Chapter 1: PROLOGUE
Chapter Text
—Maysilee!
I heard him from afar, through the pink feathers, the blood—my blood—and the horrific sound those fucking birds make.
—Maysilee, hang on, I'm coming!
The thing is, I can't hang on. A sharp pain brushes through my throat the moment I see him.
It's almost imperceptible. I close my eyes, and Haymitch actually manages to kill the last two birds left.
I hear the boom of the cannon.
But I'm still breathing.
So it must've been someone else. It has to be.
He leans in, takes my hand, and slowly repeats the same phrase again:
—Hang on, Maysilee. You're not leaving me, okay? You got a promise to keep.
I can't answer. Even if I want to, I can't.
He lifts me from the ground, and I wrap my hands around his neck as he walks to the edge of the arena.
He gently lays me down and takes off my blowgun. It's a blur, but I'm sure I see him rip off his uniform, then pour some water on a piece of cloth and carefully wash the blood from my throat.
—I discovered something, —he says in a whisper.— The force field -if you throw something, it comes back. It could work. We can make it home, sis.
I have absolutely no idea what he's referring to. My head starts to spin, and I'm sure I'll pass out eventually.
The cannon booms again.
Only three tributes left, and I wish it's Wellie and us.
—What did you do? —Haymitch screams at someone.
I lift my head, trying to see something.
Oh no, Wellie...
Then comes the dark.
**** Disclaimer ****
Ester Expósito as Maysilee Donner.
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Damian Hardung as Haymitch Abernathy.
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Sophie Turner as Lenore Dove.
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Benedetta Porcaroli as Asterid March.
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Chase Stokes as Burdock Eveerdeen.
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Rudy Pankow as Blair Hawthorn.
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Miguel Bernardeu as Burton Undersee.
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Lucas Till as Otto Mellark.
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Amanda Seyfried as Valerian Donner.
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Chad Michael Murray as Angus Donner.
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Camila Morrone as Wiress.
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Fernanda Torres as Mags Flanagan.
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Lucy Punch as Drusilla and
Neil Patrick Harris as Magno.
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Elle Fanning as Effie Trinket.
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Joey King as Proserpina.
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Joel Courtney as Vitus.
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*ALL Hunger Games TW.
* This is my fan cast version for "Sunrise on The Reaping" and therefore this book, hope you like it!
* English is not my first language, so I'm deeply sorry for any grammatical mistakes here.
* Burton Undersee (OC) as in Merrilee's husband and Madge's father.
* Angus and Valerian Donner —personalities as well are OC.
* Blair, is Gale's father.
* You can find me on TikTok, my user is @ mdnightspoets, I'll post some edit scenes of the book as well. :)
* It is a fanfic and so I have taken certain permissions to narrate a few plot twists in the story, I hope you enjoy it, without further ado, I can only thank Suzanne Collins for letting us see the world of Panem. ❤️
Chapter Text
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"You can't change the recipe, it's in the book—stick to it, Maysee!" says Merrilee for the second time that morning.
I was just trying to make a different flavor for a sweet—what's wrong with that?
"You know? That tongue of yours will be a huge problem one day. You should be more like your sister." "Look at her—she has a boy, a good and wealthy one, future mayor if you ask me. She's always been pristine and modest. The perfect lady."
"Don't listen to what your mother says, Maysee. You already are a perfect lady," says Granny. "Your future is bright ahead, just wake up." "Wake up!"
– Granny!
I want to scream, but I can't. Nothing comes out. I wake up with a sore throat.
My tongue is dry, my head hurts, and there's a bump—identical to Lou Lou's—deep in my chest. I'm back at the apartment, I realize. I slowly rise from the bed, go to the bathroom mirror, and examine myself. There's a stitch on my cheek, a bandage around my neck, and a scar in the palm of my hand.
This can't be real. I was supposed to be dead.
