Haymitch developed his fear of the dark as a teenager, and it's only worsened with age as he witnessed what nightmares the Capitol could concoct in and out of the arena. Still, he distantly remembers being younger than reaping age and the late night dash from his bed to the toilet and back, an irrational panic that something would grasp at his ankles that was absolved as soon as he and all of his limbs were under the covers.
The houselights died out by the end of his walk with Hazelle so now the streetlights are all that illuminate his path home. Between each shaft of light, Haymitch is swallowed whole by the night and each time he holds a breath, bracing for - something. There are dark forms shifting in the negative space that he tries to ignore as he hurries back to his house, all its windows lit up like beacons.
Haymitch stumbles through the threshold with his heart in his fucking mouth, that same panic he felt as a kid who needed to piss after bedtime.
The feeling doesn't go away once he's inside, though.
Maysilee Donner stands at the top of his stairs, her throat a mess of broken vessels and flesh from when those birds skewered her neck. There's blood in her blonde hair and all down her issued shirt.
"Not real," he mutters to himself, borrowing the kids' little trick of stating what should be obvious. Still, he doesn't risk screwing his eyes shut to concentrate, to block out this nightmare come alive, as most of his hallucinations do. The familiar wet gurgle from her blue lips sends Haymitch away to feed the geese a late night snack.
He wakes them with a strangled scream, seeing Cory among them with his lunch pail, screeching and bloodied and lurching toward him for help. Haymitch slams the door before the ghost of his younger brother can cross it, leaving the geese to shift about and settle into sleep again.
With shaking hands, Haymitch dry-swallows several too many painkillers in the kitchen. He can't quite catch his breath after so he drinks from the sink faucet; an emptied cup of water can be refilled with something else. The liquor in his cabinet beckons as a tempting chaser but he doesn't dare face that abyss. He can't. He hates that he can't, he even hates that he wants to, but he just can't.
He probably couldn't even fall asleep if he tried. His body feels all sorts of sore and exhausted and his head yearns to lie down but the tremors make him restless. He can't retrieve his knife in his bedroom with Maysilee blocking the stairwell. He didn't bring it with him on his walk with Hazelle, and he felt exposed the entire time, as he does now, but he couldn't risk having a hallucination and scaring - or scarring - her.
Haymitch leaves the kitchen, which in his mind has become the place where the liquor is, and after that, time and place dissociate.
The dead visit him.
The living wish him dead.
Haymitch avoids them both, hiding throughout his house, lashing out when they get too close. Fighting back hurts but he will die otherwise. When a cannon fires overhead, he falls against the stairs, then hears his own breathing and knows it's not his own death toll. Pushing himself up is near impossible, like trying to stand in a hovercraft under attack, but he has to keep moving or else the next cannon will be his.
He's been through this before, and he's here again. He's voluntarily been functionally sober but never voluntarily put himself through the hell of withdrawal; he may be a hopeless pushover but he has some sense, some muscle memory that keeps him from getting to this point, everyone he may owe be damned.
So what the hell is he doing now?
That question follows him into the night, mocking him alongside the living and the dead, until he forgets the question entirely in his delirium, unable to decide whether whatever answer he'd muster was worth it.
There's a cold, instilling sensation in his leg and he blinks, becoming aware rather than awake. He's on his bed, uncovered and basking in daylight that wasn't there moments ago. He notices Doctor Olsen beside him and unravels into a sitting position, sweat dripping off his forehead, down his back. A wave of nausea washes over him, and he groans and almost tips off the bed but Doctor Olsen's hand rights him.
This must be the followup. He managed to follow Hazelle's command last night after all, albeit inadvertently.
With a wince, Doctor Olsen straightens from his crouched position, a spent syringe in the other hand. "Ah, there we go. Easy now. Can you tell me your name?"
"Fuck off, I'm here - or whatever."
"Oriented," Doctor Olsen corrects him as he adjusts his glasses with a knuckle. "Well, you weren't before. How long since your last drink?"
"Hell if I know. Today Wednesday?" Haymitch accepts an offered glass of water that's cloudy with medication and chugs it. His throat is still sore so it must not have been that long. Though from the taste in his mouth and the ache in his ribs, he's vomited again. He wonders distantly if his mouth is bloodied, too, and if he'll ever be able to look Katniss or Peeta in the eyes again.
"Yes. It's a quarter after eight."
"Sunday, then. Ever since the incident," he answers with mock horror. "I feel even worse."
