Chapter Text
The Victor’s Village is eerily quiet at night. It’s an isolated place in which the haunted silence is only disturbed by the slurred muttering coming from one of the houses, the only one inhabited by anything other than mice and dust. There are mumblings and cries, and also the sound of broken glass or furniture being torn apart; but not tonight.
There are many families still awake across District 12. They are holding their breath, holding on tight, hiding from the possibility that tonight may be all they have left. With the sunrise will come the reaping, and with the reaping will come the slaughter of children, the grief, and the memories of a birthday from many years ago; but it’s midnight still, and the sunrise is yet to arrive, and most opt to make the last hours of the night worthwhile. Not Haymitch. Oh, no, he hits the hay early. It’s one of the perks of having nobody around to worry about. Lucky him.
He shouldn’t be asleep, and, in any other circumstances, he would be drinking until he is unable to form a single coherent thought, but a gulp of white liquor sweetened with a single drop of sleep syrup has ensured that the house will remain asleep throughout the worst hours of the night. The house would seem completely empty if it weren’t for the consistent snoring coming from the living room that confirms there is still someone alive in that haunted place.
Then, a window’s lock is forced, inviting in the soft whistling of the summer breeze. The footsteps that follow are carefully slow, deliberately quiet. The wood floor barely creaks, the doors don’t oppose any resistance and instead offer a clear path for those midnight footsteps. Suddenly, an empty bottle is accidentally kicked, and the house itself jumps and sits tight, carefully listening to his deep breathing, counting the seconds between each snore before daring to take another step.
Haymitch didn’t bother to turn off the kitchen lights before dropping off on the sofa, and that’s fortunate since there’s broken glass scattered all across the floor. The footsteps are careful, and the hands that open every cabinet are swift. They take bottle after bottle, wrap each in a cloth, and carefully secure them inside a bag. The bottles are counted. Three. Four. Five. Six. No. Seven. It’s a lot. It’s not enough. Silent footsteps make their way across the corridor only to make a hesitant stop on the doorway to the living room where he sleeps.
Stop. He breathes in. Take a step. Stop. Listen. He breathes out.
The wind whistles, and the light of the moon makes its way into the living room, obscured only when the footsteps stop in front of the window. The movements are slower now, slightly sloppier since they are conditioned by the weight of the bag held tightly, but they don’t stop. It’s too late to stop now. A flask is picked up and stored in a pocket. An almost empty bottle is picked up but left behind right after since there’s barely enough to fill half a glass. The footsteps, instead, settle on a more ambitious goal: the large bottle filled to the brim that Haymitch loosely holds onto in his sleep.
He snores so loud it’s like he’s dead to the world. It should be easy enough.
There are five seconds of silence between each snore in which the moon witnesses and the wind keeps its lips shut, quietly counting. One. Two. Three. The silent steps stop in front of him and fingers curl around the bottom of the bottle, carefully extracting it with no resistance. Four. Five.
Six.
Shit. Hands let go of the bottle, the quiet feet turn loud as they bolt away just in time to escape the sharp blade of a knife.
The bottle breaks when it falls to the floor. Haymitch moves before his mind fully wakes up, and lunges forward, wielding the knife with murder intent. The blade pierces the cloth and the skin of the forearm right when he gets hit with the bag. He stumbles back, the surprise driving him wide awake as he is suddenly met with the moonlit sight of a thief stealing from right under his nose. He fixes his hold on the knife. “-the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
His question is answered with a kick on his knee and a left hook that hits him right in the eye, only to be followed by a swing to his jaw.
Haymitch stumbles back, tasting copper on his mouth and ignoring the pang of pain as he shouts and chases after the thief, but the fucker runs faster than greased lightning. He throws the knife and misses the thief by a hair. Wide eyes find his. Grey eyes clearer than his, than those of most living in the Seam. Quicksilver eyes. And even though the thief is covered head to toe, now that they are both lit by the kitchen’s light, he is able to discern that the thief’s skin is dark, and their hair is long, and they also happen to be very clearly a fucking girl.
Still, a thief is a thief. Haymitch pounces on the thief right when she climbs on top of the counter and turns to kick him on the chest with both legs at once, knocking the air right out of him. He falls to the floor this time and hears one of the bottles inside the bag break and start leaking, making all reek of burning liquor. That’s when he realizes the girl is stealing his fucking booze. Shit. Fuck. He’s not going to endure the reaping without a single drop of alcohol. Oh, no. He has no intention of letting the girl get away, but there’s little he can do to stop her.
The girl jumps over him and Haymitch only manages to hold onto her shoe that slips right off as she kicks her feet a couple times. Haymitch gets up in a stumble, shoe still in hand, as he catches one last glimpse of the girl crossing the front door and rushing to swiftly climb up the fence surrounding the Victor’s Village to disappear right into the night.
Haymitch throws the shoe in the direction of the girl. “Fuck you! You miserable- fuck!”
This time, the only answer he receives is the mocking whisper of the wind. He spits on the ground, staining the steps of his house with blood before going back inside and obsessively searching through the kitchen cabinets to measure the loss. The kitchen and the main corridor reek of the liquor that leaked from the bag, but there isn’t a single drop for him to enjoy on his birthday.
