Her breath caught in her throat, Hazelle unlatches the phone and brings it to her ear. When she says, "Hello?" she realizes how odd it is, that she can talk on this telephone anytime - or rather, that she even owns a telephone, that she owns a house with a telephone. She should be so grateful that Gale pulled some strings, having Thirteen send her and the kids away with supplies and an assigned living space.
She remembers this as she waits for a response but it doesn't help in the way she'd like.
"Hey, is everything all right?" His casual tone worsens the severity of her answer to this question.
"Gale." Hazelle grips the phone tighter. She isn't prepared for this. "I - we need to talk."
"I'm assuming that was why I had a bunch of notes waiting on my desk when I got back from the Capitol," he says, unaware of Hazelle's inability to fully exhale.
"You were in the Capitol? You didn't tell me-" The last time he was in the Capitol, it was winter and he was fighting alongside Katniss in that special unit. She'd almost lost him then.
"Mom, it's just work stuff." Gale sounds like a different man to Hazelle, despite - or because of - how normal he seems. "So what did you need?"
"I - I need to tuck Posy in first. Can you wait a moment?" He says he can, and so Hazelle places the phone on top of the box, pauses to make sure it will stay, and turns to Posy, who has been waiting beside her expectantly. "Let's get you to bed."
"I can't talk to Gale?" Posy frowns, and Hazelle sighs inwardly.
"Next time, baby. It's late." Her daughter's tearful disappointment breaks her heart but Hazelle just can't handle sibling pleasantries right now, and the need to talk with Gale alone outweighs any guilt toward Posy.
Tugging up the blanket and kissing her daughter's brow goodnight is a nice, albeit brief, distraction. Hazelle knows respites aren't meant to last but she wishes they could.
She returns to the telephone. "All right, she's in bed. The boys are at a bonfire."
"A bonfire in District Twelve?"
"It actually went pretty well. I'm still stunned, too," admits Hazelle with a breathy laugh. She mentally scolds herself for stalling but then realizes a slow approach is probably the best way to handle this. She hates that she has to hedge toward her own son like he's some wounded animal.
"Well, great. Everything's going all right, then?"
"For the most part, it is, yes," Hazelle replies, then winces. Coward.
"I'm glad. Anyway, your call? I'm sorry I couldn't answer back right away."
"It's fine," she lies. She waited more than a week for a reply, and now that Gale is finally complying, she wishes he would just hang up and never call again. The honesty of that thought catches her by surprise, and she shakes it away, afraid that it will manifest within her like mold. She loves her son.
She loves her son. And she can't lose him.
Hazelle straightens and continues, "Gale, I've been trying to reach you because Rory came to me upset about something you told him. About," she swallows hard, "about Katniss. And he thinks it has something to do with the parachute bombs. And before you tell me he's wrong to assume such a thing - I know it wasn't the Capitol, Gale."
For a moment, there's only fuzzy silence on the other end of the line. Then Gale asks, his voice hard as stone, "Did you tell him?"
It takes her breath away, how he doesn't refute it.
But she quickly finds her voice because she has to do something about all of this. "No. He doesn't know, and we're going to keep it that way. But you told him that you hurt Katniss, then shoved all this pressure and responsibility onto him, telling him to watch over her-"
"I needed his help, I wasn't trying to scare him-"
"Well, you did." She folds her free arm across her chest, as if to brace her heartbeat. "I know you took on a lot at his age. But that doesn't mean he can handle whatever you throw at him, especially not something like this."
"You're right, it doesn't. It wasn't a good idea," he admits.
"You couldn't think of that before? You told him what you were up to in Special Weaponry, and then he saw it end the war and kill someone we all loved. Of course he'd assume the worst when you mention hurting Katniss."
"Well, he wasn't that far off, was he?" he retorts bitterly.
"Gale." Her voice is quiet yet firm. "Promise me you'll apologize to Rory. I've been smoothing over what I can - for his sake. He shouldn't have those kind of thoughts in his head."
