Squinting at the sunrise, Haymitch finds it absurdly ironic that he is sober on the day of the reaping. Usually, he'd be getting progressively drunker in preparation for the worst time of the year. But his liquor cabinet remains empty, and there is no reaping this year.
Doctor Wendell Templesmith, the psychiatrist that Haymitch chose flippantly from Doctor Olsen's referral list, advised that he prepare for the day and surround himself with loved ones. As simple as it sounds, it's the exact opposite of Haymitch's first impulse, which is to isolate himself and drink to blot out the day entirely. But he's been ignoring that impulse. So far, the psychiatrist's most helpful bit of advice was to have a plan on how to keep occupied, and Haymitch has been doing just that since the brunt of his detox subsided about a week ago.
While building the geese coop, Wilbur Grant mentioned that waterfowl can't subsist on bread alone, and so Haymitch has been making proper feed for them. He figures he owes it to them, after letting them nest in his backyard and enticing them to stay with his food handouts - making them an ample target for predators. The wooden coop was another amendment, and it's held up well. He even helped Peeta paint it, and though it's rather obvious which of them painted the roof an uneven burgundy and its sides a flawless eggshell white, Haymitch finds it amusing enough to like it.
The other day, he sorted through his closet to donate any clothes that no longer fit or that he frankly doesn't want anymore, figuring the district could do something with them. Nathan borrowing one of his suits to wear in the Capitol may have inspired that effort. Peeta made him laugh when, upon discovering the donation pile, he asked if Haymitch was preparing to kill himself or something. Haymitch assured him he wouldn't make it that obvious.
He's moved onto clearing out his cellar. The framed pictures of his family came from there, and he's trying to further the little home project. He often gets sidetracked with the stuff he finds. He's unearthed old workout equipment, his grandmother's fiddle, and other random items that reflect years of trying to alleviate the boredom of being a rich, local pariah before dedicating all his time to drinking.
He hasn't attempted going through the boxes filled with his mother and Cory's things yet. They remain stacked in a corner. Maybe one day he will, but not before something like the reaping anniversary. Now's the allotted time to unpack everything that happened to his friends this time last year - but Haymitch won't do that yet, either. He's too vulnerable when he's sober, experiencing everything rawly without that pall of inebriation. He's already humbled himself to listen to his subconscious desire to stop, remove the pall and learn to live with it off. He'll wait to deal with some matters.
Haymitch figured therapy would consist of the doctor lecturing him and prying into his memories to dissect them. It hasn't been like that yet, which sort of annoys him. Most of his troubles were televised so perhaps it's assumed they're on the same page until Haymitch says otherwise. He's only hung up once - but then he sheepishly called back moments later when the silence afterward wasn't any better than the discomfort on the phone, and he's been curious whether he'll actually get better. He tries not to think about it all too much or to burden anyone with details.
But something must be working; he hasn't swallowed a drop of liquor since the night that caused Peeta to relapse with him a little over two weeks ago.
Haymitch sits on his porch now, looking out at the sunrise's pink and gold gradient. He didn't sleep well last night but expected as much. Even with a bottle, he barely slept the nights before reaping day, eaten up with anxiety and despair at the thought of enduring yet another Hunger Games, of assisting two children to imminent slaughter, no matter how relentlessly or indifferently he mentored them.
He's breaking a longstanding tradition with himself, being sober right now.
He sees a lone figure on the path and recognizes Hazelle by her steadfast pace, her dark hair tied back loosely enough that it hoods her head slightly, as if it was down. As she walks by, he says around a yawn, "You remember it's your day off, right?"
"Good morning to you, too." She changes direction and walks up to him. "I couldn't go back to sleep, and I didn't want to wake the kids moving about in the house."
"Join the club - I mean, except for the waking the kids part. Mine are having a sleepover." He rubs his eyes groggily. "I'll make you coffee if you help me pack for the picnic."
She props an elbow against the porch railing. "You volunteered to do it yourself."
He shrugs. "And I will if you say no. I'll take all the credit either way."
Hazelle snorts, shaking her head a little as she looks out across the Village. The sunrise that crests between the green slopes of mountain casts a bright glow across her face. She turns toward his door. "All right. Might as well get started now - I want coffee." She sweeps past him into his house, and he groans rising from the step to follow her inside.
