Hours before sundown, Haymitch regrets giving away a bottle. He's recently restocked but the idea of not having every dram that he may need makes him tremble, an echo of past withdrawal tremors.
He can't determine how violent his thirst will be until it's happening, and all he can feel right now is his entire being yearning for the bottles in his cabinet. That they're put away - so disciplined of him - just reminds him of how okay he's been lately. Sure, he wasn't completely dry but compared to not even a month ago, when he couldn't help the kids like he was supposed to, it's about the soberest he's willingly been since the Quell.
Perhaps a sort of good day entails a full out miserable night; it is a good day - particularly for everyone else in his life.
Hazelle is enjoying a day off. Kicking her out took some patience and effort, and Haymitch honestly considers it an accomplishment. Once they modify her schedule tomorrow, she won't have to work as much and can stay home with her children, live a better life in Twelve.
After the hospital in Four called to specify the whole arrangement of sending in a doctor, which only took about fifteen minutes, Haymitch left for Katniss' house, where he sat and watched her and the boy smile at each other. They don't touch a lot, he's realized, since no one's forcing them to anymore. A year ago, he wouldn't have thought much of it, but those kids determining their own boundaries together softens him. They're such a hopeful sight after the past six months, scarred yet laughing, broken yet healing.
Outside, down the street, the neighbors stack firewood and drag out chairs for the bonfire. Hazelle's extended invitation to him was ridiculously in vain but nonetheless kind of sweet. The workers' progress has improved immensely, and Haymitch was part of that. After ignoring it for months, he's helped the reconstruction of his district along in under a month. But he's still here, not invited or uninvited, shut away because he chooses to yet also because there's not really a choice.
None of it matters, anyway. Haymitch was fooling himself trying to believe otherwise but he knows better than that. He can't turn his life around now. Though the rebellion abolished the Games and established a more just government, it didn't solve much of anything for him. Haymitch doesn't know what he was expecting - closure? some kind of reward after a life of misery? death? - but he's disappointed. If he can't even find fulfillment in himself or acceptance from others in a fucking revolution, why would working as some provisional intermediary do any better?
His thoughts overwhelming him, he finishes off a bottle. The drink numbs him to his core and outward. His mind stills just a bit more, and he welcomes it.
Haymitch, all too aware that his present thirst exceeds the limit he's set for himself, dares the balance to break - and it's then he realizes how out of control he is. He's searching for a reason, a cause, a trigger... but comes up short. Really, he just doesn't want to blame anyone but himself. Nobody should hide or be ashamed of their happiness around him. It's not their fault he's such an irreparable mess of a man.
Hazelle won't find much of a friend in him, he thinks grimly. Maybe she'll give up when he's beyond hungover tomorrow and she sees that there's nothing left of him that's any good. It's like the kids, how they keep mining away at him and discovering for themselves what little there really is. But their disappointment isn't much of a shock; they have nothing to compare to.
The boy Hazelle knew was irreversibly changed when he was reaped, as he'd go on to kill eight other children in the arena and weeks later hear his world end in three gunshots. Hazelle was there the evening of that disorderly firing squad, and she and his other friends stayed with him until they were ordered home, and she left without much convincing.
Haymitch didn't think about it then - he couldn't process much of anything at the time, frankly - but later he stayed awake at night wondering whether she and the others paused at the sight of the three bodies on their way home. He imagined they did, their faces bloodless but not slack in death, as they wondered and pitied and decided things that kept them away from him in the years afterward.
From the kitchen table, Haymitch doesn't dare look toward any of the pictures of the dead. Even though he sees them enough in his nightmares, they're never as whole or undisturbed as they are captured in the photos. Tonight he almost regrets excavating them from his cellar months ago. He can't bring himself to take them down, mostly because standing upright, let alone walking, seems damn near impossible. But their presence reminds him of his heavy remorse, and so they will visit Haymitch when sleep defeats him, and they won't look half as pleasant as their photograph selves.
Terror seizes him as he remembers what happens to them, to him, to others not yet dead during sleep. He'll just have to ease it the only way he knows how.
He opens up a full bottle already knowing it won't be enough.
With all the advancements in town, the workers deserve a day to relax. The bonfire is meant for them but considering almost everyone in Twelve is involved in the reconstruction, it's virtually a district gathering.