"Unfortunately, that's to be expected in your condition right now. But while I have you here and oriented," Doctor Olsen says with dry mirth, "I want to tell you that I'm impressed; your medical record says you're prone to rampages but-"
"My medical record?" asks Haymitch, though his ears and cheeks flare up in shame at the mention of his violent sprees. Those tend to happen whenever he's thunderously drunk and intent on making his surroundings as broken as he feels and wallowing in the equilibrium. It's a vicious part of him, one that hasn't interfered since returning to Twelve, given the end of the Hunger Games and the war, not some restraint on his behalf. Sometimes he dreads that part of himself more than any nightmarish hallucination, and he definitely hates it more.
"Well, yes, you are a patient of mine now. I had to review your past medical history."
"Are we talking all the way back when I was whipped as a boy or disemboweled?"
As he returns his various supplies to his case on the bedside table, Doctor Olsen answers that it began with his time in the arena, which Haymitch supposes makes sense. The Capitol had no need to keep tabs on him beforehand, besides whether he was signing up for tesserae and attending school. Before he became a tribute, he was a prospective miner-to-be who was learning how to competently provide for the Capitol and keeping his school picture updated in the event of it needing to be broadcasted to the nation and the remaining tributes in the arena.
"Your time in Thirteen is documented as well. I requested a copy of the chart and..." Doctor Olsen pauses. "Well, if I didn't already suspect Thirteen to be a backward district in its own right, their lack of reluctance to turn over their treatment plan for you would have proved that."
Haymitch coughs wryly. "That so? From what I remember, it wasn't much of a plan besides sticking me in a cell."
"No, it wasn't." Doctor Olsen leans forward, an odd yet earnest look on his face. "Please believe me when I tell you that your detox in Thirteen was not reflective of current medical standards, and I understand why you'd be even more reluctant to try again. It wouldn't be like that if you accept my help. It'll be uncomfortable, yes, but I won't leave you to dry out in a cell. There's other ways - better ways - that you've probably never had access to until now."
"That ain't really my concern," snaps Haymitch. As much as he fears and resents that month locked away, the rebellion that he coaxed for years almost leaving him behind right when it finally set the districts ablaze, he's been through about as much in District Twelve during shortages and crackdowns. Even worse is all that comes afterward: the too harsh present with decades past of dead children, dead friends, dead family, and an unwelcome home; the way he burdens anyone who gets too close; how he's failed Katniss and Peeta; and the hopeless, bottomless feeling that's he's less of a man - hell, less than human for all of this. "Even if it's done right," he says, quoting the word with his fingers, "it won't accomplish whatever you're thinking it will."
This doesn't deter the doctor, who is now on the verge of overstaying his welcome and being thrown out of the house. "I'd imagine not. All those thoughts and memories you haven't quite worked through over the years, that you can't hide from anymore if you don't drink?" Haymitch blinks in shock, humbled by his accuracy. "That isn't solved by merely sobering up. It's helped with treatment, therapy, and support."
Haymitch laughs, harsh with derision. "All right, you can leave now, Doc. Can I get a lollipop or are we waiting on a shipment for those?"
"Your kitchen floor is covered in glass and liquor, Haymitch. You managed to destroy your entire stash," Doctor Olsen tells him, leveling him with a look. "I would've found you with a torn up mouth from sucking the tiles if you had tried to go back on that decision."
"How do I know you didn't do that yourself?" he counters even though he knows it's stupid, a panicked reply.
"You would have killed me," is the answer, given too easily and confidently for Haymitch's liking. "You've already made up your mind but you don't want to admit it to yourself."
Another wave of nausea - or is it dread? - rolls over him as Haymitch processes that. The next shipment won't be for a while - no, it's not coming at all, he realizes, an icy sensation sliding down his spine. He demanded Plutarch to cancel them yesterday. Now he has absolutely nothing, at least for the time being until he's desperate enough to plead for Plutarch to forgo his earlier demand like an idiot. Apparently, amidst this withdrawal, Haymitch self-sabotaged himself again in a way that he never has, which is as mortifyingly telling as it is inconvenient.
Doctor Olsen speaks again, softer yet more ardent. "I can help you through this. I've worked with people like you - Peacekeepers and corpsmen, mind, that saw or did something that shook them."
"They ain't like me." Haymitch's voice is too broken to be as vehement as he means. Whatever hell serving in the Corps could be, at least they weren't forced to satisfy a nation's insatiable bloodlust as children. Tours end after however many years of service whereas mentorship was lifelong unless there were enough successors to pass the heavy torch to and then fretfully retire. Haymitch knew Peacekeepers to prey on the poor and vulnerable whereas many victors ended up the prey, however rich and famous and beloved. They weren't his kind at all.
