Chapter Text
The rest of the Victory Tour went pretty much the same.
Every district they went to was different. Ten was enormous, even bigger and more populated than Eleven, and filled with animals. The people there reminded Haymitch a bit of the Seam in regards to looks - just a little too pale, their eyes were dark rather than gray, but still really close. Nine, the grain district, was of course made up of endless fields of wheat. Eight was the closest to Twelve geographically, but it looked incredibly different - densely packed with enormous textile factories and tenements, air stuffed with industrial fumes, all with little to no nature in sight. The people there were dressed in much fancier clothing than in any of the previous districts, with quite a few of them missing limbs and wearing massive scars.
(Haymitch had heard rumors that the textile mills were prone to accidents, ones that could take off an arm or leg with ease. He’d believed it, but he never fully understood until now.)
Seven was the first district they pulled into that truly made Haymitch think of Twelve. It wasn’t particularly similar, objectively speaking - the forest was much too dense, the air much too cold. Still, there was a level of nature, of wildness in Seven that he hadn’t seen anywhere but Twelve.
And Six…
Six was…rough. It was Wellie’s home district, the district that would’ve been the one to win the Quell if Haymitch hadn’t screwed it all up, if he’d stuck by Wellie and protected her like he should have, like she’d trusted him to. On the way in, he barely noticed his surroundings, the industrial nature of the transportation district. All he could think about, all he could see, was the ghost of his little dove.
Wellie’s ghost didn’t say a word the whole way in. Haymitch tried to ignore her, he did (she’s not real she’s not real she’s not real -) and he managed well enough, until.
Until he got to that podium, right by the families of the district Six tributes. The families of Miles, Atread, Velo…and Wellie.
Her family wasn’t particularly large, but not particularly small either. A mom and dad, and two little boys clearly under reaping age. All with Wellie’s features - slightly wavy light brown hair, blue-gray eyes and thin as a rail, every one of them.
(Wellie must have been the oldest. Maybe she took out tesserae. Maybe that’s why she was reaped.)
Haymitch could see Wellie. Standing right there to his side, staring longingly at the family she must’ve loved so much. So close to them, but unable to return.
Brit had given him cards again. Haymitch was supposed to read from them. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t say a word, not past the lump in his throat.
So instead of giving a speech, Haymitch just stood there in silence. Not moving a muscle, not saying a thing, as the silence became more and more awkward and the audience began to shift uncomfortably.
Haymitch didn’t attend the festivities in Six. Instead, when his team finally realized he wouldn’t be talking, they quickly stepped forwards and ushered him off the stage and back to the train, Brit berating him for ‘causing a scene’ the entire way.
(Afterwards, Haymitch wished he’d done something. That he’d either done what Snow wanted and given the speech, or that he’d said something to Wellie’s family - apologized, offered condolences, money, something. Instead, he’d done neither, and just stood there. Doing nothing.)
Five passed by in a blur. There were a few reasons for that - scenery wise, it looked pretty industrial, same as Six, so it didn’t particularly stand out. Additionally, Haymitch wasn’t allowed to see nearly as much as before, being closely escorted by both Effie and Brit to make sure he didn’t go off the rails again. And finally…
Finally, Haymitch spent the entire time there dreading the last four districts.
Two, Haymitch wasn’t all that worried about - he hadn’t had too many interactions with their tributes, so that one would probably go the same as all the others. Four, Three and One on the other hand…
Haymitch had killed two of the tributes from Four, in that standoff with Panache. He’d checked which after he won, and found that those two had been Angler and Barba. Their families would be there, the families of the children he’d murdered. Haymitch would have to face them.
(Haymitch wasn’t sure he could.)
And then, Beetee and his family would be in Three. Haymitch didn’t think Beetee blamed him for what happened to Ampert, even though he should. But Ampert’s mother, Beetee’s pregnant wife…Haymitch wasn’t so sure. Maybe she hated him. Maybe she blamed him for Ampert’s death. She should.
(A part of Haymitch almost hoped that she’d blame him. That she’d scream, spit at him, even try to attack. At least then he’d know that someone else was able to see him, to see the rot and infection at the core of his soul.)
And then…and then there was One.
Of everything Haymitch had done in the arena, one thing he didn’t regret at all was killing Silka. He wasn’t entirely sure why - maybe, because he technically hadn’t killed Silka at all. Rather, she’d killed herself, thrown the axe that wound up burying itself in her skull. All Haymitch had done was duck - accidentally, yes, but still. Or maybe…
Maybe it was because of what she’d done to Wellie.
Haymitch knew for a fact that he hadn’t deserved to win the Quell. There hadn’t been a day since his victory where he hadn’t wished it had been someone else, someone who deserved it. Someone like Wyatt or Louella or Lou Lou, someone like Maysilee or Ampert or Wellie. Someone…someone who was good, in a way that Haymitch just…wasn’t.
But through it all, there had been two people Haymitch knew for certain had deserved the crown even less than he did. And those two were Panache and Silka. Panache because he’d been an idiot and a dick. And Silka…
Haymitch was still furious with Silka for killing Wellie. It may not be entirely rational, but he was. And he wasn’t particularly upset that she was dead. Still…out of all of the tributes, it was easiest to make the argument that she should’ve been the one to win. She’d made it to the final two, all the way to the end, and only died because the gamemakers screwed up the forcefield. Which meant that out of all of the grieving families, Silka’s family was the most likely to feel angry. To feel cheated, by the Capitol and by the Games, but most importantly by Haymitch himself. And after the shit that Silka had pulled, Haymitch wasn’t entirely sure if he’d be able to appear appropriately contrite in front of them.
Still. Like he’d said, he didn’t feel particularly bad about what had happened to Silka. So out of the three of ‘em, One was the district Haymitch was least worried about.
So, of course, One wound up being the worst.
Four actually wasn’t too bad, all things considered. Sunny and cool, with sandy beaches and fishing boats and the ocean, wider and more endless than Haymitch ever could’ve imagined. The speech was a bit tricky, seeing as Angler’s family had been glaring daggers at him the whole time (Barba’s family showed no emotion at all, just watched stone-faced as he spoke) but Haymitch managed to get through it all the same. The feast was nice enough - he’d spent the night trying out different kinds of seafood (to distract himself from the guilt gnawing away at his core, but still) along with Chaff, who got progressively more drunk off of some weird kind of seaweed alcohol with every passing hour. Haymitch tried it out of curiosity, but it tasted pretty much the same as normal white liquor, so he didn’t drink any more of it. Basically, it was surprisingly fine, at least when you take into account the fact that he’d murdered two of Four’s children.
Three, on the other hand…Three was rough. Not quite as rough as Six, but still. It didn’t go great.