"I will," he says. "I didn't think he'd tie it all together. That's on me, though, not him." He pauses. "There's another part to this call that's not about Rory."
Her nose starts to smart. "Gale, I don't even know what to say. Please, just come home and maybe we can - we can-"
"I'm sorry, Mom, but I can't."
"You and Katniss can work this out, I know it. You're such good friends." The pain they both must be in, Hazelle cannot imagine. But they've been through too much together, and she also can't imagine them being apart forever.
"Not anymore." Her heart starts at this, and Gale clears his throat. "But I still needed to know that she was okay. So I entrusted Rory with that. But he wanted to understand why I couldn't just visit or ask her myself. Now he does - enough, at least."
"You won't visit us?" This stops her short. He doesn't answer. She shakes her head, not comprehending. "Why? Why won't you-"
"Because she's there!" The silence between them stretches farther than the distance between Two and Twelve. Hazelle hears a long, defeated sigh on the other end, and it does but doesn't sound like Gale. "Look, when I took this job... the distance wasn't a drawback. You didn't want to follow me, and that's fine. I wouldn't want to drag you all here if you wanted to go home instead. But I can't go back to Twelve. I won't. Mom, please, you need to understand-"
"I'm trying." Her voice cracks, and she squeezes her eyes shut, presses her forehead to the wall beside the phone box.
"You know now I'm not welcome there."
"Baby, please come home." Her voice is loud to her against the wall. The tears welling in her eyes spill down her cheeks. She hasn't cried in so long, not since the news that the entire Star Squad 451 had been killed in action, when she thought she'd lost him forever. Her son is alive but now he's breaking her heart.
"I tried to avoid upsetting you. But I didn't want... I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry." Her hand pressed to her mouth, Hazelle can't reply, can't tell him that it's okay when it's not or that it's not okay but maybe it will be someday. "Please remember everything I've done was to protect you, including this."
"By killing children?" cries Hazelle. "Gale, that's not protecting anyone."
"I didn't know that would happen! That wasn't the bombs' original purpose. It was for other soldiers and medics-"
"Medics like Prim!" she interjects.
"Not our medics, Mom, the Capitol's - the enemy's medics. But nobody on the ground knew that the Capitol children were the initial target so our own people rushed in. Prim got caught in the blast, yeah, I know. I've thought about that every damn day. But I did not plan that. Beetee and I never even cleared them for use."
"But they would have been used against unarmed medics like Prim." It's not a question; they both know the answer.
After long seconds, Gale asks, a bite in his tone, "Am I the only one who saw kids die year after year or miners work themselves to death like slaves - or blown to bits? Our home bombed to hell in minutes?" Hazelle winces as his words hit their target. "This wasn't the worst we could do to them."
"That doesn't make it okay," she says, imploring him to understand. Though she can't negate his actions or her own shameful blindness now.
How could I not see this coming? she half-seethes, half-laments to herself. All that time Gale spent in Special Weaponry, Hazelle should have known that he was inventing the bombs that would end the war. He was making weapons, after all. And that didn't bother her under the assumption they'd be used against faceless Peacekeepers. Medics on both sides wore separate uniforms for a reason, and the rebels were fighting against the side that razed districts and bombed hospitals and reaped children.
But Hazelle knows her son. She knows he fought for liberty and justice - and she should've known long before now that he'd see the fire bombs and the bombed-out hospital and the Hunger Games... and want retribution, too.
She swallows back the bile in her throat. She should've known.
Instead, she was just glad to see the war effort light up his haunted eyes and give his mind something to do other than remember their home burning. But he was still thinking of fire, and she should've-
"Well, it happened," says Gale, "and it ended the war the right way so nobody's bothering to dispute it. I'm sure there's some who would want us hanged if they found out but last time I checked, it's not public knowledge."