I saw the blood flooding from my throat. I saw Silka holding Wellie's head in one hand and an axe in the other while running toward Haymitch.
We stood no chance. What happened?
As if in direct response to my prayers, the bedroom door bursts open. Haymitch sees me and runs to hug me.
—Oh my... you're here! —he says through sobs.— You're actually here! I was going insane.
He pulls back and stares at me. I point to my throat.
—Oh... Oh, yes. —Hang on!
He runs out the door and, honestly, I swear I almost want to kill him. When he comes back, he's holding a glass full of milk.
I'd rather have some coffee, but I can't be picky now.
—Drink this. It'll help.
And it does.
—Thank you, —I whisper, my voice barely audible.— What happened?
—What's the last thing you remember?
—Silka holding... —I can't bring myself to finish the sentence. My mind pulls me back to the arena, but Haymitch's presence brings me back to reality.
—Remember the thing I told you about the force field? —I nod.— She threw her axe at me, but I collapsed to the ground. So it brushed over my head into the canyon, then bounced back and killed her. He seems lost for a moment, and drops his gaze to the floor.
—Haymitch, what happened afterward?
—I did something that didn't work out. The Gamemaker found out... and I threatened to kill both of us otherwise.
I freeze.
He did what?
There's no explanation for why we're here. Alive. Breathing.
—Then the hovercraft descended, and the next thing I remember was waking up here -with stitches and wounds, —he says.— Your dorm was locked. I couldn't open it until now. Two days after I woke up.
So I've been asleep for who knows how long. The pain in my head comes back, and suddenly I feel dizzy.
He grabs me before I collapse onto the bed.
—I know you're confused, Maysilee, —he says. But I still feel something's off, like he's hiding something from me.— I am too. I don't know why or how we're alive, but...
He points to the camera in the corner, then whispers: —Eyes on us, 24/7.
—Well, Abernathy, victor or not... —I snarl.— You need a shower. I can't stand your smell right now.
It's stupid, I know. But it's the only thing I manage to say. He laughs and hugs me again.
—I'm so glad you're alive, sis. So glad. And this time, I sob with him.
⸻
It slowly becomes a routine. For the following days, we wake up, take a shower, eat bread and milk, go back to sleep, have nightmares, cry... and repeat. A never-ending cycle. No one comes to check on us. Nothing happens—until one evening, a haunting melody weaves through my dreams.
As I leave my bedroom, the television glows. On-screen, a girl in a rainbow of ruffles sings a familiar tune with unfamiliar words:
"It's sooner than later that I'm six feet under. It's sooner than later that you'll be alone. So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder? For when the bell rings, lover, you're on your own."
—Then the footage stops and starts all over again. It's driving me insane, —says Haymitch from the kitchen, and I sit on the couch.
The girl on the television performs on a stage with a shabby backdrop before a Capitol audience in old-fashioned clothes. Great-Aunt Messalina and Great-Uncle Silius would fit right in. Her voice, that accent, the way those fingers command the guitar strings—she's a Covey girl, for sure.
—There's more, it seems, —I say.
The footage changes to more clips of the girl, singing a different verse of the song:
"And I am the one who you let see you weeping. I know the soul that you struggle to save. Too bad I'm the bet that you lost in the reaping. Now what will you do when I go to my grave?"
Haymitch comes back from the kitchen with a piece of bread in his hand—and then he gasps.
—It can't be possible... Right?
I look at the screen. The footage changes again. Snippets of the audience are showing. Someone shouts, "Bravo!" The crowd goes wild. The girl bows and extends her hand to a figure standing just out of the spotlight. A silhouette of a man. Upright, trim. A crown of curls. He waits a moment, as if deciding whether to join her... then steps forward. The screen goes black. Haymitch is shaking, I bet a million thoughts racing through his mind.
And I wonder... if, as always, Lenore Dove is part of it.
—There's no way! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He shouts and loses control, smashing a chair into the window. Glass shatters across a table of china kittens.
