It has hardly been two weeks since Haymitch returned home from the Capitol.
Every day, without fail, his Ma tirelessly encouraged him to accompany her on her morning errands, and every day, without fail, Haymitch declined. He told her he was tired, but really, going outside made him nervous these days. He still couldn't get used to this new reality where he unavoidably drew attention wherever he went. It made his skin crawl.
As always, his Ma had simply smiled and kissed him on the top of his head, leaving him be. He knew she would try again tomorrow and probably he would decline then, too.
Haymitch lay on the bed his Ma and little brother shared, reading a book his mother had picked up in town as a surprise the other day, when there was a feeble knock on the door.
He froze.
It was a little too early for his Ma to get home and all his friends were in class at this time of the day.
He sat up slowly, feeling apprehensive.
When he finally opened the door, he instantly knew who was standing in front of him despite never having been officially introduced.
They stared at each other.
"I wasn't really sure if I'd find you here or if you'd moved, so-", Maribelle Donner said.
She didn't introduce herself. There was no need.
„No… no. Not really too keen on that place ", he said awkwardly and shrugged. Hot and cold flashes ran down his back and he was sweating despite early autumn finally having arrived in District 12.
"Come in", Haymitch said faintly, "…only if you want to, of course", he added quickly.
She nodded and he numbly stepped aside, motioning her to enter.
He walked her over to the kitchen table and they sat down.
Wordlessly she slipped her satchel off her shoulder and undid the clasps. It was a nice bag, he couldn't help but notice. The brown leather looked soft and pliable.
"For your brother", she said quietly and handed him a little bag of sweets.
"Oh wow, thank you. He'll love that", he said mechanically and took it. His hands were shaking.
They sat in silence, staring at each other.
Maysilee's hair had gone down past her shoulders, but Maribelle's was cropped at chin length, one side tucked behind her ear. Was that new? He couldn't remember.
Aside from that, she looked just like her. Every time Maribelle Donner looked in the mirror, it occurred to him now, her sister's face looked back at her. What a beautifully horrible affliction to have to live with.
He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath.
Her hand was slick and wet in his and she was struggling to breathe. They're both covered in her blood, it sticks to his hands, his shirt, his pants. So much blood. He wanted to help, but one look at her told him she was beyond that and he desperately wished she'd just die already so he wouldn't have to listen to her agonized, labored choking anymore.
Haymitch jumped up from the table with so much force his chair tipped over.
Now it was him who couldn't breathe.
He wanted to run. But run where? And from what or whom?
This wasn't Maysilee. It was her sister. And he wasn't in the arena. He was at home.
He pulled at his hair, willing his stupid heart to calm. It's fine. He's fine.
"I shouldn't have come, I'm sorry", Maribelle said and made to get up.
"No, no, I'm sorry. You should stay, I just need a moment", he said. He took deep, deliberate breaths and forced himself to drop his arms to his side and turn to face her. He felt pathetic. And crazy. He shouldn't still be struggling this much.
He did his best to hide his crazy from his Ma and everyone else, tried to pretend nothing bad had happened this summer. He just wanted everyone to forget about it and move on. But here, with this ghost in front of him, he couldn't help it.
"Do you… want something to drink?", he said, trying to sound calm and collected.
She nodded and he shuffled over to the sink, filling the old dingy kettle. Mostly he had only offered it to give his hands and mind something to do to get a chance to calm down and get back to his senses before he sat down again.
Haymitch sat two steaming mugs on the table.
He tried not to wince when he awkwardly bent over to pick the chair up. The doctors in the Capitol had told him to be patient. They had said that with time, his body would mend. It certainly didn't feel like it. Before they had thrown him into the arena, he'd been strong and agile. Dangerous, is what Caesar had called him in the big recap at the end of the games. A contender to look out for.
To make you a victor, first they break you down. And break him down, they did. After they had fished him from the arena closer to death than life, they had patched him up and dragged him out of his hospital bed and onto a stage as soon as he could stand up and stagger across the hallway mostly unassisted. Pumped full with pain killers and other drugs he had functioned well enough to do an okay job of playing the role of their cunning victor for the night of his crowning, but here back in 12 he really felt the aftermath of it all. Even now he had to move very carefully, and still he constantly found himself in varying levels of pain and discomfort.
It suddenly occurred to him that he'd never asked Maribelle what she would like to drink.
"Oh. Tea is fine, yeah?", he said.
She agreed.
They didn't really have anything else at home, anyway. Of course, they could afford more decadent things like coffee now, but blackberry tea was perfectly fine, wasn't it? Nothing had changed except for the occasional more extravagant purchase like the book Ma had picked up for him. That wouldn't have been possible before. Things like books weren't a necessity, after all, and so they hadn't been part of the budget.
He wrapped his fingers around the warm mug and stared at the wooden tabletop.
"It's my fault", he said after a couple minutes, almost against his own will.
This was something he had been afraid of saying out loud in front of anyone for weeks now, but like a pot that finally boiled over it bubbled up inside of him now and there was no stopping it.
Haymitch braced himself.
She shook her head.
"I don't blame you", she said. She sounded tired and sad.
He looked up at her now.
"Then why are you here?", he blurted out before he could stop himself.
He wished he could take it back as soon as he said it.
Maribelle closed her eyes and put her hand up to her forehead.
"I don't know I thought maybe… You were the last person that was with her. I thought… I really don't know."
She was crying, he realized with a start.
He had expected her to scream. To hit him. To spit at him that it was him who should have died, not her. Instead, she grabbed his hand and held onto it like a lifeline. Even though he wanted nothing more than to pull away from her, he endured it.
She looked at him with her big, sad, blue eyes and in her gaze, he saw reflected everything he felt. In that instant, he knew she understood. She had to live with what had happened as much as he did.
"Do you ever wish you could turn back time?", she sniffed.
He hesitated.
"I dream about it, sometimes. My brain races through a billion different scenarios but every time…"
"The outcome is the same", she whispered.
He nodded and rubbed his burning eyes. He was startled to find his face was wet.
"I'm really sorry. I truly am", he said, voice shaking despite his best efforts.
"I know. Me too", she said.
They had never exchanged a word before this day, yet here they were, crying at his kitchen table. Life is strange like that.
"I think it's time to leave", she said eventually, after they both had calmed down. Her face had taken on a strangely distant expression.
He nodded. He supposed they had said all there was to be said, and Ma was bound to come home soon.
Their cups sat cold and untouched when they got up.
He had offered to walk her home, but he hadn't really meant it and she declined, anyway.
They said goodbye at the door and he stood leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, digging his nails into his flesh. He watched as she walked down the street until he could no longer see her.
He wondered if she had found whatever it was she had come looking for at his house. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.
Still, somehow, he knew this was the last time they would talk and he suspected she knew it, too. It was the sort of thing where you think to yourself it was good it happened – necessary even – but there was an unspoken mutual agreement it didn't need repeating.
He closed the door.
And that was that.