"We can talk about that later," Doctor Olsen replies, and Haymitch remembers that the man is a former corpsman himself. "What I mean is that they needed similar help but weren't the kind to accept it, either. Many of them turned to drinking as well. But the ones who tried got better."
A question rises to Haymitch's throat but its vulnerability and selfishness just about smack him in the face; he bristles and turns away. Still, he wants to know. It'll seal his fate, however which way.
To the bedroom floor, he mumbles, "Would I?"
He can feel Doctor Olsen looking at him for a moment, assessing what must be a walking medical wreck with years of trauma and abuse and grief to undertake. Whatever he sees, the doctor still answers emphatically, "Yes."
Haymitch tries to disguise the huff of relief as a reluctant sigh. "Well... then we'd be fools to pass that miracle up. I didn't hire you on to not do your job, right?" he quips but his body protests, sore with sobriety and stiff with anxiety. "Ah, hell. I'm going to fucking hate this."
Ever the professional, Doctor Olsen chuckles beside him and claps a hand on Haymitch's knee. "Yeah, you will for a while. But I've heard it gets better." He retrieves his cane against the wall and tells Haymitch that he can be admitted to a ward at the hospital Verbena works at in District Four.
"I'd rather stick it out here," says Haymitch, not hiding a look of distaste.
"I figured. But be aware that we don't yet have all the resources you might need these first few weeks here in Twelve. Whereas in Four, there's a new program with specialists that-" Doctor Olsen starts, but Haymitch interrupts.
"As enthusiastic as I am about all of this, I know I've been able to detox without anything before. It's hell but it's happened. Any little bit of extra help will do me fine, not something entirely new."
"The therapy will likely be entirely new for you."
"All right, fine," he allows hastily, "but the kids' shrink calls them."
"I'm concerned that you won't ever pick up the phone."
Haymitch tilts his head back and forth slightly in consideration. He's not even above tearing out the phone-box. "Maybe, but I doubt an in-person therapist would get as far either. Let's just try it."
Doctor Olsen quirks his cheek in thought. "I'll need to visit frequently anyway, and that can be a goal to work toward if anything. Unconventional, but I have a feeling you're an unconventional case." Haymitch raises a brow at that while the doctor deliberates silently. "Okay, we'll try it here. Let's make some phone calls."
"You can make the calls." Haymitch rises from the bed and heads for the bathroom. "I'm going to throw up."
He does, and fifteen minutes later, he's brushed his teeth and now stands at the top of the stairs. He wants to go into the kitchen but he doesn't know what for; there's no alcohol left except the mess on the floor. The thought of the mess gives him some direction; he's going to clean it up.
He sure as hell isn't letting Hazelle do it. He's put her through enough.
The grating scratch of the glass shards across the kitchen floor makes him shiver as he sweeps them into a dustpan. He mops up the liquor afterward, a previously unthinkable task in his state but he finds it cathartic, even though his wrist aches from it. Then again, his entire body is aching, and not in a way that meant he was feeling older than his forty-two years. He hasn't been trembling at all this morning, no doubt because of whatever the doctor injected.
Doctor Olsen joins him in the kitchen and tells him that he's going to take vitamin supplements, injections, and drink plenty of water over the next week or so, or else the next few days will be like last night. That's an easy enough deal for Haymitch. Doctor Olsen leaves to retrieve more supplies, and when the front door shuts, Haymitch's knees almost give out at the rush of nerves that hits him. He sits on the floor with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, processing what he's never considered before with a sober mind yet just agreed to now.
He's going to remain sober or die trying.
The doctor will supposedly make the process not as painful as it has been before - even the afterward part of it, which Haymitch realizes with frosty dread is not only new territory, but is supposed to encompass the rest of his life.
Even when Haymitch had hope in the future and chose it over impotent despair to win a revolution, he never went this far on his own. Given the lack of circumstances that would extract that kind of negotiation from him, like a pair of fighters or a long overdue war, the stakes don't seem high enough at all for him to dedicate to something so drastic. It doesn't feel as necessary in comparison - until he considers his kids again. Like the rebellion, they've catalyzed this change in him as well. However, their ultimatum falls short when they soon won't need him anymore, charting a new life together wherein a mentor like him need not apply.
He also thinks of Hazelle and her sincere eyes staring up at him last night. She wants better for him, and unlike the kids, their relationship seems to be growing rather than waning at the moment, and he finds that he cares about her opinion. And she doesn't deserve her kindness being rewarded with a front row seat to his deterioration.
