Haymitch could not possibly be drunk enough to forget which hand Chaff is missing. Not now, anyway. Not here. Not anymore. Even if you don’t take into account them trying to beat the crap out of each other, they’ve fumbled enough tonight opening bottles and locking doors and playing Five Fingers instead of Ten that it’s damn near burned into Haymitch’s mind, I lost a fistfight to a one-handed man and he’s got a mean left hook.
He’s got a mean left fist too, hook or no hook, but that’s not burned into Haymitch’s mind, that’s burned into his skin.
“You do this to everyone you beat up?” Haymitch asks, panting the words into Chaff’s shoulder. He tastes more like sweat and smoke than booze, there. Haymitch likes it.
“You watched my Games,” Chaff says, “you tell me.”
“Tell you what,” Haymitch groans, more because it’s annoying than because Chaff is taking too damn long to get Haymitch’s pants open with one hand. “Next one to mention the Games doesn’t get off.”
“Fine.” Chaff snaps the button on Haymitch’s pants, doesn’t bother with the zipper, just shoves his fingers right down into Haymitch’s shorts and grabs him full on. Left hands are strange, Haymitch thinks, dazed like his head hit the wall a little too hard, dazed like there’s a shiner around his mind and not just his eye. Left hands are strange but Chaff’s is big and rough and slick, and good, more importantly good, and Haymitch doesn’t need to think about anything else. He thrusts and Chaff grabs and it staggers Haymitch against the arm of the couch, damn near topples him over. He holds on. He’s got hands to hold on with, it’s not like Chaff can hold him up.
(Then again, Haymitch reminds himself, somewhere past the want and the haze and the two shots too many, I didn’t think he could take me in a fight either, and look where that got me.)
Good thing he doesn’t mind where he’s got, not at all.
Chaff’s hard too, hard through his jeans, fucking Haymitch’s hipbone like it’s gonna open up and let him in. Haymitch laughs, figures that getting another hand between them is the least he can do but it’s more of a task than he thought it would be. He’s gotten Chaff’s shirt open but not off, the flaps are hanging in the way, and what damn reminder did Haymitch need that the Capitol’s gotten under both their skins? Chaff’s got no hair on him either, no hair and no scars, and for all the muscle of a man of twenty-seven who’s worked in the fields his whole life he’s got black skin as smooth as a baby’s ass.
Haymitch is nineteen, just this spring nineteen, and he knows he’s never gonna be a man now, not really.
Like hell he’ll let that throw him out of the mood. He fucks Chaff’s palm, sucks on Chaff’s neck, tears into Chaff’s pants like he’ll starve if he doesn’t. No scars. Hair, there, at least, and an enviable cock that fills up Haymitch’s hand like the neck of a bottle, but no scars.
No wonder Chaff didn’t want a new right hand.
The couch barely keeps them upright, the way they’re grinding, the way they’re clashing together, wrists and hips and no goddamn traction. Chaff can’t hold on and Haymitch has nothing to hold on to, between Chaff’s close-shaved head and the shirt hanging off his shoulders and the power in his back, rutting on Haymitch as they jerk each other off. He grabs the arm of the couch to keep from falling, feels his sweat sink into the grit of the fabric. His eyes ache, the bruises around them and the blood pounding in them and then Haymitch feels Chaff’s arm on the back of his neck, crooked hard, rubbing the stump of his wrist in Haymitch’s hair.
“That’s all you, isn’t it,” Haymitch says, baring his teeth against Chaff’s neck when Chaff’s pulls tight on his cock, so goddamn tight that it might well leave another bruise. Haymitch can’t bring himself to care. “Still got a few nerves under there?”
“Still firing,” Chaff says, and that’s all the invitation Haymitch needs.
(He doesn’t let himself think about anyone else with sensitive hands. He can’t. It’s worse than bringing up the Games, bring her into this and no one gets off.)
It risks them both falling but like Haymitch cares—he hauls up his hand and grabs on to Chaff’s arm, pulls it tighter around his throat, tight enough he can feel one pulse on another, both breakneck fast. He brings the stump of Chaff’s wrist between their faces and catches the scars in his mouth, tongues them and sucks on whatever skin he can hold. It’s rough, it’s real, it’s something one of them still has, something one of them chose, like they’re choosing this. And he’s gratified, from his swollen eyes to his swollen cock and right back up, when Chaff starts pounding into Haymitch’s fist like he honest to god misses his own.
It’s a struggle. It’s not a fight, but damned if it isn’t a struggle, to stay upright if not to stay hard. Chaff works him raw and hot and close enough that Haymitch would beg if he’d had three shots too many instead of two, and Haymitch gives as good as he’s getting, or better, if he does say so himself. He doesn’t say. He bites down on Chaff’s skin and throttles Chaff’s cock like they’re the same part of him, like his mouth could be both places at once, and that thought nearly sends him off all on its own. Maybe the only thing that holds that back is how tight Chaff’s arm has gotten on Haymitch’s neck, how it’s cutting off his air as much as that rough hand jerking his cock is cutting off his blood.
Then Chaff comes first, surging in Haymitch’s fist and over his hips and against his tongue, and no, there’s nothing holding him back at all. Haymitch comes laughing, bright red behind his eyes and white through all the bruises and scrapes that can be theirs too, at least for a while.
They falter, sticky and sticking together, and topple over the arm of the couch. Haymitch can’t say Chaff’s weight is welcome but it isn’t bad, only stops him from breathing just a little longer.
“I need a drink,” Chaff says, whistling through his teeth. Haymitch can feel that smile, on his throat. If he was ever afraid of it, he’s not anymore, and maybe that’s foolish but what can he say, he’s done stupider things in his life than trust another victor.
And Chaff’s not just another victor, not anymore.
“Flask’s in my right boot,” Haymitch says, and swats it against Chaff’s hip. “Help yourself. I got more where that came from.”
“I know.” Chaff wipes his hand on Haymitch’s pants before he goes for the flask. “I watched your Games.”
Chaff grins, and Haymitch wipes it off his face—and wipes off his hand, at the same time, might as well kill two birds with one stone. He doesn’t punch as hard as he can, just ribs him in the jaw. “Next time, you don’t get off.”
“Good,” Chaff says, still grinning, “there’s a next time.”