Upon arriving, Haymitch rode through Three to the central square in another stretched-out car, looking out at the district. Like Eight, Three was crammed full of factories, though these ones were for electronics rather than fabrics. That's Three’s job after all - to design and produce fancy, complicated tech stuff. Where physical strength and dexterity was prioritized in most other districts, Three prized intelligence and ingenuity above all else, with their sharpest minds becoming some of Panem’s inventors and designers rather than factory workers.
(Wyatt Callow had been born in Twelve. He’d been so smart, so sharp, able to do complex calculations in his head faster than you could blink an eye. What would his life have been like, if he’d been born in Three instead?)
Reaching the square, Haymitch got up on stage and walked up to the podium. The families of the dead tributes were there, looking at him. Haymitch knew he should examine them all, commit their appearances to memory for the sake of their children, the children he might as well have slaughtered himself. But despite himself, there was only one group he could focus on. A group consisting of Beetee, a heavily pregnant woman who was presumably his wife, and, of course, Ampert’s ghost.
On his way in, Haymitch had wondered where Ampert was. Why he hadn’t appeared to him, like Wellie had back in Six. And now he had his answer. Ampert hadn’t met with him because he’d already been here with his family, where he belonged.
During the speech, Haymitch kept screwing up. Stumbling over his words, stopping and starting again, losing his place and mixing up his cards. He just…couldn’t help but look over at Beetee and his wife and Ampert every other second. At their family, father and mother and son, all together as they were meant to be. As they would’ve been, if Haymitch had actually protected Ampert. If he’d found a way to make sure Ampert won.
But, hey. At least he made a speech, however poor-quality it was. A step up from Six for sure.
Beetee and his wife left as soon as Haymitch finished his speech, probably to go home in order to avoid the festivities celebrating their son’s death. Ampert didn’t follow them - instead, he dissolved into nothingness, like he was never even there.
(Because he hadn’t been, had he? He wasn’t real. None of Haymitch’s ghosts were.)
Haymitch spent the feast picking at his food. It was fine, nothing special but still good quality. But he had no appetite. All he could think of was Beetee and his wife, Ampert’s mother.
(She hadn’t looked angry at him. Neither of them had. They both just looked…sad, and broken. Shattered by their loss.)
After Three came Two. It reminded Haymitch of the mountains of Twelve, kind of - the mountains here were much sharper, harsher, rockier, not nearly as worn and full of life as home. Here, the square was set in the one main town, which appeared to operate at a military-esque level of efficiency. Which made sense. Two’s industry may technically be masonry, but everyone in Panem knew that its true purpose was stockpiling weaponry and churning out enough Peacekeepers to fill the nation.
Luckily, this time around Haymitch managed to stick to the plan - get up on stage, give the speech, get through the festivities and get back to the train. It wasn’t too difficult - he’d barely known the Two tributes, could barely even remember their names. It was fine.
(Forty-nine children had died for Haymitch to be here. And for most of them, all he could remember were their names.)
And One…well.
Haymitch didn’t think it would be much of an exaggeration to say that One was the worst stop on their trip aside from Six. Maybe even including Six, to be honest. Though at least in One, the disaster hadn’t entirely been his fault.
Out of all the districts Haymitch had seen, One was the most like the Capitol. Not quite as over-the-top extravagant, but still visibly expensive and luxurious. Rather than being a town or cluster of factories, District One looked more like a city, with the same skyscrapers of metal and glass that the Capitol was packed full with. The people also looked to be particularly well-fed, akin to Two and Four. Just by looking, it was easy to see why One was the Capitol’s favorite.
One’s stop started off like every other stop on the tour. Haymitch was taken to the reaping square, this time in a strange sort of decorative motorized carriage. Brit gave him a set of cards to read off of, and carrying them, he got up on stage in front of the district and walked over to the podium.
The four families of the District One tributes were there, on smaller stages near his. Haymitch hadn’t had much interaction with either Loupe or Carat, so he wasn’t sure which families they’d belonged to, but he was pretty sure he knew which families Panache and Silka had come from. On one stage, in front and slightly to the right of his main one, there was a large family consisting of a mom, a dad and five children. Like Panache, they were all tall and muscle-bound, like they spent all day every day weight training. Four of the children looked younger than Panache, with two seeming to be under reaping age. The fifth was clearly a few years older than Panache, and familiar - Palladium Barker, winner of the forty-sixth Games and apparently, Panache’s older brother. Surprisingly, he didn’t look too upset with Haymitch, just…tired. Tired, and disappointed.
On another stage, in front and slightly to the left of Haymitch’s, was who Haymitch assumed to be the Sharp family. Unusually tall and lean, with Silka’s pointed features and straight dark hair. Here, there were only three - an older man, presumably Silka’s father, a man in his twenties, presumably Silka’s older brother, and a girl, presumably her sister, who couldn’t possibly be older than fifteen. And while Silka’s father and brother just looked grief-stricken, her sister was glaring at Haymitch poisonously, a snarl on her face and fists clenched at her sides as she practically shook with suppressed rage.
(She looked almost exactly like Silka.)
At the sight of her, Haymitch hesitated for a moment as he was struck by a memory he usually tried not to think about. A memory of sitting in a tree with Wellie, hearing Silka crying below, and feeling sorry for her. Of realizing that she was just a kid, same as them. Of dropping some chocolate down to her, to show that she wasn’t alone.
(Ever since the Games, Haymitch had reduced Silka to a single image in his head. An image of her, splattered with blood and holding Wellie’s decapitated head in her hands. A murderer who had to be punished.)
(He’d blocked out the rest of the picture. Refused to recognize that Silka hadn’t been a monster. She’d just been a kid, trying to survive. Just doing what she thought she had to do to get home.)
(She didn't deserve to die.)
Still. There wasn’t really anything he could do about it now. And maybe it made him a bad person, maybe it made him heartless, but…the fact was, her death, Silka’s death, was still the least of Haymitch’s regrets. So, pushing through his hesitation, Haymitch held up the cards and began to read them aloud.
He’d gotten about two minutes into his speech when it happened.
“Cheater!”
Haymitch’s head jerked from his cards at the scream, searching for the source of the sound. Glancing around, he zeroed in on the Sharps - specifically, on Silka’s sister, who was struggling towards him with a murderous expression while her family desperately tried to hold her back.
“You’re a cheater!” Silka’s sister screamed, attempting to lunge towards him. “You cheated! She should’ve won! She was supposed to win! She should be here instead of you, you cheater! It’s not fair!”