But, Haymitch knows bitterly, he can't bargain with his demons for the benefit of others for very long and win. It hasn't worked yet, not even with his kids.
So maybe he's only choosing hope for himself, for the afterward, and this is what makes the whole thing seem pathetic and pointless.
Haymitch could call the doctor, tell him not to bother on second thought, then call Plutarch and renew the shipments. But as tempting as it is, Haymitch doesn't want to do that. Now, he doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't even have a full answer to all of this. He only knows that he can't stay where he's at - not anymore. At least if he dies trying to sober up for good, he'll be in good standing with the kids, with Hazelle. He would rather that than the inverse, where he lives and drinks and now everyone's disappointed.
For the time being, he has nothing to drink; he's decided that for himself twice now. Be it a convoluted, delirious mishap or a pointed act impelled by either self-punishment or self-preservation, last night he finished what he started all the same. He has nothing to lose by following suit, except perhaps his sanity, though evidently his sanity was packing its shit and heading out the door anyway. But Haymitch is not foolish enough to think he has everything to gain by it; that kind of hoping can wait its damn turn.
In the respite of this stalemate with himself, Haymitch suddenly wants to update the others - not for tearful gratitude or for their help. He doesn't deserve anything like that at this point, and instead believes he should make some progress first before even showing up on their doorsteps. But perhaps an apology is in order for them.
Haymitch doesn't apologize freely. He prefers just setting things right if he can. This morning, however, he is damn sorry about something that is his fault, and he refuses to let his pride - wounded as it is - interfere with that. Now, he can also set it right.
Peeta answers not overtly scowling but not smiling, either. The warmth and smell of fresh bread wafts from behind him, between them, as Peeta stands guardedly in the doorway. "I'm about to leave for delivery," he says flatly.
"And you won't be late," Haymitch assures him. He shifts his feet. "I'm, uh, going to try - staying sober, I mean. I talked with Olsen. Not to make a big fuss about it, just wanted to tell you. That, and I'm sorry."
"You're letting out the heat, standing there," Peeta answers, stepping aside and inviting him in. Haymitch fights a smile; the boy can be as subtle as the girl when he wants to be.
In the kitchen, Peeta gestures to a counter lined with loaves. "I'm actually still waiting on this batch to cool."
Haymitch looks around the house. Either Peeta has donated some things since he returned or they've been stolen in his absence. Haymitch suspects the former. He's converted the kitchen into a makeshift bakery while he waits on the new one being built in Town. Haymitch notices with a pang in his chest that there's an abandoned chess game on the floor in the corner of the dining room, the table and chairs that used to accompany it missing.
Despite the shift in location, the chessmen were replaced as they were, the last time they played together. Peeta was winning for once, and he wanted to take time to regroup - and then Haymitch participated in their memory book, and went on a bender, and then Hazelle returned to Twelve and Plutarch called him about an opportunity, and ultimately they never quite got around to reconvening.
Peeta follows his gaze and suggests they pick up their game again while they wait.
"How about later?" suggests Haymitch. "I'll be around all day. We can finish it when you have more time."
Peeta nods, crosses his arms. "Will you be joining us for dinner, then?"
"If you'll have me."
"I would but I want to check with Katniss. You haven't seen her already by chance?"
"No, I figured she'd be out hunting by now." Haymitch pauses. "Have you not seen her?"
Peeta frowns and lifts his hands listlessly. "She was gone all night. I think she's just wandering around the woods at this point, avoiding everyone. She talked with Hazelle some more but didn't really specify - so it was probably about Gale - and then there's everything going on with you, and us..." He shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about this with you when there's already a lot on your mind."
"Oh, no, I'd much rather deal with this." Haymitch takes a seat at the kitchen table, mindful of the flour-dusted surface.
"Which is your problem," Peeta reminds him pointedly.
"I have a lot of problems, boy," Haymitch counters, chuckling, hanging an elbow over the backrest. "But I'm working on it, remember? So, in the meantime, let's hear it."
Peeta sighs as he seats himself. "Well, I can't tell what's going on with her because she doesn't confide in me anymore."
"The girl runs off to kill woodland creatures whenever she doesn't want to talk something out. Don't take it personally."
"But it's all the time, Haymitch. Like she doesn't trust me anymore. She misses the old me, I can tell. But I don't know how to be that when it consists of just being myself, and I'm... not altogether myself anymore."
Peeta's voice has dimmed, and Haymitch frowns, seeing the concern and frustration age his face. He almost lost hope in this boy once, and he's glad to have only underestimated him since.