Incredulous, Hazelle wonders at what all her son has gotten himself into. She finds her resolve in this - because she won't lose him. She won't be the judge or the jury; she'll be his mother.
With a glance toward the door, Hazelle wipes away the last of her tears and says, "Greasy Sae knows about the parachutes, too. She pretty much told me, except I didn't realize until Rory brought up your designs."
"Katniss must have said something to her. It doesn't seem like her but, well, I'm hardly the judge of that anymore. Anyone else?"
"Not that I've heard."
"We should keep it that way." She hears him sigh. "It was careless, telling him about the designs. At the time, I was mad at Katniss for being so opposed to them, and I wanted someone to understand. Rory was so interested, I thought he'd join the military one day, too. But I shouldn't have said anything." He hesitates. "I hate that I made you cry."
Hazelle is no longer thinking of exploding parachutes, the children shivering in their nightclothes, or the stunned reporters. "Remember how you'd challenge me and your dad after we told you we loved you? As if you were skeptical that we'd love you no matter what, or perhaps you just wanted to get a rise out of your dad."
Gale chuckles a little at the memory. "He'd get so frustrated."
A half-smile ghosts her lips. "You were so young, not even aware of the Games yet, I think. The worst thing you could think of that might make us stop loving you was hurting your brothers."
She hears Gale huff in dry understanding. "Has anything changed?"
"Our answer hasn't," Hazelle replies, knowing Gale will understand; she and Rohan, exasperated with their son's questioning, would remind him that they'd be disappointed in him if he ever did something bad - but they would still love him.
They are both quiet for another moment until Gale says, "Love you, too." He hangs up before Hazelle does.
The sound of the disconnection is not a comfort to Hazelle - nothing could be right now - but she listens to the dial tone. When she hears the boys come inside, she hangs up the phone as if the conversation has just ended. She meets them in the kitchen.
"Your sister is asleep," she says, "and I'm going back to the bonfire. Both of you should shower before heading to bed." Neither of them argues this. As they head upstairs, Hazelle takes the bottle of liquor off the table and leaves.
Her feet carry her down the road but not all the way to the bonfire.
He recognizes the bottle first. Through the dense haze of inebriation, Haymitch reaches for it thinking it's the one he's still working on.
But then he notices the hand, arm, shoulder, neck, face attached to the liquor bottle, and he stills.
It takes Haymitch a few moments to finally understand her presence. When he does, he laughs, "Please don't tell me you're here for a drink." The last time someone came to him for a drink, all of his liquor was dumped out the next morning. Haymitch would rather not repeat the past.
Hazelle sets the bottle onto the table, within his reach if he had better balance. "No. The opposite, actually. I'm returning this before I down it whole," she explains, and while her tone is frank, her expression is troubled.
"How responsible," he admires sarcastically. "Shouldn't that have gone to our neighbors?"
She raises a brow as well as the bottle. "You want me to run this over to them now instead?"
"No, no. I didn't really care whether they got some of it," he lies. So much for contributing to the community, he thinks with an inward sigh. "Didn't think they had such refined taste."
She looks away, somewhat guiltily. "I didn't give it to them."
"Oh." Haymitch scratches the nape of his neck absently. "Why's that?" She shifts her feet, shrugs. "Point taken. Well, you can just bring that over here and leave."
When Hazelle frowns at him, unmoving, Haymitch repeats himself, slower. He's done this countless times for people due to his accent or his slurred speech or both. Even so, he's not very patient. "Bring it here and leave."
Instead, she walks past him and returns the bottle to the cabinet. "You can go the rest of the night without missing this."
"Maybe I've missed it too much," he counters with a laugh, spreading his hands out in casual suggestion. The bottle he's waving in his one hand is heavy, and the room tilts. He returns his arms to resting on the table. "So you're here to confess something, right?"
Hazelle whips her head toward him, eyes wide with alarm. "What?"
