to be. She wants to feel rightfully angry with him. She knows it's not fair - he's paid her well and twice didn't turn her away - but she bristles nonetheless.
"How far can mending get you, Hazelle?" he asks, and there it is.
"Why do you care all of a sudden?" she demands, her voice raising with each word. "Why now?"
He rises from the couch and steps up to her. His gait is steady, sober. "I could ask you the same question."
Waiting with bated breath, Hazelle looks down at the floor. She doesn't know what she expects - a discharge, maybe. But Haymitch doesn't continue, doesn't move. He stands there and waits for her as well. She chances a glance up. He's frowning at her like she is probably frowning at him, neither of them quite understanding the other.
"We used to be friends," she whispers before she realizes - no, Hazelle knows exactly what she's doing. She's hidden behind excuses long enough.
Haymitch raises his brow in genuine shock but immediately lowers it into a scowl. "Yeah, used to be. What's that got to do with shit?"
You know, Hazelle thinks, and by his carefully guarded expression - the one she's seen on television for years - he must. "It has to matter for something. You've still helped me since then - so I want to help you now, too."
He's close enough that she can see his jaw clench, his throat swallow. After a moment of silent tension, his chest hitches with a single humorless laugh. "By cleaning my house? Whatever you think you're doing besides that, you're not. You can't. You don't know anything about me, Hazelle."
"That's what I want to set straight," she tells him. "I owe you that much."
"You," Haymitch starts, his voice low, stepping closer to her, "don't owe me a damn thing. All right?"
Hazelle lifts her chin. "You didn't turn me away even after I-" At his warning look, she doesn't press this wound. "That's a mighty debt, Haymitch."
He rolls his eyes and looks over at the television. It seems to capture his attention, but when a commercial starts, he still doesn't face her as he says, "What kind of a deal is that? I help you out and in exchange, you're my friend?" He grimaces at the thought.
"Not like you can't refuse all of this outright. But if you do, you can't help me anymore," she says, shaking her head. "I won't let you."
She won't have anything else to give, then. Not even an apology would suffice; it seems useless and hollow to apologize on behalf of her fifteen-year-old self's fear. And while Hazelle may have felt conflicted and heartbroken about her decision to leave, she doesn't regret it - not when it was implied she would've been killed in vain otherwise. She very much regrets that it had to happen. But she can't apologize for that, either; she's not President Snow.
With withered exasperation, Haymitch replies, "No, I won't refuse. I know how much an unresolved debt rankles. And I'm not firing you if that's what you mean. It's just - you've already done a lot for me. So let's call it even now."
At this, Hazelle smiles sadly. "You said yourself that cleaning your house wasn't enough." Haymitch's face falls, and he begins to hastily express gratitude for her efforts but she interrupts him. "I want to try. Then we'll call it even."
He tilts his head in reluctant deliberation. "Just... don't feel too obligated. If you end up hating me, by all means, we can be square and never speak to each other again. But I'll try not to make that appealing. Okay?"
"That's all I'm asking for." Hazelle pulls the broom upright again, and Haymitch frowns at it and then at her just as the telephone rings. His head rolls back with his eyes.
"And that would be the hospital," he mutters more to himself than her. "I have to answer that." Waving his hand at the door, he orders, "Go home," then leaves for the study.
Hazelle turns to sweep the foyer instead, Haymitch's instruction stubbornly ignored. He must hear her busying herself around the house but his phone call keeps him from stopping her.
She's about to finish the laundry that it turns out Haymitch only started when he clears his throat behind her. "What you said before, about controlling whether you have a job - well, I want to make sure you know I'd never hold it over your head in some way."
"I know," she says, turning away from the dryer. "It's nothing personal, Haymitch. I feel better this way - more secure, I guess. It wasn't meant to be kept a secret from you or anything. I only figured it wasn't going to be an issue."
"Not an issue. It's wise, really," he admits with a shrug. "Guess I've forgotten about those kinds of concerns."
"It's all right." Hazelle quirks her brows in wry understanding. "Life in the Seam ain't always the happiest memories to retain."
"Well, life out of it wasn't the best tradeoff." There's an edge in his voice but he adds, softer, "Not much of a contest, though. Both were awful in their own ways."
Hazelle is tempted to ask further but doesn't. It's none of her business, especially when they aren't quite friends yet.
"Now about your day off," he starts, making Hazelle laugh a little. "Really, just take it. I'll finish the damn laundry. We'll go over your schedule and rate and all that tomorrow."
"Fine," says Hazelle, after a moment of deliberation. She can wait until tomorrow. She remembers her plans until then. "You know, there's a bonfire tonight. I don't intend on staying long myself - but you should come by," she offers.
Haymitch coughs dryly. "Yeah, right, I'm sure I'd be very welcome there." Hazelle tries to raise a protest to this but he shakes his head. "Whatever you're asking of me ain't extended to the rest of them."
Hazelle wants to convince him otherwise but the more she thinks about it, the more she regrets bringing it up.
He passes by her and retrieves a tall bottle from the kitchen cabinet, then holds it out to her. "A donation to the district."
Hazelle takes the bottle with caution. "They'll think I stole this."
"See, you could make off with anything except that," he reminds her but he's smirking. "Have fun."