Her father clamped a hand over the girl’s mouth, muffling any further words, just in time for a pair of Peacekeepers to come up onto the stage behind them and drag her away, back towards the Peacekeeper’s base. And as the girl’s screamed accusations faded into the distance, Haymitch noticed the crowd’s restlessness. Shifting, murmuring, quick harsh looks directed at him. Looks that said, She’s right. She’s right. He’s a cheater.
And Haymitch couldn’t even disagree with that. Because it was true. He was a cheater. He’d cheated in the Games, and he’d won as a result. Hell, his use of the forcefield was really the least of his cheating. And yes, Haymitch regretted it, but because so many of the others deserved to win so much more than he did. Not because it was ‘wrong’ or ‘unfair’ or whatever the fuck - as if the Games themselves weren’t both wrong and unfair, as if they weren’t rigged against all the non-Career districts from the start. As if Haymitch had ever agreed to play by their rules, as if he’d ever been given the option not to play at all.
And now here he was. A victor, and a cheater, standing in front of a district full of people who apparently thought he should’ve played Snow’s game and died. A district of children who were probably planning on becoming Careers, on volunteering one day, on intentionally going into that arena. A district of people that just - didn’t understand. Like the Capitol, only worse. Because these people were on the chopping block, same as everyone else, and they were still closing their eyes.
Haymitch just wanted to go back to the train. But he knew that turning around and leaving without finishing his speech would just make things worse. And standing here in silence…it was one thing to pull that in Six, a district that the Capitol didn’t particularly care about. But here in One? Yeah. That wasn’t an option.
So Haymitch didn’t do either of those things. Instead, he looked down at the cards and began to read from them as quickly as he could. Flipping from one card to the next, Haymitch smashed his way through the speech like a flying axe, spitting out words at a rapid-fire pace, so fast he could barely be understood. Haymitch kept making mistakes, kept stumbling, misreading, misspeaking, but he didn’t care - all he cared about was getting to the end of this goddamn speech. And the moment he snapped out the last word on the last card, he threw the whole stack into the audience and stalked off the stage as the cards fluttered down like confetti.
Unfortunately, Brit and Plutarch both refused to let Haymitch go straight back to the train. So instead he had to spend that evening at the feast in the Justice building, picking at his absurdly fancy food while Chaff downed four separate bottles of some kind of fancy liquor right next to him. And when they finally went to go back to the train, both Haymitch and Plutarch had to work together to half-carry, half-drag an inebriated Chaff back to his room. A fitting end to an absolute catastrophe of a day.
***
Haymitch woke up around seven the next morning, around halfway between One and the Capitol. Surprisingly, everyone except Chaff was already up, about, and very, very on edge. In fact, Brit especially was so on edge that she insisted on spending the remainder of their trip preparing him, with Effie’s help, for the interview with Caesar.
Thinking about it, Haymitch could understand why. After all, while this tour did have its good moments, or at least its semi-decent moments, it absolutely hadn’t gone nearly as well as most did. Haymitch had seen victor speeches before, seen the recaps on TV, and generally speaking the speeches were all akin to the ones he’d given in Eleven, in Seven, in Two. Incidents like Six and One and even Three to some extent just didn’t happen - or if they did, the Capitol didn’t show them. And now they were approaching the most important part of all - the interview held in the Capitol with Caesar Flickerman.
(Victor tours always followed the same format. Descending order from Twelve to One with the exception of the victor’s home district, the big interview with a Flickerman in the Capitol, and then one last celebration and photoshoot back in the victor’s district. After that, the victor would either stay home until the Games rolled around, or, if they’d acquired a taste for Capitol life, they might just go back. In fact, there were even a couple of victors who spent most of their time in the Capitol, and only spent around three or four months a year in their own district. Not that it mattered really - it’s not like Haymitch was planning on joining them.)
The point was, Haymitch had screwed up enough. He had to nail this interview, to show Snow that he was willing to play along, to play by his rules. To be a model victor.
(To make sure Ma and Sid didn’t choke to death on sugared poison and their own blood.)
Pulling into the Capitol around sunset, Haymitch and his team bundled themselves into a black van driven by Peacekeepers and rolled through the Capitol. They couldn’t see where they were going, but when the van finally stopped and the doors opened, Haymitch knew exactly where he was.
Because they were in front of the building that, during the Quell, had held the apartment for the District Twelve tributes.
In a haze of memory, Haymitch followed along as the group took him into the building, up in the elevator and back into that strange, fluffy orange apartment he remembered so well. He knew he was missing the other’s words, knew he was more than a little out of it here in this place so drenched in the past. Still, Haymitch managed to catch enough to understand that he and Chaff would be staying here, while everyone else would be staying at their homes in the Capitol, as well as that they would all meet up tomorrow at the studio around one. With that, the rest of Haymitch’s team packed up and left, Effie giving him a big, tight hug as she made her exit. And just like that, Haymitch was left there, in the apartment that had been his prison for that short period after he won.
(At least this time he wasn’t here alone.)
Chaff immediately planted himself in front of the television, sinking roots into that old couch as he clicked away on the remote, which appeared to actually work this time. Meanwhile, Haymitch went to the kitchen to check what food there was, and…yeah. Milk and bread and nothing more, just like he’d expected.
(It had been a while since Haymitch had eaten plain milk or bread. He’d had food that included milk and bread, to be sure, but he hadn’t had much of either by themselves since the last time he’d been here.)
(Ma had given him milk and plain bread during the first week after he’d returned to Twelve. Haymitch had gone still at the sight of them, and hadn’t been able to stomach eating or drinking either. Ma hadn’t given him either since.)
(She didn’t ask why Haymitch had reacted that way. And Haymitch hadn’t told her. He would someday, just. Not yet.)
Haymitch knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach any of this either. Still, Chaff was a pretty big guy, and though he seemed to subsist on a liquor-based diet, he had to be hungry by now. So Haymitch loaded up a plate with rolls, grabbed a carton of milk and carried both of them to the living room, where he set them down on the coffee table in front of Chaff and sat himself down on the couch beside him.
Chaff looked down at his food and huffed. “Shit, kid. Is this all there is?”
Haymitch nodded, even though Chaff wasn’t looking at him to see it. “Yeah. It…uh. It’s all Snow gave me when I was recovering, so.”
Chaff clicked his tongue, shaking his head. Still, he set the remote down on the table and started in on his meal.
Haymitch turned to look at the television, feeling surprisingly relaxed. He wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t nervous about the bread Chaff was eating, the milk he was drinking. Why he’d been so calm around food and drink this whole entire trip. Maybe it was because that part of him that thought any and all consumables could be poisoned knew that Snow wouldn’t kill off anyone on Haymitch’s team during his Victory Tour. That a stunt like that would bring attention and watchful eyes, possibly even causing some cracks in the Capitol’s forcefield of denial.