"You're still you, Peeta. They didn't take that from you. That you're even worried about this proves it. Sure, maybe you still have to figure some things out about yourself - old and new. But that doesn't mean you're not you right now." He rubs his forehead. "I'm giving myself a headache. It makes sense in my head."
Peeta half-smiles at his attempt at a joke. "I think it makes sense to me, too. I don't know if Katniss understands, though."
"She does," Haymitch tells him, because he's seen the way she still looks at him when her guard is down, "but she needs time to come around. I bet she's upset that you two can't pick up where you left off before the breakout."
"The feeling is mutual." Peeta hovers a hand over a loaf of bread, judging its warmth with his palm. "We practically have to start over."
"That might not be a bad thing," says Haymitch. "Now that you're more or less disillusioned with each other, it'll be easier to sift through what's real between you two, what can grow, and what should be left in the past."
Peeta clicks his tongue, rolls his eyes. "Such a secret romantic. Are you visiting Hazelle next?"
Haymitch knits his brow. "Yeah. How'd you know?"
"I had a feeling." Peeta smirks a little at his reciprocating look, then gestures to the counter. "Take a loaf to her for me, please - and one for yourself."
"Only because you said please." Haymitch folds two loaves in the crook of his arm. "I'm stopping by the house first; Olsen may have left me a parachute."
Peeta's smile loosens with the reference. "Of what?"
"Medications and supplements," he recites. "To control the withdrawal, supposedly. It's working so far." He shrugs as if to punctuate the end of the conversation.
Peeta folds his forearms on the table and studies the flour dusted on them. "My mother was a community home kid - like your father, right?" He continues once Haymitch nods. "Her parents drank, and they couldn't take care of her. But one day my grandmother started to gradually water down her gin. She made it in the bathtub so it was easy enough. I think my brother was just born, and my mother had made it clear that she wouldn't meet him if she didn't shape up. I remember her. Her name was Iris. At some point, before she died, she unplugged the bathtub drain, let it go down the pipes for good. My grandfather died a drunk, though, and we never met him." Peeta clears his throat. "Just wanted to tell you that. I've been thinking about them lately."
"I can see why," Haymitch says, his voice gruff. He takes a steady breath, knows this is the conversation they should be having. "Your grandmother, Iris - she sounds strong."
"She was. I know you are, too."
Damn this kid. His chest feels like when Peeta pushed him the other day. "Well," Haymitch starts, but he doesn't know how the hell to respond to that without resorting to something snarky and deflective. He swallows whatever's in his throat but it remains.
Seeing him at a loss for words, Peeta waves a hand. "I know. Go."
Haymitch leaves, uncertain whether the boy is right. He hopes he can see Katniss tonight at dinner.
He finds more supplies and a prescription note with a schedule for future visits on his kitchen table. Doctor Olsen either trusts him or has other duties elsewhere, to leave this for Haymitch to handle by himself right now. Haymitch suspects both. Even so, he prefers this as opposed to handholding and constant surveillance, which could irritate him into doubling back. An unconventional case, indeed.
A glass of water later, he walks up to the Hawthorne residence like the night before, except this time he isn't shaking and sweating like a dying man.
While Posy takes the bread from him and charges into the kitchen with very vocal plans for it, Hazelle stays with him at the door, sensing a secondary reason for the visit.
What he tells her is about what he told the boy, except they don't stray from the conversation at all. They've already done that enough.
What they haven't done is embrace, which is where they end up. Hazelle reaches her arms up and around his neck and pulls him down toward her. A simple hug takes him completely off guard. Eventually, Haymitch winds his arms around her as well, all while doubting that he deserves this or her.
When they part, Hazelle still holds his hands in hers. She moves them up and down, a kind of uncrossed double handshake, to punctuate as she tells him that she's glad he's trying and that he has support and bunch of other things that Haymitch wants to let roll off him. Instead, he absorbs every word. He doesn't notice the roughness of her hands until after she releases them from his.
She invites him inside, and he accepts.
It's all surreal and much too vulnerable, and he hates the attention but craves the reassurance that he's not alone, that he's not forsaken.
It feels like cutting off a piece of him, and it doesn't take a genius to realize it's a diseased, dying part - but something ingrained in him just the same. He can't do it by himself; it feels too much like dying, and while that very well might be a half-hearted fantasy for him, he didn't come this far by having shitty survival instincts. He's been told there are people who will help the process, help him in the emptiness afterward.
Damn it all, he might just let them.