While Haymitch pours coffee into their mugs, adding cream and sugar into hers, Hazelle sets about pulling food from his refrigerator. He's already boiled eggs and now they slice meat, bread, and vegetables into portions for sandwiches.
She asks whether he's been in town, and he says he hasn't but that he knows what's there. Yesterday, a small news crew and other strangers arrived with a memorial that lists every reaped District Twelve tribute. Each district is being granted one, consecrating those lost to the Hunger Games.
"It reminds me of the Medal of Valor," Hazelle says. She visited its installment with her kids the day before. "Better than nothing, but it doesn't mean anything will change."
Haymitch smirks bitterly, assembling sandwiches beside her. "That's what the conference is for: the start of all the promises, where everyone agrees we're going to change for good. Hopefully, Plutarch is right and this time it'll stick. But for now, we have a nice memorial to look at."
He isn't going to look at it, not until the news crew leaves. Haymitch will privately pay his respects when it doesn't threaten to overwhelm him with pain - or rather, when he's confident he can face it and the pain without a bottle. Hell, he went on a bender after he shared those same names for the memory book over a month ago. Though the memorial is a national recognition whereas his felt like a confession, as futile as it was. Better than nothing, indeed, he supposes, for himself and for the Capitol. So maybe it won't wrench as much of him like the memory book did. Still, he's not in the mood to perform for the cameras.
The news crew hasn't knocked at their doors yet but is likely to today. Doctor Olsen told him they were interviewing people in town yesterday. They'll have something to show today, then. He wonders whether Plutarch planned that in case the local victors refrain from making an appearance, particularly Katniss, who was literally burnt out of her role as the Mockingjay.
Hazelle clears her throat as she wraps portions of goat cheese in cloth. "Your name is on it. So are Katniss and Peeta's."
Haymitch is tempted to feel embarrassed, being acknowledged like that. While the Games took a lot from him, he's alive to read his own name being historically remembered as a victim. And to him, being a mentor for so long meant he's supposed to carry that weight, not be a part of it. But he is a victor, and victors are just survivors of the reaping, so he supposes their inclusion makes sense. The last Quell even claimed some of them anyway - but he's not thinking about that.
"Well, like I said," he replies evenly, "let's hope something sticks this time around. Then, it'll really matter."
Matter-of-factly, Hazelle points out, "Could've had a hand in it if you went to the conference."
He sighs. "I was invited but I didn't think I should speak on behalf of the district. I'd probably be a conflict of interest anyway."
"Who wouldn't be? Anyone from the districts has been affected in one way or another."
Haymitch quirks his mouth in thought and nods, conceding. He recalls hearing that President Paylor's son was reaped several years back, and that was just one example.
"True. I guess, even as a victor," he says with mock bravado, "I don't have any grand ideas about that stuff. Plutarch likes to think I do. I must have him fooled. Whatever won't lead us back to before or to somewhere worse works for me. Now, I had lots of ideas on how to handle the before and get us to the after - and here we are at the after."
"So now you can retire," finishes Hazelle, taking a drink of coffee.
"From politics, yeah. It's too loud and public a life, and I've had enough of that for my own." He cuts the last sandwich in half and begins wrapping all of them.
Hazelle raises a brow archly. "And that's something you'd recommend for me?"
"So long as you're invested in it. It's draining otherwise - was for me at least. And I was arguably decent at it." Haymitch pauses. "If I'm bothering you with all the job talk, I can drop it." He doesn't want to guilt her out of a job she's content with. But he suspects its familiarity and availability are its only appeals, and the country is rife with better opportunities, and she deserves to actually enjoy something that still supports her family.
"No, it's helpful. I have been thinking about it more," she admits quietly, uncertain. Her hands still as they tie the cheese parcels with twine. Haymitch notices again how deft and calloused they are, and blames his sober mind for the random fixation. "But I've no clue what I want to do or whether I'd be any good at something new."
Haymitch considers her beside him. "Once you figure out what you want, I think you'll be set. You're the most hard-working person I know. And you're smart." He shrugs a shoulder at her skeptical look. "Smarter than me from what I remember."
"That was years ago in school."