Haymitch clicks his tongue in derision. "You didn't come here just to give back a bottle. Nobody visits me this late at night unless they need to talk about something. Sometimes I'm even helpful." He rolls a finger at her while taking another drink. "Have at it," he rasps.
But she just seems aghast. Perhaps he was too blunt or she figured he wasn't sharp enough to see through this little visit, which is kind of insulting since it's obvious there's another motive at hand. Haymitch is about to demand an explanation when Hazelle's composure slips and falls hard. While he may be on the verge of a blackout, even Haymitch can see her struggle to regain that steady fortitude.
"Are you-?" he starts dumbly, embarrassed for her.
"Fine. Yes, I'm fine," Hazelle answers for both of them, brushing her thumb underneath her eye. She tries to stand taller but she looks crooked to Haymitch.
"Whatever." He takes another swig, then coughs. He can't feel the dry burn of this shit much anymore but it's definitely there. "You said you weren't going to drink, and apparently you're fine, so there's nothing I can do for you."
As Hazelle notices his drunken drawl again with a reserved frown, she steps forward. "I'll help you to the couch. Your bed upstairs ain't an option tonight."
"Why?" he asks, swallowing a belch.
"Well, you're not the lightest and I'm not the strongest."
With a withering look, Haymitch clarifies, "Why would you need to help me anywhere?"
"That's what friends do." He can't tell whether she's serious - he'd rather she wasn't.
"Oh, of course," he snarls, then shuts up and looks away before he can say something damning. Vaguely aware of their conversation that morning, he remembers promising her that he'd try. That may be another thing he has no control over now.
Suddenly, a cool hand touches his forehead, and Haymitch flinches away from it, from... Hazelle, who sighs as she suggests that he should really get some rest.
Fuck off is what he would say to anyone else if he was sober. But he isn't sober and right now he doesn't care who the hell Hazelle Hawthorne is, so he tells her to fuck off.
Remarkably, he isn't slapped across the face. Instead, Hazelle tells him, "You're way too drunk. You need to sleep."
"Doesn't mean I can, damn it. I'm not ready." He senses the dreadful approach of sleep but he won't yield until he's as numb as possible. Especially tonight, he doesn't want to face the hellish things waiting for him there.
"Haymitch, please." She sounds desperate - hopeless, really - as she comes around the table to where he sits. She tries to help him out of his chair but he stiffens, becoming deadweight. He doubts that she's really here for him. Something's wrong in her life, and now she wants to intrude on his.
Well, Haymitch muses, she's more than twenty years too late.
"You know what? No." He slams his bottle down so hard even he is surprised it doesn't crack. "You don't get to do this. You don't have any fucking right to control my life when you were dead set on leaving it when I did need you."
Having sprung back from his outburst, Hazelle shakes her head, her brow furrowed. "No, Haymitch, this ain't about that. You just need to lie down so that-" she starts, but he ignores her, his thoughts lagging to his mouth.
"I needed you then, and you just left! All of you did, and I..." He clears his throat, looking away for a moment. When he meets her eyes again, his face is as hard and composed as it can be in its slackened state. "I thought it would be okay because I understood why you had to. I understand even better now. But that doesn't change the fact that you weren't there when you should have been, to hell with Snow. You can't just pretend whatever you're planning to do - fix me? be my pal? - will matter at all now that you're safe."
For a second, Hazelle just stands there with her mouth agape. He's taken aback when she sputters, "If you think you understand my situation so well, then why didn't you try to do anything? You knew I was afraid! We were all afraid we'd make things worse for you, not just for ourselves, and nothing you did gave us much hope to think otherwise. You can't mope around wondering why nobody ever came back when you didn't either. Everyone gave up, thinking you were a lost cause. I wanted them to be wrong. I hoped they were. But you never gave anyone a chance." She shakes her head, sorrow twisting her features. "I'm here now. But you-" She throws up her hands, chastising herself. "I don't know why I'm even saying this; you're not going to remember anything come morning."