Rory told Hazelle that they were invited. Hazelle was hesitant to agree at first, remembering the firebombs, but her children didn't express any similar concerns, even after individual interrogation. Perhaps time - in sterile, underground District Thirteen, no less - has diminished any urge to falter at the sight of flames, the smell of dense smoke. She's uncertain whether it's been long enough for her.
She follows as Posy skips ahead of her down the street, her hair flying wildly behind her. Rory lags behind her a bit though Hazelle can sense his hesitant excitement. Lately, the busywork down at the site and the chores at home have been his only activity. Since he didn't join Vick and Aiden, who left earlier, he must not be so bored as to resort to younger company. Hazelle suspects more families will trickle in before fall. Rory can wait for friends his age but getting to know their neighbors better tonight might open him up more.
Hazelle walks empty-handed, having left Haymitch's party gift on her kitchen table. She decided last minute that she'll just sneak the bottle back into his cabinet sometime. The bottle of liquor would have felt absurd in her hand, and it couldn't go around to everyone anyway. Some could interpret it reproachfully, and she worried how it would reflect on Haymitch - and also herself.
As they near the glow of fire, set off to the side of the road between the Village and the site, Hazelle tries to discern the illuminated faces around it. A few familiar faces peer back at her and wave, and she smiles and waves back. Because it's summer, the evening is not yet so dark that she cannot recognize a group sitting off to the side, away from the fire - the Grants, Nathaniel... Twelve natives. She's not the only one who can't quite relax around a big roaring fire, then.
Greasy Sae isn't here, and Hazelle can't muster much guilt for her inward sigh of relief. The other day, Sae came to her with clothes and an apology for their exchange two weeks ago. She said she spoke out of turn, Hazelle agreed, and they left it at that. There was probably more that could've been said but Hazelle refused it. She wanted to hear from Gale. She wouldn't say a word until she heard from Gale. She barely knew what to think, let alone what to say about it.
Approaching Alice and Wilbur, Hazelle hears cheers and jeers alike away from the fire. In a show of victory, Vick throws a grubby handball onto the ground and does a little dance while Aiden and some other younger workers demand a rematch. "Go play with them," she says to Rory, the suggestive note in her tone nonnegotiable. He joins the team against Vick.
"One of the guys from Seven donated the ball," Wilbur tells her by way of a greeting. "He's over there by Thom."
"I know Ralph," says Hazelle, catching his eye accidentally and waving to him.
Posy asks, "Can I go play, Momma?" She tugs on Hazelle's hand, as if that will convince her.
"How about you stay by me tonight?" Frankly, Hazelle can't send her six-year-old daughter over to join such an aggressive game. She sees Glenn, who's three years older, among the others, but with two brothers, he's probably used to roughhousing and playing sports whereas Posy isn't. Even when Posy plays with her mindfully gentle brothers, Hazelle is watchful of her youngest.
Posy pouts. "Okay." At her daughter's disappointed tone, Hazelle squeezes her hand three times - each a syllable for I love you - and Posy's nose crinkles as she smiles and repeats the gesture four times: I love you, too.
Hazelle remembers her own father doing that whenever he thought she needed the reminder, and it's a gesture that her children now know from her. Sometimes Gale tried squeezing her hand six times and had to explain, in that adorable voice almost too husky for a child, that it was supposed to mean I love you, too, Momma. It never caught on. Her throat suddenly raw, Hazelle gives Posy's hand another comforting squeeze but it's also for herself.
"How have you been?" she asks Alice and Wilbur, sitting down beside them. Posy climbs into her lap. On the field, Thom Chadwick tackles another worker, and Hazelle clasps her hands across Posy's middle.
"Doing good," answers Wilbur. "I haven't seen you around much unless you're collecting or delivering."
Hazelle shrugs. "I try to keep busy."
"Well, I think you need a break as much as the rest of us," says Alice. Hazelle smiles at her. She knows Alice's concern about her being Haymitch's housekeeper again hasn't resolved but she's glad they've silently moved past it for now. She didn't want her plans to exchange what few friends she has here for one old friend.
The bonfire warming her from behind, Hazelle listens as they update her on their livestock, and joins in before they've worn out the topic of their children. Not much really happens out here in Twelve - it's always been like that, Hazelle muses - but parents always have a lot to say about their families.