"Sure, but the capability is there. Think of how well you'd do if you learned something interesting, not coal byproducts or algebra."
Hazelle looks confused. "I didn't find algebra boring."
"I rest my case." He slaps the last wrapped sandwich onto the table pointedly. "If you haven't already, go down to the site and see if there's a need to fill. Or go back to school, travel the country, write a memoir, find useless and time-consuming hobbies like me," he lists with a growing smirk. "Better yet, leverage embarrassing stories against me so that I pull some strings and get you a cushy government position."
Hazelle pushes his shoulder but otherwise doesn't reply. They pack the basket, and as Haymitch stores it in the refrigerator, she says, "You said you're retiring from politics, not work in general."
"I count being the local goose man as work. Now, I wouldn't automatically knock something else if it came along. I'm just not preoccupied about it. Maybe once I run out of home projects and the geese leave me, I will be."
Hazelle smiles and crosses her arms. "I can start pitching back ideas to you, then."
"You do that. Until then," he says, wiping down the counter before she does it out of habit, "I think we're ready to hide from the government."
Hazelle chuckles with him. They're relocating the small garden patches that Katniss and Gale cultivated over the years in the woods to the Village. Apparently, Hazelle and Katniss have had the idea, and they're implementing it today to avoid any media attention. "I should head back and get the kids ready to hide."
"Happy no-reaping day." They toast with a clink of their mugs, finishing their coffee, and he walks her out.
Soon after, Doctor Olsen visits to assess him and stick him in the shoulder. He remarks that his skin looks better.
"Not just a tan masking it?" asks Haymitch, holding up a deep olive-skinned forearm to inspect it himself. His other arm feels heavy and sore from the injection.
"No, your eyes are whiter, too," Doctor Olsen replies, and Haymitch chooses to believe him, not knowing for himself. "Make sure you're staying hydrated and taking time to rest, even when you can't sleep. And wrap that damn wrist like I told you."
"I can only do so much, Doc." Haymitch rolls the wrist in question, and while it moves easily, mild pain still erupts from a specific angle of movement. He's just been avoiding that movement. The wrist bandaging feels unnecessary to him; it serves more as a physical reminder that what happened to him and to Peeta was his fault, and he doesn't need reminded of that.
Later that morning, Haymitch meets Katniss and Peeta at the Village entrance, where they wait for the Hawthornes. They look somewhat suspicious with Haymitch holding a picnic basket, Peeta walking a wheelbarrow, and Katniss carrying shovels with her bow and quiver slung across her slight shoulders. He says as much.
"We look like we're about to grave rob but wanted lunch first."
Peeta snickers whereas the girl does a poor job of ignoring him.
She hasn't spoken to him since the intervention-fight. Even when she intervened during the fox attack, she didn't say anything to him, just took the fox to be skinned while Haymitch wrestled Nisskat to inspect her wing. As much as he wants to throw up his hands and quit caring about it, he hates how awful it makes him feel and how badly he wants to fix it somehow. He thought he was by voluntarily going sober. But he knows that Katniss reacts to betrayal by putting up walls. They're shitty walls to him - ones he can see through yet demand that he deal with their existence nonetheless.
Whatever. He's not her damn father. Besides, she probably should resent him after everything he's put her through. Maybe the boy will come to his senses one day, too.
When the others arrive, Posy immediately asks if she can ride in the wheelbarrow. Hazelle raises a protest but allows it when Peeta does, patting the inside trough and letting her climb in. Rory - the taller one, Haymitch knows now - makes a fuss about he and Vick - the stockier, youngest son - carrying the shovels for Katniss. All the while, Haymitch tries to forfeit his basket to Posy but she giggles too much and he's caught by Peeta and Hazelle. Fighting a smile, Katniss rolls her eyes at the antics and starts trudging toward the Meadow, and they follow.
In the Meadow, they broadly skirt around the large area of overturned soil that denotes the mass grave. Haymitch sees Hazelle stop and blanche at the distant sight of it, and he takes her hand instinctively, pulling her in the other direction.
"We're taking the scenic route," he tells her. Hazelle gives him a small, grateful nod, and he drops her hand after a few steps.