He goes back to the living room only to find that the fucker has also stolen his fucking flask and has left him with a bottle that was clearly disregarded for being almost empty. Great. Fabulous, as Effie would say, will say, when she hears about it in the morning upon arriving to District 12 with all the camera crew and the additional Peacekeepers that always come as reinforcement for the reaping since that boy, Woodbine Chance, took his chance and bolted and escaped from being forced to make of his death a performance.
Haymitch pours the remaining alcohol in a glass and falls onto the sofa, not bothering to get some ice. Well, at least this year he will not answer Effie’s ‘Happy birthday Haymitch!’ by throwing up right on her brand-new sparking shoes like it happened last year, and he will not fall asleep half-way through the Treaty of Treason and embarrass her like he did the year before. She’ll be very happy about that. Until he starts fuming and becomes unbearable, that is.
It's crazy to think Haymitch is the reason Effie doesn’t drink. She doesn’t like it and can’t stand how it reduces him to a drunk like any other. Haymitch couldn’t care less about that, but he does care about the fact Effie does not allow any of the camera crew to drink on the day of the reaping, forcing Haymitch to wait until the ceremony is over to sneak into the Justice Building and steal some alcohol from the mayor that is not likely to be missed.
He counts the hours, every single one of them, in a useless attempt to make them go by faster. When the train arrives from the Capitol, Effie takes no pity on him, too busy fixing her blush to concern herself with the ‘supposed’ break in that took place during the night. It’s obvious that she doesn’t believe him, and Haymitch can’t really blame her. Who would be stupid enough to steal from the Victor’s Village on the fucking eve of the reaping? Who would be stupid enough to risk it? Especially when everybody knows such crime is punished by death. And all that trouble just to steal some alcohol? It’s insane. It hardly makes sense.
Not even his swollen jaw that has started to bruise and his black eye that includes a burst blood vessel seem to convince her because it wouldn’t be the first time Haymitch accidentally injures himself while drunk. He is sore all over and his knee painfully complains throughout the morning, and he is convinced his chest will eventually bruise as well. He only hopes the fucking thief has not broken one of his ribs with that nasty kick. Haymitch curses the thief every second of every hour. Hopes her to suffer the worst of pains. Hopes her to die. Hopes her to spend the rest of her days as the unluckiest fucker to ever exist, just so that she may overthrow him; but the odds have never been on his favor and that’s unlikely to change now.
Haymitch tries to sneak into the Justice Building and have a sip of something that burns its way to his heart before the clock strikes two and the reaping begins, but he’s stopped by a young Peacekeeper that is begging to get the shit beaten out of him. He’s eventually dragged to the stage and kindly instructed at gunpoint to get to his seat right by the mayor’s side once the man is almost done reading the Treaty of Treason.
Like every year, Haymitch makes his way across the stage with his gaze lowered in a futile attempt to escape the ghost of Maysilee, Merrilee, older than her sister ever got to be. Fuck, he needs a drink. Who is he kidding? He needs a whole fucking bottle. He pretends not to see those familiar faces among the crowd, but it’s hard to when he lacks the blurriness and detachment alcohol warmly provides. He knows Burdock is here. He can see him. Asterid is at his side, the girls too; the youngest is in her mother’s arms and the oldest still has some years on her before her name enters the reaping. He sees Blair, Clerk Carmine and Tam Amber, but no Ma, no Sid, no Lenore Dove.
Any other year, Haymitch would already be incoherent by the time Effie makes her way to the podium in those abhorrent high and glittery heels, but thanks to that little thief, he isn’t. Effie clears her voice before leaning forward, her mouth widening into a grin as her voice is heard all across the square. “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”
It's always the same. Another year. Another games. A girl will be chosen, then a boy, both underfed and unfit to face the brutality of the Careers and the madness awaiting for them in the arena; and he will watch them die, just like every year, and then his nightmares will continue even while awake.
“Ladies first.” Effie says once she is done spatting whatever propagandistic nonsense she is asked to say and crosses to the glass ball that contains the names of the girls. She reaches in, carefully making her way through thousands of paper slips, and pulls up the chosen one. She smiles, delighted, as if the paper she holds on her hands is not a death sentence. Haymitch closes his eyes and leans his head back while on the square the people silently beg and hold their breath as Effie makes her way back to the podium. Unfolds the paper, licks her lips, and reads it in the clearest voice. “Ashter Chance.”
Something stirs inside him, and he looks up almost expecting to catch a glimpse of the brisk memory of Woodbine Chance failing to outrun death, but in his place there’s a girl.
A girl who doesn’t move when her name is called and waits, instead, for two Peacekeepers (the one begging to be beaten up and another) to break in through the crowd and gather her. The girl meets them with defiance, and Haymitch suddenly dreads that she is about to follow Woodbine’s footsteps into an early grave. She then snorts, shakes her head and allows the Peacekeepers to guide her to the stage, and all Haymitch can think is that the girl must be fucking insane. The cameras are rolling. Panem is watching. The Capitol is watching. All while the girl keeps her chin high in provocation.
The girl climbs up the stage and that’s when it dawns on him. He knows this girl. No, not personally, and he didn’t know her name until now, but he knows her. He knows her quiet footsteps, her chin held high, her angry kicks and even angrier fists. He knows those eyes, those silver eyes, mercurial eyes, appealing and toxic like quicksilver. And if he was asked about it, Haymitch could also say a thing or two about the nasty cut on the girl’s forearm, or about how she looks like when running away into the night.
It’s her. He thinks. It’s that fucking little thief.