Or maybe Haymitch was finally regaining his sanity. One of the two.
The television was playing some kind of Capitol show Haymitch didn’t know. He didn’t really understand what was going on in the episode, but it wasn’t Panem news and it wasn’t the Games, so Haymitch just watched it mindlessly as Chaff finished his food.
Once he was done, Chaff silently got up and took his dishes into the kitchen. Haymitch could hear the sink running as he washed them, hear the clink of Chaff setting them into the drying rack. Coming back, Chaff sat down on the couch in the same exact spot, asking Haymitch, “So. You got any questions about the interview tomorrow? Anything you want to prepare?”
Haymitch snorted and shook his head. “Nah, I spent all day prepping with Effie and Brit. I think I’m good.”
Chaff nodded, leaning back against the couch. The light of the TV flickering over his face, Chaff said, “Good to hear, kid. Now. You gonna eat anything?”
Haymitch swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “Uh. Not really. I just…I’m not hungry.”
Chaff turned towards him, raising an eyebrow. “Kid, you haven’t eaten since this morning. Wanna try that again?”
For a second, Haymitch thought about refusing to answer. About getting up and going back to that bedroom and doing his best to sleep through the night. About ignoring his new mentor Chaff, a victor himself, who as far as he knew was the only person in the Capitol who might actually be able to understand.
Sighing heavily, Haymitch slumped back against the couch, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively. “I just…” Haymitch looked down, digging the toes of his sock into the orange shag carpet. “I dunno. After I won, I was here, and all I could have was milk and bread, and it just…it just brings back bad memories. I…honestly don’t know if I could even keep it down, if I did try’n eat it.”
Chaff nodded, taking a breath in and out. “Alright, kid. Look, just…I’m not gonna push you on eating tonight. But when there’s food other than milk and bread…just try’n eat more, okay? You’re as thin as the day you were reaped.”
Haymitch ducked his head. “Yeah, I know, I know. I just…eating is a little hard for me. I’ll get over it, I just…I just need time.”
“Yeah. I guess I can’t really fault you for that, kid,” Chaff said with a huff of air that sounded a bit like a sarcastic laugh. “That arena of yours was a rough one.”
The two of them spent some time together in silence, watching the TV as a bunch of dolled-up Capitol actors flit and flickered across it in some sort of storyline that, as far as Haymitch could tell, was about one guy’s wife cheating on him with another guy, while that guy’s wife was cheating on him with the first guy. Or something like that, he wasn’t entirely sure.
After about ten minutes, Chaff spoke.
“Look. Kid,” he started slowly, as if he was talking through molasses, “Tomorrow, at your interview. You…you’ll have to do a good job, y’know? Come off well to the Capitol, stick with that mask you put on for your Games.”
Haymitch nodded, groaning slightly. “Yeah, I know. I will, don’t worry.”
Haymitch got why Chaff was concerned - after all, he hadn’t exactly managed to keep up that image through the rest of the tour. Still, this would be different. Here, Haymitch wouldn’t have to look at the families of the children he’d murdered. He wouldn’t have to push through the atmosphere of grief, weighing down his every thought and word. He’d just be dealing with the Capitols, with a crowd of flashy, flamboyant creatures chittering among themselves in a language that Haymitch couldn’t fully comprehend. An audience that didn’t understand what the Games really were, one that would happily swallow down the fun rascal persona that in the Districts would’ve gone down like a lead balloon.
(Haymitch hated the Capitol, and he hated the jackass act he had to put on here. But if this was what he had to do to protect his family, then…well. Then that’s just what he has to do, isn’t it now.)
Chaff nodded, tilting his head down to look at the carpet. “Yeah, okay. Look, just…” He leaned in closer to Haymitch and spoke in a low voice, like he thought someone might be trying to listen in…which. They were in the Capitol, in the tribute apartments. So, yeah, Snow probably was.
“Look. Haymitch, kid…you’ll need to put on the act, play to the crowd. Just…don’t play too much, okay? Enough to live up to expectations, not so much to make them love you even more. Understand?”
Haymitch just blinked, confused. “Uh…okay?” His mind was running a mile a minute, trying to parse through Chaff’s sentence, to identify the meaning behind his words. “Wait…why shouldn’t I make them like me? Is…is there something bad, about the Capitol liking me?”
Chaff grimaced slightly. “Well…yes. There is.”
Haymitch waited for Chaff to say something more. When he didn’t, Haymitch prompted, “So…are you going to tell me what it is, or…?”
Chaff looked torn. “I…I can’t, kid. Your handler is the one who’s supposed to tell you about this, on the train after the Capitol interview. Hell, I shouldn’t even be telling you this much. I just…” He trailed off, shook his head and changed tack. “Just, try to do what I say, okay? I need you to trust me here, kid.”
Slowly, Haymitch nodded. “Uh…okay?”
Chaff sighed heavily. “Okay. Okay, good. I…I’m gonna go to bed now, alright? Might’ve drunk a little too much today, t’be honest.”
(All Chaff had today was half a bottle of whiskey at lunch. Which was probably the least he’d had any day of this entire trip. There was no way he’d drunk too much.)
Still, sensing that this was some sort of thing, Haymitch nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go to sleep soon too.”
With a nod in response, Chaff turned and lumbered off to the mentor rooms where Mags and Wiress had stayed in the days leading up to the Quell. And Haymitch turned back towards the TV, closed his eyes and let the noise wash over him as he thought over their conversation.
Chaff had been…weird. He’d been more and more off lately, as they’d gotten closer and closer to the Capitol. And the way he’d talked…usually, he only got that stilted and vague when he was talking about Brit. It just…
Haymitch didn’t understand this at all.
Well, okay, he knew that there was something going on that no one was willing to tell him about, that had to do with having a handler like Brit and being well-liked by the Capitol. And as he’d just learned, apparently being liked by the Capitol was bad somehow, and Haymitch would be getting the answers he needed the day after tomorrow, on the train ride back to Twelve. So…
Haymitch tried his best to piece together the information he had to make a complete picture. And he failed. He still had absolutely no idea what was going on.
Well. Nothing for it but to wait for Brit to tell him about it, really. For now, Haymitch would just have to do his best to follow Chaff’s advice about the interview tomorrow. To come off well, but not too well…whatever that meant.
Sighing, Haymitch stood up from the couch, stretching out his arms. Turning off the TV, Haymitch left the remote on the table and headed for the room he’d once shared with Wyatt all those months ago, only stopping to grab his bag from where he’d left it by the door.