Katniss leads them through a break in the fence into the woods. Vick follows beside her, asking long-winded questions about something Haymitch can't quite hear over Peeta driving his wheelbarrow through every breakable branch in his wake and stepping on them after. They happen upon the gardens about a half mile from the fence, nestled against a grassy ridge. Katniss gestures to them. "Strawberries, greens, mint."
The adults remove the old wire fences encircling each patch, all warped and rusted. It takes a while to unearth the right plant amidst the overgrowth of weeds. They lay them in the wheelbarrow, clods of soil raining from the roots.
Meanwhile, Hazelle's sons help their sister as she points out which nearby wildflowers they should take home as well. "No, that pink one! And all those yellow ones. Don't forget the purple ones, Rory!" Posy adds, "Please and thank you!" when Hazelle looks over at them.
Haymitch ducks his head to hide a smothered laugh. Posy must get away with a lot, being the baby girl of the family.
Once they've filled the wheelbarrow and topped it off with soil, they break for something Effie Trinket would call brunch. While they're not in a major hurry to return to the Village, where they risk getting caught by the cameras, they should replant within the next few hours. Hopefully, by that time, the crew will have bored and left to find newsworthy content elsewhere.
Haymitch sits between Peeta and Hazelle in their little group circle. He's careful not to intimidate Hazelle's kids, and he figures Katniss doesn't want him in immediate proximity or else it'll interrupt her furtive attempts to look at him sidelong.
As Haymitch takes a bite of his sandwich, Vick asks him if he has any books he can borrow. Haymitch chokes down the mouthful, starts out half-coughing when he answers, "Afraid not. I've ruined a lot of them; I used to write codes in them so they're pretty marked up. But you're welcome to look and take whatever's left."
Vick's eyes widen, and Rory takes interest as well. "Codes - like secret rebel codes?"
"Yeah, a kind of language we used so no one else knew what we were talking about."
"How did you learn that?" asks Rory, abandoning his own sandwich.
"I knew the ciphers - the keys to decoding the messages in stages. It phased out once Beetee found a way to loop the Capitol's bug system - their surveillance cameras and such - so we could talk more freely. But I've used it to keep contact information safe." While all of this is declassified, it feels odd explaining it aloud. Until now, the only other person in District Twelve who knew the ciphers was Lorna Undersee, Maysilee's twin sister.
The boys look impressed, particularly Vick, who requests a demonstration. Haymitch notices the others listening as well.
With a flippant wave of his hand, Peeta states, "So that's how I find out about these things."
Haymitch shrugs. "You never asked." Frankly, there were a lot of things he could tell them, if they asked the right questions. He's not old enough yet to share his entire past unsolicited.
"How careful you all had to be, working with the Capitol and making sure you weren't overheard by the wrong person." Hazelle shakes her head, her eyes wide with worry. "It already felt dangerous to do that here, where you were sometimes tempted to think nobody was actually listening."
"They were... because there was always something to listen for, even if it wasn't about total rebellion." He sees Hazelle nod a little at the time they both must have in mind for Twelve. "Plutarch's group won out because it bided its time - frustrating as that was - and had enough connections, especially once we made contact with Thirteen. So there was something in place when the Mockingjay came along." In his periphery, Katniss' expression deepens with understanding though she remains silent. "Turns out, we just needed the right spark."
The curiosity reflected in Hazelle's expression makes him bristle. She must remember that miners' strike years ago, and maybe even how he served until he was deemed unwelcome after the Games that year. Haymitch couldn't blame them for that. But the strike was about labor rights, not liberty from the Capitol, and it was still extinguished. Panem needed a more united approach, not fractured bouts of insurgence every few years, to win its liberty, and they did that under the Mockingjay's wings.
A quiet moment passes before Posy interjects with, "Is it okay if I pet the geese? Are they nice?"
Haymitch laughs, appreciating her moxie. "No, they're not. I'll see what I can do for you, though."
Back in the Village, they replant the strawberry bushes and several heads of greens in both Katniss and Hazelle's backyards. The kids set about replanting the wildflowers around their houses. The mint, Peeta transplants into painted flowerpots and gifts them to Haymitch, Katniss, and Hazelle.
"This will dress up the kitchen windowsill," Hazelle appraises. "Thank you, Peeta."