"Then get out," Haymitch rumbles, then roars it at her. "Get the hell out!"
Like that night so many years ago, Hazelle leaves. Her path home is cleaner this time around. There is no innocent blood on the cobblestones of the town square, but clean floors and damp grass. Through the open door, a peal of thunder overhead greets her.
After the front door slams shut, Haymitch allows the loneliness to settle around the house and upon him like ashes. The approaching torrents of rain cannot wash it away. He is not content, but very, very relieved; alone may not be ideal but it's safer than repeating the past. For all her brains, he's disappointed Hazelle hasn't accepted that.
While he tries to drink again, remembering and wanting to forget that dark blood dribbling along the cement grooves, his stomach seizes and lurches, and he vomits beside his chair. He groans; most of it is food remains and bile - there's plenty more alcohol to expel, which always burns so much worse coming back up.
Still nauseous, Haymitch stumbles to the bathroom that's thankfully on the first level of the house. Hazelle was right about upstairs not being an option tonight; he couldn't carry himself up the stairway either. The lights aren't much help, flickering on and off.
He almost vomits again on the way to the bathroom - walking upright certainly doesn't help, though he can barely do so in his condition - but after struggling with the light switch, soon he's kneeling before the toilet. Retching and spitting, it's not difficult for Haymitch to resent himself for being such a waste. With a weak, final dry heave, he flushes the toilet and hopes the worst has passed.
He rises clumsily, hunches over the sink, and switches on the faucet. He cups his hands to fill them with water to wash the sweat and bile off his face.
A blood droplet falls into the flooding valley of his hands, swirling and vanishing into the running water.
Startled, Haymitch separates his hands with a gasp, which catches in his throat and makes him cough. Before he can look up to see whatever mutt or corpse is looming above him - is he already asleep? - he discovers more upon the bathroom sink: blood blots like rose petals on the porcelain.
Though his thought process is frustratingly slower drunk, Haymitch reaches the conclusion by touching his lips and holding his fingers in front of him. Blood - he's bleeding. In the mirror's reflection, red stains his mouth like wine, which he hasn't drunk in months. He yelps, stepping back, and the sharp sound echoes throughout the house like a poorly-timed joke.
All he can think of are mouth sores from poison and failed antidotes. Haymitch has either been poisoned or turned into Snow but either way, he's as good as dead now.
He looks up to the man in the mirror for help but he's at a loss for words as well. Staring into the mirror man's frightened eyes, Haymitch numbly realizes he hasn't done this sober in a while. He's almost forgotten that they're Seam gray, swallowed by pale yellow scleras veined with red.
The lights flicker again, a half-blink.
The wave of repulsion and panic overwhelms him. Like his earlier, now forgotten thirst, it's impossible to control.
He can't stay here. He needs to leave.
There will be no corpse for the kids to find; they've handled too much, and he wants them to live without any more reminders of the past. They can smile at each other without him. Haymitch must escape to somewhere they can't follow.
He coughs again, and there's more splattered blood, and he can't stay here.
He decides to go down the road, past the barren wreckage of the Seam, toward the mines. Nobody is allowed near them due to the concentrated remnants of noxious fumes. He can imagine himself standing amid the smoke, choking, and finally dying. He'll become a man of ashes from the inside out.
Despite plotting his suicide, Haymitch smiles a little at the thought of eternal unconsciousness. It will be what sleep is supposed to be, what it was before he damned himself. He foolishly hopes he'll have peace even though he doesn't deserve it. But whenever he considers what he does deserve for too long, he scares himself into remaining alive and drinking.
Determined to die, Haymitch flings open the door, his mind set on the plan. But he forgets how inebriated he is, his body and limbs not moving as he expects them to. His foot catches on the door and he stumbles out of the door and into the opposite wall. The house goes dark.
There's a sharp pain in his wrist that is replaced by his head smacking off something hard. The sound of the collision follows him into unconsciousness.