In his old tribute bedroom, Haymitch followed the same routine he’d had every night on this trip. Brushed his teeth, got undressed, downed a mouthful of sleep syrup and climbed into bed, prepared for the nightmares that awaited him. And after what had to be at least half an hour of tossing and turning, Haymitch finally fell asleep.
***
The next morning, Haymitch woke up surprisingly well-rested.
Honestly, it was probably because of his dreams. They hadn’t been particularly good, no, but they hadn’t been a fraction as bad as normal. Instead, Haymitch had just had boring, monotonous dreams of the time he’d spent in this apartment alone after he’d won. Not exactly the most entertaining kind of dream, true, but miles better than the ones he normally had.
Getting up, Haymitch went through his normal morning routine - brushing his teeth, taking a bath, getting dressed. Normally he’d also try and choke something down for Ma’s sake, but, well. She wasn’t here, and the only things available were milk and bread, so yeah. No. Instead, Haymitch decided to skip breakfast and just drink some water from the tap.
Chaff was up too, which was a surprise…at first. Until Haymitch took a quick look at the living room clock and realized that it was already half past noon - way later than he’d thought, with just half an hour left before his team would be showing up. Haymitch decided to spend the time before then talking to Chaff, who seemed to be in a friendly enough mood, if oddly twitchy.
And at one o’clock exactly, Effie showed up and escorted both Haymitch and Chaff out and into another black van. On the way to Flickerman’s studio, she did her best to make conversation with the both of them, though Haymitch was the only one who tried to actively engage with her. As the van came to a stop, a pair of Peacekeepers opened the door and escorted the three of them into the studio where the others were waiting - specifically Brit, Minerva, Proserpina and Vitus.
As soon as they entered, Proserpina and Vitus descended on Haymitch, like a flock of pigeons onto a scattering of birdseed. Apparently, the work they’d done for the districts wasn’t nearly enough for the Capitol, so now they had to spend the next couple hours treating and styling his hair, doing his nails and rubbing his skin all over, first with a rough scrub they called an ‘exfoliator’ and then with some kind of glittery spicy-smelling lotion that made his entire body sparkle. Haymitch sat through it all as best he could - there was a slight bump in the road when they insisted on at least trimming his nails and the ends of his hair, but this time the hair scissors they came up with were small and harmless-looking enough that Haymitch was able to let them use ‘em on him without losing his mind.
This time around, Proserpina and Vitus both also insisted on doing his makeup. They hadn’t done much of that in the districts, but again, apparently the Capitol required more effort. Haymitch didn’t really like makeup - it always felt like he was wearing a second, fake skin on top of his real skin. Luckily, the two of them gave him a lighter, more natural look, so it wasn’t quite so bad. And once they were done with that, it was time for Haymitch to get dressed.
As Haymitch exited the prep room in a fluffy robe and a new pair of strangely small underwear, Minerva brought a clothes bag over to a table with a nervous look on her face. Unzipping the bag, she pulled out Haymitch’s interview outfit and laid it out flat so Haymitch could see. Stepping closer, Haymitch took a look at his new clothes and blinked.
“Uh…where’s the rest of it?”
The outfit in front of him, which was apparently his interview outfit, was… skimpy, to say the least. It consisted of a pair of glittery black pants that looked way too tight, with laced-up slits going up to right below the hips on each side. And the ‘shirt’, that wasn’t even a shirt at all - it was an open vest, barely long enough to reach his waist and made of the same glittery black fabric, which combined with the weirdly low-waisted pants would leave the massive scar across his lower stomach completely uncovered. The only part of this thing that was remotely reasonable were the boots, and even those looked absurd - glittery black and ankle-length, with blocky heels to make him taller. There were only two parts of the outfit that weren’t black and glittery. The first was the brooch pinned to the right flap of the vest - a glossy ceramic rose, just like Snow’s except for the color, which was blood red rather than pure white. And the second were a pair of bracelets, two thin gold chains both with a single dangling charm, an axe for the right and a miniature copy of his flint striker for the left.
It looked…it looked like it was meant to be sexy. Like the outfits some of the more attractive tributes wore leading up to Games to draw in the sponsors, their stylists sending them out on stage in clothes that could range anywhere from slightly suggestive to practically naked. If they won, a lot of the time those victors would stick with that look, at least until they aged enough for that to stop playing well with the Capitol. But…
But Haymitch hadn’t gone that angle before the Quell. He’d gone out in that suit that Effie gave him. And sure, maybe the clothes he’d been given after he won had been a touch tighter and more revealing than normal, but…nothing like this.
Why were they going the sexy route now?
Haymitch looked up at Minerva questioningly. She was standing there, slightly to the side, awkwardly twisting a lock of hair around her fingers. Eyes focused mostly on the floor and only occasionally flicking up to Haymitch’s face, she answered his previous question, saying, “Ah…well, there is no ‘rest of it’, Haymitch. This…this is your full outfit. Ah…we can help you put it on, if you’d like?”
Slowly, Haymitch looked back down at his clothes. He didn’t really want to wear them, but…he had to play along. To show that he was willing to play by the Capitol’s rules. And if this was what Snow wanted him to wear, then…well. Then he didn’t have much of a choice, did he now.
Haymitch nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Uh, yeah. That…I’d appreciate that. Thanks.” And with a strange, sinking feeling in his chest, Haymitch picked up his pants and started to pull them on.
Turns out, Haymitch’s original assumption was correct. The pants were way, way too tight. Even after the side slits were unlaced, he had to wriggle his way into them before jumping up and down a few times to get them all the way up. Proserpina and Vitus then had to lace up the sides, which. It was really good that Haymitch had them there to help, because there was no way he’d be able to get those laces properly done up alone. After that he pulled on the vest, which was easy to put on albeit awkward and more than a little embarrassing to wear, before then squeezing his feet into the strange black boots and letting Proserpina clasp on the bracelets. Testing his balance, Haymitch took a step forward…and immediately fell over.
At least, he would have. He would’ve fallen flat on his face, if Chaff hadn’t suddenly appeared at his side and caught him. Carefully, he set Haymitch back on his feet, holding onto his shoulders as he wobbled in his heels.
“Are the shoes really necessary?” Chaff snapped at Minerva, a vicious note in his voice. “He can barely stand still in ‘em, never mind walking.”
Quaking under Chaff’s harsh glare, Minerva had just opened her mouth to answer when Effie came to her rescue, sweeping in and taking Haymitch’s hand in hers.