"My pleasure," he says, handing another to Katniss, who half-smiles and hugs it against her casually.
Haymitch hands his back to Peeta, shaking his head regretfully. "You'd use this more than me."
"I forgot you're not a fan of mint tea. I'll have to find you something else for the holiday."
"Don't bother, boy," he drawls. "The media's lack of presence in my face is my present."
Hazelle tells them about a potluck at Greasy Sae's house tonight. "I know you wanted to lay low today. Figured I'd extend the invite just in case, especially if the news left."
"Sounds like a nice way to spend the rest of the day," replies Peeta. He looks at Katniss, who's biting her lip and looking at the nearby primroses. "What do you think, Katniss?"
"I don't know. Maybe we can drop off some food and say hi to Sae. But I don't think we should stay long." She reminds him, lower, "We need to call Beetee."
When Hazelle turns to Haymitch, his face is cringing with reluctance. "I think I know your answer."
"I'm supposed to stay away from parties. Doctor's orders," he says apologetically, and while it's only partly an excuse, shame still smarts between his ribs. Unless someone has started distilling rotgut, there shouldn't be any alcohol left in the district after he destroyed his entire stash that fateful night. But Haymitch doesn't belong at a celebration of the Games' dissolution, not when he'd be alongside those who lost others to the Games under his own mentorship. The all too familiar wave of guilt and grief hits him at the very thought, and he bites his cheek to distract from it.
Hazelle nods, sympathetic albeit disappointed. "I understand. Well, we should do something like this again soon." She pauses, then says with an incredulous smile, "My children are having fun on July fourth. I could stand to do this every year."
"I think that can be arranged," says Haymitch, smiling himself.
As he heads home, needing some form of rest, Katniss sidles up to him while Peeta walks the wheelbarrow back to his house. She speaks to him for the first time since the intervention-fight. "How's Nisskat?"
Haymitch frowns. "Well enough. She's grounded." The girl just nods. He noticed her studying him out of the corner of her eye throughout the picnic, and she's doing it again now. Gently, he ventures, "How's her namesake?"
She raises her chin, her eyes forward. "Better than I thought I'd be today. Can the same be said for you?" When he nods with a shrug, she states, "Well, if Haymitch Abernathy can stay sober through reaping day, I think I can get with the program."
"Still quite a lot of the day left to disappoint," he reminds her wryly.
Katniss rolls her eyes. "Join Peeta and I for dinner tonight. I promise I'll be there."
"Sounds like a plan, sweetheart." As she walks away, Haymitch takes a measured breath. These kinds of conversations leave him feeling like he's been relieved of one thing but a different weight - the pressure of accountability, maybe - replaces it.
When he reaches his house, he's greeted by swaying purple wildflowers planted on either side of the porch steps.
Inside, he lies on the couch and switches on the television, curiosity getting the better of him. There's been continuous coverage of the constitutional conference on television. Nathan does make himself heard, arguing to maintain equal representation despite district size, no doubt with concern for Twelve. He's met with opposition from the larger districts - Two and Eleven especially.
Before Haymitch can follow the heated discussion further, the phone in his study rings. He doesn't recognize the phone number, its area code from District Four, but answers anyway.
"Hey!"
"Johanna?"
"The one and only," says Johanna Mason, and Haymitch can almost hear her voice curving around her characteristic grin. "Nice to hear from you, Hayseed."
"This number - You're in Four? Did you get my letter?"
"No, but Annie got hers. I'm sure mine was just as nice and impersonal. Anyway, I call bearing strange and exciting news."
"Ah, a gift on no-reaping day for me?"
"Oh, yes, may the government reparations be ever in your favor - or whatever we're supposed to say now. I figured I'd try to call you today of all days. More on that later."
Haymitch braces a shoulder against the wall, beside the telephone box. That'll count as rest for now. He's relieved to hear from Johanna after months of mutual silence; neither of them was in the best shape departing from the Capitol. "I'm listening."
"Let me start by saying that I left home about a week after coming back. Nothing for me there, you know?" Haymitch hums in understanding, even though it's not quite as true for him as it is for her. She continues, "So, I got on the train, figured I'd travel around the country, see the things I couldn't on my Tour. I planned to surprise you all in Twelve but when I got to Four to visit Annie, I found her very pregnant."