From a far chair, Nathaniel listens as well, arms crossed and lips quirking fondly. Hazelle is about to include him in the conversation when she realizes that he's likely lost his family. Even if his family is back in Thirteen, Hazelle doesn't want to risk bringing up something too sensitive. Instead, she tries to divert talk of family to talk of construction - a subject he can entertain better than anyone here. She asks, "How's the town coming along, Nathaniel?"
"You can call me Nathan, you know." He chuckles. "You sound like my mother, always calling me by my full name."
Hazelle laughs apologetically. "Oh, I'm sorry! How's the town coming along, Nathan?" With her newfound knowledge of his kin, she searches for any resemblance to Haymitch. They don't quite look alike but there are similarities besides their shared Seam coloring.
Nathan shrugs good-naturedly. "Well enough. We've started multiple projects with the new teams."
"The support has definitely sped things along. Who knew districts working together was such a great idea?"
As the adults chuckle, Posy looks around, confused. "It is a good idea. Right, Momma?"
"Yes, Posy."
"Is that what Gale's doing, helping other places?" Hazelle nods with a mmhm, believing that at least is still true, and Posy declares, "That's good."
"It is," she replies, twirling a lock of her daughter's hair and holding it under her little nose like a mustache. Posy swats her hand away with a giggle. Because she's turned toward Hazelle, her eyes reflect the flames behind them. Hazelle's breathe catches at the sight but then Posy turns away and she registers the absurdity of her alarm. Only firewood is burning, Hazelle tells herself, and it's meant to be burnt - unlike clapboard houses or people, however embedded with coal dust either were.
Nathan leans forward in his seat. "I bet you're pretty smart, Posy."
"Sure am!" She grins while everyone laughs. Hazelle joins in, amused yet attentive that Posy doesn't start misbehaving under all this attention.
A short, black-haired woman walks over from the other chairs encircling the fire. "Not that you'd know what laughter sounds like anymore, Ode," she calls over her shoulder, presumably to Odin Rosenberg, the head carpenter.
"Hi, Dana," says Hazelle as the woman takes a seat next to her. Dana Renner and her crew connected the phone lines to the site. Hazelle met her when she welcomed all of the new workers at the train station.
"The talk over there getting boring?" Wilbur nods toward the bonfire.
Dana sighs, "Well, most of the Capitol volunteers decided not to show - no surprise; they keep to themselves - so it's me and the guys and the Three and Seven groups. We all talk to each other enough already, living and working together. Did you know we may be getting some more rain tonight? I do - because we've brought that up ten times over there. We can't even talk about the weather anymore." She leans back, crossing her legs. "I'm ready for some new company."
"We're probably not much better, gushing over our kids," Hazelle jokes.
Dana shrugs, smiling, her dark eyes settling on Posy. "Not at all a bad topic. It would have bored me to death before the war but I appreciate family talk now."
They grow livelier as more stories are exchanged, remembered, and either supplemented or contested. The bigger group around the fire takes interest. They open the circle to Hazelle and the others, who reposition their chairs to join them without getting too close to the bonfire. The volunteers then share their own stories. Hazelle is still amazed whenever she learns about life in other districts, how they were all under the Capitol's control but to various degrees, becoming different people from it. Nathan appears interested as well, asking questions and offering comparisons to life in Twelve.
Dana finishes telling them about the time her toddler nephew followed a Peacekeeper on patrol amidst some whooping. They all turn to see those in the handball game have begun to disperse, the game over.
"We won - twice," Vick brags to Hazelle as he, Aiden, and Rory make their way over to the chairs by the fire. Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Rory pushes him, and Hazelle startles with the reflex to save Vick from falling into the flames - but he stumbles several feet from it. Still, she reminds them to be careful, which really means don't get too close, we've seen enough burning people for a lifetime. They humor her with somber nods.
Hazelle then notices the sharp contrast of the fire against the night sky. She's stayed longer than she intended, and it's probably past Posy's bedtime. No wonder Posy has been so quiet in her lap.
With some goodbyes, some polite evasions as to whether she'll return, and a command that Rory and Vick don't stay out too late, Hazelle carries Posy back to the house. They enter as the telephone is in mid-ring. For some reason, Hazelle wonders who it could be. No one comes to mind; her mind is tired, filled with stories.
The call ends and, after a moment, begins again.
As she tries to hustle Posy upstairs, her daughter hops around at the base of the stairwell, suddenly wide awake. "Momma, answer it! It could be Gale!"