“Oh, don’t worry Chaff!” Effie giggled airily. “Heels can be a bit tricky at first, but they’re easy enough to learn. Here, let me help,” Effie shouldered her way to Haymitch’s side, somehow shoving away Chaff, a man at least twice her size and three times her weight (who, based on the befuddled look on his face, had no idea how she did that either). Moving Haymitch’s hand to rest on her arm, Effie smiled up at him and said, “Here, I’ll show you! Just take steps in time with me, and keep a hold on my arm for balance. Now, follow along…”
So, Haymitch spent the last hour before his interview learning to walk in heels, all while gripping on to Effie’s arm for dear life. As he practiced, Effie kept up a stream of encouraging chatter and Chaff watched silently from against the wall, a strange look in his eyes and nursing a bottle that he seemed to have conjured out of thin air.
Effie actually turned out to be a pretty good teacher, all things considered. And by the time the television crew had finished setting up, Haymitch was able to walk almost as steadily as he could in normal shoes. Granted, he still couldn’t run or jump or turn too quickly, but walking at a slow and steady pace in a straight-ish line? He had that down, one hundred percent.
As the clock ticked closer to four, Haymitch went to take his position from which he was meant to enter the stage. As he did so, Minerva, Proserpina and Vitus crowded around him, the first fiddling with his clothes (or lack thereof), and the other two fluffing up his curls one last time. Brit, Chaff, and Effie approached as well, to give some last-minute advice.
Chaff just nodded at him, a troubled frown on his face. “Remember what I told you, kid.”
Haymitch nodded. Right. Likeable jackass, but not too likeable.
Brit gave him a tight, closed-mouth smile that horrifyingly stretched her skin tight. “Make sure to follow our guidelines, Haymitch. Good luck.”
“And,” Effie chimed in, bright and chipper as always, “Don’t forget to smile!”
Despite himself, despite the outfit he was wearing, Haymitch felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Right. Thanks, guys. For your help. I really, really appreciate it.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome, Haymitch!” Effie twittered as Chaff nodded and Brit’s smile stretched even more. And as the Flickerman theme music started, they all scattered, leaving Haymitch standing there, ready to step out on stage.
Haymitch heard Caesar Flickerman announce the show, introduce himself, and announce Haymitch’s presence. And with a deep breath in, Haymitch plastered on a blinding smile and, right on cue, walked out onto the brightly lit stage.
As soon as Haymitch stepped out, the audience caught sight of his outfit. In the blink of an eye, the mainly uniform cheering turned into a cacophony of hoots, hollers and wolf whistles. Flushing slightly but maintaining his grin, Haymitch walked up towards Caesar and took a seat, making sure to stay facing the audience. With a wide, cheerful grin on his face, Caesar started the show, saying, “Well, well, well, here he is, ladies, gentlemen, others! The winner of the Second Quarter Quell, the only living victor from District Twelve, Haymitch Abernathy!”
At Caesar’s introduction, the crowd went even wilder than before, cheering so loudly it nearly hurt Haymitch’s ears. Raising a hand, Haymitch waved at the audience, allowing his grin to take on a sharp, roguish edge. Rascal jackass. That’s what they want from you, Haymitch. So give it to them.
“So, Haymitch!” Caesar exclaimed, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been on a tour throughout all of Panem. You’ve seen the sights. I gotta ask, what do you think? Which district is your favorite?”
“Well, that’s a tough one, Caesar. Nothing can compare to home, after all,” Haymitch said with a laugh. Be diplomatic, but don’t overdo it. “Twelve’s still my favorite. Always has been, always will be. Though I will admit, the food here in the Capitol’s got us beat by a mile.”
Caesar grinned good-naturedly. “Well, there’s always something to be said for a man who remembers where he came from. Though, I’m afraid we’re still going to try our best to steal you away, isn’t that right everyone?” The noise from the audience increased, denoting their agreement.
Haymitch forced a laugh. “Well, I look forward to those attempts. Who knows, maybe you’ll even succeed,” he joked, shoving down the voice in the back of his head that said, You already tried to steal me from my home. Hell, you tried to steal my life.
Haymitch glanced out across the cheering crowd. There were a couple people he recognized - the cat-ear lady, that guy in black and yellow stripes who Haymitch remembered he last saw wearing bees on his head. And there, in a theater box above the crowd - President Snow. Looking down on him with an impassive, unreadable expression.
Keeping a smile pinned to his face, Haymitch forced his eyes away from Snow and focused them on the far wall behind the studio audience. Don’t think about him. Just play along. Play the game, and it’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
“So, Haymitch,” Caesar smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively, “Hell of an outfit you’ve got on there. I have to know, who do we have to thank?”
Haymitch forced his grin even wider, teeth clenched tightly together as he heard more wolf-whistles from the audience. “Well, that’ll be my new stylist, Minerva. She’s got a real eye for things, don’t you think?” Haymitch winked at the audience as they roared in agreement, pushing down the roiling sick feeling growing in his stomach.
“Oh, absolutely,” Caesar replied, beginning to fan himself with his hands. “I mean, is it hot in here, or is it just you?”
In response, Haymitch just laughed along as the crowd went wild. Because it was a joke. This whole thing, it was all just a joke, just a play on the whole rascal persona. No need to say anything, no reason to feel uncomfortable. Just humor them, laugh at their jokes and it’ll all. Be. Fine.
“So, Haymitch,” Caesar said, once the crowd died down a bit. “I gotta ask…is there anyone special in your life back home? A girl, perhaps?”
Haymitch’s eye twitched slightly. There was, he wanted to scream. There was a girl. Lenore Dove Baird, the love of my life. She was so special, so unique, and Snow killed her. He killed her.
(I killed her.)
But saying that would only make things worse. And maybe it was stupid, but Haymitch didn’t want to share Lenore Dove with the Capitol. He didn’t want to tell them about her, about how rare and radiant she was, only for them to turn around and whisper among themselves about that poor victor and his dead district girlfriend. So, instead, Haymitch just shook his head and said, “Nah, nothin’ like that. I’m very much single, ladies,” with a cocky, arrogant smirk.
“Oh, I’m sure plenty of people are thrilled to hear that,” Caesar laughed. “And hey, who knows - maybe you’ll even meet someone right here in the Capitol!”
Haymitch laughed. Yeah right. Like a district kid would ever be allowed to get with a Capitol. Still, he decided to play along, saying, “Well, I wouldn’t be particularly opposed to it, if you catch my drift.”
There we go. Arrogant, big-headed rascal jackass who doesn’t know his place. In line with what’s expected, but not particularly likeable.
“Oh, good to know, good to know. Now, Haymitch…as we all know, victors tend to develop hobbies after they win, things to occupy their time with in place of a job. So, tell us Haymitch. What’s your new hobby?”
Haymitch smiled and shook his head slightly. “Oh, I’m afraid I’m not particularly creative in that regard,” he admitted in a slightly self-deprecating tone of voice. “I’ve decided to stick with my little after-school project - that is, distilling liquor. Though I will say, I think Twelve will appreciate the increase in production.”