His heart wrenches at the news. He stays silent, unsure of what to say.
"This is good news," Johanna explains slowly. "It's Finnick's, if that's what you're worried about."
"I was still counting back months in my head," Haymitch half-jokes, his initial dread abated. The math does check out fortunately. With the memory of Annie being found naked during the rescue, his stomach turned at the thought of some vile Capitol guard being the father.
"You're slow at math for someone so clever," remarks Johanna. "But yeah, all theirs."
Theirs. It does take two, and the loss of Finnick hangs between them like a wet pair of pants on a clothesline. Haymitch wonders whether he and Annie found out early enough that they could celebrate before he was deployed. The pain this brings is sharply registered, the edge not dulled by alcohol. Haymitch closes his eyes and breathes, not missing this part of grief. He doesn't know how he managed when he was younger. Well, he supposes he didn't manage; that's how he eventually ended up at the bottom of a bottle. He doesn't need Wendell to figure that out.
"Is she okay?" he asks, of Annie.
"Surprisingly, yes. I mean, her husband left her knocked up to go die in a sewer-"
"Jo," he warns, his eyes now screwed shut. Normally, he has similar candor about such grim matters but he can't respond like how he used to, which was to commiserate with a snarky comment and a stiff drink. He doesn't know how to respond now, and he doesn't want to backslide into that miserable pit, though the war has given him new reasons to.
"Yeah, she's doing okay," Johanna says, softer. "I stayed because - well, because of Finnick, but also I was worried about her. Not that I've been much help, compared to her friend who's a midwife. I'm just the friend who keeps the laundry and dishes at bay."
"Probably for the best."
"Shut up," she laughs. "I haven't gotten to the best part - Annie's seven pounds lighter now. Little guy was born today. You'll have to wish a happy birthday to Logan Odair."
Haymitch smiles now, feeling like he finally can. "I will. Give Annie my congratulations. Are you gracing the others with a call, too?"
"Nah, I'm still holding out on surprising Brainless and Lover Boy soon. You can share the news with them but otherwise, Annie wants it kept private. Honestly, I'm surprised she's gotten her wish so far."
"Me, too. Good for her. She doesn't need that kind of attention right now, of all times." It was unusual that a victor's entire pregnancy took place under the nation's radar, let alone with the father being a popular victor as well.
With another pang of grief, he remembers when Cecelia Novak's pregnancy was induced during a slow Hunger Games, her baby's name publicly voted on like Katniss' wedding dress. While she called him Russ, he was listed as Icarus when they identified him and the rest of her family's remains after the air raids in Eight.
Johanna's voice pulls him away from that precipice. "Anyway, I'm only the messenger because Annie is finally sleeping, Mara is tending to the little guy, and I was bored and already planning on calling you."
"Were you? I'm flattered."
"Well, when I got to Four and put my road trip on hold, I tried contacting you and was unsuccessful." A bright smugness permeates her tone now. "I call expecting your twangy voice, and who do I hear instead? A female twangy voice breathlessly telling me that you're occupied."
"Yeah, I was probably seeing orange eels swimming in the air when you called," deadpans Haymitch. "That was Hazelle who answered. My housekeeper." He winces, unsatisfied with the descriptor even though it was technically apt. "She's a friend. But it was a bad time; she was calling the doctor for me when you called."
"Uh, oh. Bad case of whiskey dick?"
"No, Jo," he says witheringly. Her facetious attention on anyone else in this way wouldn't bother him so much as exasperate him but with Hazelle it feels absurdly off limits. "I needed more medicine. I was in a withdrawal."
"Ah. So that's what it takes for you to go sober? I should have showed more skin around you years ago."
"You showed plenty. If anything, you made me drink more." There's truth to this; Johanna's family was executed after she killed her first and only patron, and seeing her afterward, partying and flaunting her body like it was a middle finger to the Capitol, pained him in that empathetic, learned-experience way.
"I tend to have that effect," she agrees.
Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose. "So that was it? You wanted to call to tease me?"
"Listen, you can't tell me you have a sexy maid and not expect me to say something. Let's be realistic," she scoffs. "But I'm glad I have better updates than whatever you wrote in your letter. How's sobriety?"
