Author's note: And FINALLY I get to publish this chapter on here! Chap. 45 has already been up (on tumblr and ao3) since the 12th of July but as you might have noticed, FFnet were down for several days in a row - at least for some of us. But this mid-morning I finally managed to refresh the page successfully and hopefully it will stay up now. I hope you're enjoying your summer and will get better weather than Haymitch does in this chapter!
Chapter 45, Take me drunk, I'm home
He staggered through the rain, wetter than a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. Nothing but thick black clouds above.
No moon. No stars. You couldn't see anything but the path right in front of you. Nothing to guide your way but the distant lights of the district.
The duffel bag was lost. Probably in a ditch somewhere. Soaked and vile. Like its owner. Or maybe he just tossed the thing in some corner of the train, after he'd finished the last bottle. He couldn't recall.
Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Now that Effie and the kids were gone.
Where were they now? Which district? Did she manage to get them to sleep on time or was she still on rocking duty? Exhausted. Alone. While the train added mile after mile between them.
Once his family had gotten onboard back in Eleven, he was supposed to just sit back and wait. Bags packed. Ticket in hand, until his own train pulled into the station.
But he didn't. Walking up and down that misty platform. The smell of damp concrete. Distant rumbling. The unforgiving sky, overrun by storm clouds as dark as the soul of president Snow.
He couldn't stand 5 minutes of it. Hell, not even one.
If he was going to wait, might as well do it on a bar stool.
One of the local pubs was just around the corner. Chaff told him as much. Back when they were passing a bottle between themselves, he described the way in detail. The shops. The landmarks. Which road to turn and when.
"We'll go there someday", he said, the last time they ever spoke to each other. "Bring the little lady. If we survive this blasted war, drinks are on me."
The bell above the door gave a merry tinkle when Haymitch pushed inside, 10 minutes later.
Just like Twelve, he thought. The one Sae and Ripper put up at the Hob made the exact same noise.
In the end, he didn't mount a bar stool. Place was far from empty, despite the bad weather. Or maybe because of it. He couldn't sit and wonder which ones of them mourned Chaff. Or – worse – if no one was even left besides Pearl, still alive to do so.
"A bottle of wine please", he said and set the duffel bag on the counter. "Red. Whatever looks good. Or better yet, make it two. And the amber one over there." He gestured to the rows by the mirror. "No need for a glass."
The barkeep recognized him. One glance told him as much. But then again, who didn't?
Must be Bernard, he thought. Unless the owner of this place had changed since the end of the war. Lean fellow. Same skin tone as Chaff, but his hair was grayer by the temples.
At least he didn't tell him to get the fuck out of his pub. The man simply reached for the desired bottles and set them on the counter, one by one.
"Will I have my work cut out for me later?" Bernard's voice – if it was Bernard – was neither merry nor hostile. Just practical. Matter-of-factly.
"No", Haymitch said. "I'm not staying. Not for long." He got out his wallet, handed over the last of the ruffled bills. "Keep the change. Can you remind me I need to leave in an hour?" He glanced at the wall clock. "Hour-fifteen minutes? There's a train I gotta catch. Can't miss it."
"Sure."
Bag clunky and heavy, clinking with bottles, he found his way out into the beer garden. Dumped himself by the first available bench. The moist which had collected in vast continents on the painted wood, instantly soaked through his underwear.
More of the stuff trickled inside the collar of his shirt. Tepid as a cup of tea, forgotten on the mantelpiece. Summer rain, the kind that made you sweat even more.
Whatever. Here he was alone. The leafy trees growing around him offered some shelter but still: No one dumb enough to loiter out here today.
He unzipped the bag. Twisted the top of the first bottle he encountered. Didn't even hesitate before he had the first sip.
What for? Effs and the kids weren't here. Amy. Ian. God only knew when he'd hold them in his arms again. No. He couldn't think of one good reason why he should board his train stone-cold sober.
Just don't get too deep in your cups, you ass, he warned himself before the second mouthful. Or else they won't allow you on.
He had to go home. Couldn't – wouldn't – embarrass June and Annabel in front of their friends and neighbors. He'd been enough of a pest whilst under their roof.
Talk about wearing out you're welcome.
Half a bottle. Then the train.
And so he drank. Watched by no one but a ruffled mockingjay hiding in the trees and the occasional pair of eyes through a window.
His recollections thereafter were hazy. Nothing but bits and pieces – the passage of time.
Birds like black confetti, high in the sky. A lone dog barking. The splatter of water through a downpipe. The aftertaste of wine. Fruity and sour.
But the barkeep must have kept his promise because hours later, in the dead of night, the mentor of District 12 staggered out onto his own soil once again. Tanked to the gills. Again.
Home.
Shoulders sagging, rain dripping down his hair, his hands, his eyelashes, he hardly ever looked up. No need. He could walk this way blindfolded.
The ground felt soggy, slippery under his clumsy feet.
Different district. Same downpour. He swore it followed him from place to place. Taunting him.
Not that he didn't deserve it.
He staggered through puddles as deep as his ankles. Didn't bother to swerve off his path much. Only mindful of people's windows. Their vegetable gardens.
Last thing he wanted was to ruin someone's future dinner or frighten the kids in their beds with the sound of his squelching boots.
Lights were on in maybe one in ten houses. The Goat Man, who had a history of insomnia. Delly Cartwright's youngest cousin who couldn't sleep without a night light. Bristel and her husband. Naked and tangled in bed perhaps?
Most were dark though. Doors bolted shut against the night.
Not all of them. Up ahead, he saw the open window. Just slightly ajar to let the air in, on a warm night like this.
Someone was awake. Golden light spilled through the curtains of the living room. As he approached, he could just make out the soft rattle of cutleries against china over the pattering rain. A cup of tea perhaps. Or maybe a bowl of soup.
Half-blinded he rubbed his eyes, his soaked face. A pointless attempt. More than a little round under his feet he made a slack fist and knocked. Once. Twice. Or, in his state, it was more like pounding.
Eyes downcast, the first thing he noticed when she opened the door was her house slippers. Woolly and soft in a quiet pink color. A birthday gift from Hazelle.
Hand against the handle, she wore the same simple robes her mother wore before her. His gaze lingered on the small baby blue flowers around the hemline and the hems of her wrists.
Effie's work. She stitched them onto the fabric, back during that summer she spent with them after her overdose.
Peeta loved the details and Nella loved the very texture of the little leaves and blossoms. Used to follow them with the tip of her finger.
Forget-me-nots.
Throat choked up, his dull, blood-shot eyes finally met her gray ones.
Seam gray. Like the eyes of his mother. His brother. His son and daughter.
Sae gave a quiet smile. As if expecting him.
"You better come in", she said. "Before you catch your death out here."
Haymitch's face crinkled up like a worn tissue. He couldn't help it. Couldn't hide it. Not from her. The tears he'd carried within, for hours and hours – just below the surface – finally welled up.
All at once.
His old babysitter spoke nothing further. Water soaked through her slippers, but she paid it no mind. Just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
He tried to speak. Tell her how sorry he was about the hour, the fact that he was drunk, that he didn't know where else to go – but no words came out. Only sobs.
The old woman held him. Her small frame so frail and yet so strong. She caressed the back of his head, just like when he was a toddler, speaking soft, soothing words in his ear.
And Haymitch clung to her. Like a child to its mama, while raindrops tinked against the sphere-shaped porch light.