Caesar chuckled. “Oh, of course! I should’ve guessed. A one-of-a-kind talent for a one-of-a-kind victor. Wouldn’t you agree, everyone?” At the audience’s responding cheer, Caesar laughed. “Well, Haymitch, anything more you want to say? Maybe something about the upcoming Games?”
Haymitch felt his blood run cold at the mention of the Games, but forced on a grin. “Oh, nothing much, really - just thought I should remind everyone not to underestimate Twelve. Who knows, maybe this is the start of our winning streak.”
(Haymitch really, really hoped that was true. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it if it wasn’t, if his destiny was to spend every summer for the rest of his life watching kids die, completely unable to save them.)
“Oh, let’s hope so. That would certainly make things interesting, wouldn’t it now?” With a bright, blinding smile, Caesar swept his arm out towards Haymitch. “All right everyone, I’m afraid we’re out of time. So, let’s hear it for our newest victor, Haymitch Abernathy!”
The crowd roared with applause, a large portion getting to their feet to clap as Haymitch exited the stage, still holding up his winning smile. And as Haymitch crossed from the brightly lit platform to the backstage, he couldn’t help but throw a quick glance in Snow’s direction.
Snow was smiling.
It wasn’t a big, gleaming smile, not anything close to a grin. Just a slight upwards turn at the corners of his mouth. Still, it was enough to make Haymitch break out in a cold sweat, to make his already chilled blood freeze solid. To know, for a single heart-stopping moment, that he’d either played directly into Snow’s hands, or he’d done something wrong. And Haymitch had no idea which one was worse.
But either way, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. So, Haymitch just kept walking, stepping backstage as Caesar Flickerman closed out the show behind him, playing to the crowd as his theme music swelled and two members of Haymitch’s team, Effie and Brit, both came rushing up to him.
“Oh, Haymitch!” Effie whispered, face lit up with joy. “You were wonderful out there. So unique, so charming. Excellent work!”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far - you certainly could have been a bit more humble,” Brit huffed, a sharp look in her eyes. “Still. I suppose you were rather charming, in a District sort of way.” Reaching out a manicured hand, she patted him on the head, as if he was a small child or a dog. “Well done, Haymitch.”
Swallowing down his irritation, Haymitch flashed Brit a small, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and now it’s time for the banquet!” Effie exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “We’ll go and let the Peacekeepers know we’re ready to leave. Come along Brit!” Without waiting for a response, Effie grabbed Brit’s hand and pulled her away and in the direction of the entrance. Newly alone, Haymitch looked around for Chaff and saw him a good distance away, leaning against the back wall.
There was this…bleak look on his face, that Haymitch could see from all the way across the room. He was still holding onto his liquor bottle despite it now being empty, gripping onto it so tight the tendons in his hand were practically popping out of his skin. He looked…angry, and resigned, and defeated, and Haymitch had no idea why.
Taking a deep breath in and squaring his shoulders, Haymitch approached Chaff. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
For a few seconds, Chaff just looked down at him. Then, “No, kid.” He talked in a low, gravelly sort of voice, like there had been some sort of terrible accident and he was trying to break the news to the family. “Nothing’s okay. Nothing at all.”
Well. That doesn’t sound good.
Haymitch shifted nervously, ankles wobbling slightly in their heels. Glancing around and lowering his voice, Haymitch said quietly, “Uh…I tried to do what you told me. To be…likeable, but not too likeable. I…I’m not sure if it worked, but I tried, really.”
Chaff sighed, looking down and squeezing his eyes shut. “I know you did, kid. I know. It…” He shook his head, opening his eyes again and meeting Haymitch’s gaze. “It…it’s not your fault. Okay? Remember that. No matter what happens, it’s not your fault. You…there was nothing you could do to stop it, Haymitch. Never, ever forget that.”
Haymitch blinked, knocked slightly off course. Then, as he processed Chaff’s words, confusion morphed into frustration. Because what in the hell was he talking about? He wasn’t a child. If Haymitch screwed up, if he did the wrong thing and Snow killed someone for it, that would absolutely be his fault. And Chaff and Brit were here, keeping some, some sort of massive secret from him, and telling him that whatever was coming around the corner wasn’t his fault, and this. Was. Ridiculous.
“Chaff,” Haymitch started, scowling heavily, a biting tone in his voice, “I think I’ve been patient enough so far. I’ve played along this entire trip, from one district to another, waiting for you or Brit or someone to tell me what’s going on. What this big, horrible secret you’re all keeping from me is. So,” deep breath, in and out. “I want answers, Chaff. Now. What the fuck is going on?”
Chaff let out a harsh, bitter bark of a laugh, closing his eyes again and shaking his head. “Look, kid…” He trailed off, shaking his head again. “Look. Brit will tell you tomorrow on the train. For tonight, just…have fun. Eat whatever and however much you want. Drink whatever you want. Just…enjoy yourself, and leave this for tomorrow. Okay?”
Haymitch practically snarled with fury. “Chaff -”
“Kid. Please,” Chaff said with a genuinely pleading, almost begging tone to his voice. “Please. Just…one more night. Okay? One last night, and then you’ll know everything. Just…please. I really, really need you to trust me on this, Haymitch.”
For a few seconds, Haymitch didn’t say anything. Then, slowly exhaling, “Fine. One more night. But tomorrow, you or Brit will be explaining everything .”
Chaff nodded, face grim. “Oh, don’t worry. She will,” he said darkly. Ominously. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go get in the van, and head over to dinner. You haven’t eaten since yesterday, and we need to change that.” Not even pausing for a response, Chaff turned and stalked off through the studio’s backstage entrance door and presumably to the van outside. And, after a moment of hesitation, Haymitch followed.
***
The banquet at Snow’s mansion lasted long into the night.
At Chaff’s urging, Haymitch had done his best to have fun. To socialize with some of the more tolerable Capitols, to try as much of the food as he could, even to drink some of the fancy Capitol alcohol, stuff like champagne and wine that no one ever got back in Twelve. It…wasn’t great, and Haymitch only had one glass of each, but still.
Surprisingly, Haymitch actually managed to eat a decent amount despite his nerves. Probably because like Chaff said, he hadn’t eaten a bite all day. For some reason, Chaff seemed to relax a little when he saw that Haymitch was actually eating, almost like he’d been worried that Haymitch was going to just starve himself for no reason.
Chaff was acting a little off, though. He ate a lot, even more than Haymitch, but he also drank at least double what he ate, which was even more than normal. Around halfway through the banquet he started stumbling around and causing something of a ruckus, and had to be escorted out and back to the District Twelve apartment by Peacekeepers. Haymitch wanted to go with him - he’d already eaten all he could, he was tired and he was still in his terrible, extremely exposing interview outfit.