"A bitch," he mutters brusquely. "But I'm doing it to myself so I guess that makes me the-"
"Hay-bitch!" Johanna cackles as Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Oh, I've missed this. I still need to visit Twelve; you're all so fun to mess with, and I can freeload on top of it."
"At least compensate by bringing Annie and the baby - once they're up for it."
"I'll talk with her. She won't need much convincing to visit you."
Haymitch chuckles. Finnick had a joke that Annie preferred Haymitch to all his other friends, namely Johanna. Because Finnick never bothered saying a bad thing about Haymitch to her, and Annie distrusts media coverage as much as any victor, and she didn't meet him herself until she was rescued, she considers Haymitch to an inordinately high degree. Haymitch was always busy in Command so he didn't spend enough time with her to disprove anything. Having a friend predisposed to liking him despite his general reputation is rather amusing. It reminds him of Peeta's friend, Delly Cartwright, and how she fawned over Katniss.
"For what it's worth," Johanna says, "from one addict to another, keeping busy helps - especially when you've picked the worst possible time to go sober. Return to your talent, work out, freight hop, whatever. Something to take your mind off it that's not also going to destroy you."
"I'll take your word for it." Haymitch knocks his head against the wall absently. Wendell labeled him a downtime drinker and advised about the same, and he's followed that order well enough. "I did ask how you were in my letter. Care to answer that?"
"Better than how I was when we left. I haven't spoken to that head doctor since. I know I could find something if I wanted it - but I don't want to."
"Yeah," is all he can say. He remembers her blind frustration at withdrawing from morphling to fight in the Star Squad, only to fail the Block. He felt helpless, not knowing how to console her when he was left behind as well, albeit because of his mentoring role and lack of camera appeal.
When the silence stretches, he changes the subject. "Let Annie know she's welcome to call."
"She knows. I think she prefers writing over talking for long distance, though, so expect a return letter sometime." Johanna sighs loudly in his ear. "Well, I'll let you go. Don't tell the other two about me yet. You can tell Hazelle I said hi, though."
"All right." Haymitch shakes his head. He wants to laugh but it will only encourage her. "Can't promise she won't mention it to Katniss, though."
"What do you mean?"
He raises a brow. "It ain't everyday a random victor from another district wants to say hi to you."
"Well, sure. But why would she tell Katniss?"
"Oh, they've known each other for years. Hazelle is Gale Hawthorne's mother."
There's a long pause on the other end of the line, and Haymitch realizes with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he may have made a mistake.
"That," starts Johanna, "is the best thing I've heard this week, and my friend just gave birth."
"Can't imagine why." Glaring sidelong, he quickly adds, "Remember where Katniss left off with him, okay? Don't go teasing anyone else."
"Of course not. Just know we'll be in touch again soon." She hangs up mid-cackle, and while Haymitch gapes at the dial tone, he notices how tightly he's gripping the phone and relaxes his hand. Before he can consider the ramifications of - well, of any of that conversation, he hears some commotion outside.
With Sae as his next-door neighbor, he hears and sees the community begin to gather at her house. They crowd on the porch, in the kitchen, into the backyard. There may or may not be alcohol served but some shout and laugh like there is.
Because for all they've lost, they fought and won today. This year, the fourth of July is not solemn until the train has left and all but two families can recover, relieved for another year. Now every family can celebrate, and there's no dread for next year. The remaining victors can live like free people - that dodge cameras occasionally, that have their names memorialized without the pretense of glory, alongside lost friends and children who didn't come home.
Even more, Haymitch will spend the evening of reaping day with his kids, and they won't be on that damn train. He's not trying to blot out the world right now. He's laughing with Hazelle again, and he's learning more about her as the woman she's become and her family. It still perplexes him that she wants to be in his life again, and he in hers, and that now they can without fears from the past.
A year ago, when his name was called again for a Quarter Quell, Haymitch couldn't have imagined today.
Looking out at his home, Haymitch murmurs, "Happy no-reaping day, District Twelve."
AN: Bigger chapter for a big (big, big) day. Let me know what you think. :)
Having Finnick and Annie's son born on reaping day inspired by sabaceanbabe's fic, Welcome to Reaping Day.