Unfortunately, this banquet was in Haymitch’s honor, so he couldn’t exactly leave early. All he could do was keep playing along, keep playing the game and keep up the rascal act, bantering with the Capitols and pointlessly, insincerely flirting with some of the prettier women to keep up the ‘rascal’ appearance, even though the youngest of them had to be at least seven years older than him. And that’s exactly what Haymitch did until well past midnight, when the party finally wound down and he was allowed to leave, to get in the van and let himself be driven back to the tribute apartment. And when he finally got there, Haymitch stumbled straight to his bed and collapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep.
(His dreams that night weren’t about being trapped in the tribute apartment. This time, Haymitch was back on Flickerman’s stage. Only now he was alone, and completely naked except for a set of golden chains shackling him in place. And as the faceless crowd roared, all Haymitch could see was President Snow, sitting in his theater box and looking down at him with a small, satisfied smile.)
***
The next morning, Haymitch woke up with a sick feeling in his stomach, a tangle of raw, twisted nerves soaked in liquid dread. Probably because of that weird, creepy nightmare he had. Haymitch did his best to ignore it as he got ready, brushing his teeth, bathing and getting dressed in his usual clothes.
(And if he spent a little longer in the shower than normal, if he scrubbed his skin a little harder, if his skin was a touch pinker and rawer afterwards - well. Then that was just a coincidence.)
Haymitch was still full from last night, which was nice, especially because he probably wouldn’t have eaten anything if he was hungry, what with milk and bread being all that was available. So after he was finished getting dressed, Haymitch checked the clock - eight twenty-seven, just over half an hour before the van would come to pick him and Chaff up at nine. Which…yeah, Haymitch should probably go wake him up now.
Haymitch walked over to Chaff’s room and knocked on the door. Not hearing an answer, he knocked again. “Chaff? We’re leaving in half an hour, you need to get up.”
Nothing. No response at all. In the silence, the back of Haymitch’s neck prickled as a number of images flashed through his head - images of Chaff dead, from alcohol poisoning, from choking on his own vomit, from tripping and cracking his skull open on the floor, twitching and gurgling like Silka as the life seeped from his body.
Heart pounding, Haymitch twisted the knob and flung open the door, sprinting towards the bed and the Chaff-sized lump in it. Grabbing what looked to be a blanket-covered shoulder, Haymitch started trying to shake Chaff awake, saying “Chaff, are you -”
At his touch, Chaff exploded into a flurry of movement, bursting up from the bed and spinning to face Haymitch, left arm pulled back and prepared to punch his lights out. For his part, Haymitch had leapt back outside of arm’s reach at the first sign of movement, fists balled up and raised in front of him, ready to fight. And for a few seconds, the two victors stood there, wild-eyed, breathing heavily and on guard.
Then Chaff blinked, the haze of sleep dissipating from his eyes, and squinted at Haymitch. “...Kid?” He unclenched his fist and dropped it down to his side as his eyes lit up with recognition. “Kid, the fuck were you thinking, sneakin’ up on a victor in their sleep? I coulda killed you.”
Haymitch dropped his fists and scowled as his heart slowed back down to its regular rate. “I was thinking that you might’ve drunk yourself to death, Chaff. You weren’t exactly going easy on the bottle last night, if you even remember any of it at all.”
Chaff scoffed and waved off Haymitch’s words, unsteady on his feet and clearly still at least a little drunk. “Oh, come off it kid. I know how to hold my drink. Three bottles of liquor ain’t nearly enough to take me down.”
“Actually, it was six,” Haymitch snapped, crossing his arms defensively. “At least as far as I saw. Who knows, maybe you drank more after the Peacekeepers escorted you out.” Turning and storming out of the room and feeling a complicated mixture of anger and relief, Haymitch threw one last thing over his shoulder. “And like I said, the van will be here in half an hour, so get ready. I’ll wait outside of the bathroom to make sure you don’t pass out and drown in the shower.”
To Haymitch’s surprise, Chaff actually got ready fairly quickly, taking into account the insane amount he’d drunk last night and the fact that he was clearly still somewhat wasted. He brushed his teeth, successfully took a shower without drowning and managed to dress himself, albeit with his shirt on inside-out. There wasn’t time for him to eat breakfast, but that was fine - there would be food on the train. So as soon as Chaff was fully dressed, he and Haymitch grabbed their bags and waited by the front door for the Peacekeepers to come up, unlock it and escort the both of them down to the waiting van.
Today, the Peacekeepers were actually a few minutes early, which was surprising - when it came to the districts, they were usually either exactly on time or a little bit late. But then again, that was the districts. The Peacekeepers were probably held to a higher standard here in the Capitol. And even if they weren’t, well…Haymitch wouldn’t put it past Snow to want him out of the city as quickly as possible.
The Peacekeepers loaded Haymitch and Chaff into the van and drove them to the station, where they all got out and boarded the train heading back to Twelve for the final speech and celebration. They were the last to arrive - everyone else was already there, from Effie to Plutarch to Tibby. So, Haymitch and Chaff settled into their seats, handing their bags to two of the train’s Avoxes as they pulled out onto the rails, leaving the Capitol and all the people in it behind.
As soon as they reached a decent speed, which was literally five minutes later, Brit pecked Haymitch on the shoulder with one of her long, sharp nails and said, in an oddly serious voice, “Haymitch, dear. Before we arrive in Twelve, there is a certain subject I need to discuss with you, relating to your responsibilities as a victor. Please, come with me.”
With those words, Brit pushed herself to her feet and indicated for Haymitch to follow her. Deeply uneasy, Haymitch stood up and made to do so, pausing only to cast a quick glance in Chaff’s direction.
Chaff’s face was set in a strange mixture of resignation and worry, eyes focused on Haymitch. Meeting his eyes, Chaff furrowed his brow and gave him a short nod, as if to say, Well, kid. You wanted to know what was going on. Now’s your chance to find out.
Haymitch swallowed past the sudden lump of dread in his throat and nodded back, trying to convey his thoughts of It’s okay. I can handle it.
If anything, that just seemed to make Chaff even more concerned.
Trying his best to ignore that (and the pit in his stomach), Haymitch turned and began to follow Brit, through the train car door and down the hall towards another car. Silently, he did his best to reassure himself, to calm himself down for their talk. Because whatever this was, it would be fine. Whatever it was, he could deal with it, if only for his family’s sake rather than his own. It would be okay.
After all, Haymitch had been through the Games. However bad this was, he could take it.
He’d been through worse.