I try to stop him, but as soon as I reach him, a pair of heavily armed Peacekeepers materializes, their rifles trained on us. Behind them, the prep team huddles—likely ready to flee if Effie Trinket didn't have a firm grip on their grooming belts.
—Well, —she says with false cheer, —who's ready for a big, big, big night?
The Peacekeepers slap on handcuffs and propel Haymitch into the center of the room. I follow, cautiously. I'm scared now.
Suddenly, the strange peace we've had for days is gone, and the fear of being killed right here, right now, hits me in an immeasurable way.
Proserpina is the first to speak.
— I can't believe how generous they've been! They're letting you both win!
Then Vitus chimes in.
— Yeah! What an honor it must be! I stare at them.
Her new wig is a faded blue—no sign of the magenta puffballs she once had. And her classmate has swapped his metal apple for a new piece in gold I can't even name the shape of. The bile rises in my throat, and I rush to the bathroom.
— I'll go get her. You two clean up Haymitch. Trim and shave him, and put a bandage on his feet, please.
I hear her say it from the floor, my face buried deep in the toilet. This is so gross. We've been on the brink of starvation, lost our friends, and killed children—just for their entertainment. This is not an honor.
I feel a soft hand on my back. Effie helps me up. She pulls a nearby chair to the sink and gently wipes my face with a sponge—almost tenderly.
— I can't imagine how you must feel.
— At least you brought ice cream? — I raise an eyebrow.
— Oh, that I did! — she chuckles. — And a new dress too, you'll love it. — She smiles, then adds — Now go take a shower. We'll arrange everything in your room.
This time I allow myself to enjoy the shower. If it's the last bath of my life, I might as well make it count.
When I return to my room, it's spotless. Not a trace of the mess from before. Even Lou Lou's and Wyatt's belongings, which I had piled in a corner, are gone.
It's a strange feeling. We're alive. They're not. And we're left to face this moment alone.
I don't even know if the odds are in our favor anymore.
A cream-colored dress awaits on my bed. It's stunning. Still old-fashioned, but better than the black one from my first interview. Matching heels, and next to them, a small pink glittery bag with a lavender bow. I open it. Inside—a sealed mascara, two shades of blush, a pad, and some brushes.
It reminds me of our brief interaction with Effie before the first interview, and I smile. It's a kind gesture. I'll thank her later.
———
When I step out of my room, dressed and made up, I hear voices from the living room.
— Where's Magno Stift? — Haymitch asks.
Effie sounds disgusted. — More toads. He's still recovering, but he plans to make an appearance tonight since you're the victor.
As I enter the room, Haymitch says to her:
— I'm going to tell everyone you dressed me.
— Me too. — I chime in.
— Look at you! — Vitus exclaims, walking towards me and handing me a single lavender flower pin necklace on my hand. — You look divine! We brought this as a little gift.
Then as he helped me put it on I say: — Thank you. It's beautiful.
— Love the blush tone. — says Proserpina.
— I'll have to thank your sister for it. — I direct my gaze to her.
— Thanks, Effie. She looks surprised.
— Oh! It wasn't my gift, dear. — she smiles. — But I'm happy you liked it. He said you would. I frown.
— He? Who?
She dodges the question and switches to her cheerful tone. — You both look very presentable. Remember: positive attitude.
I glance at Haymitch. We're wearing matching outfits.
He still has the handcuffs on. A Peacekeeper notices my wrists are free and approaches.
— No — I say quickly — I promise I won't do anything.
He ignores me and locks them on anyway.
Then they shove us out and into the van, which would feel cold and empty without Haymitch here.
— You look good — I say — they even gave you a fresh scent.
— You don't look so bad yourself, Miss Donner.
I smile.
— It's strange... He whispers.
I raise my eyes to him.
— Not having them here.
I nod. And for the rest of the ride, we sit in silence.
Still shackled, we're escorted beneath the stage and shoved into chairs, four guards assigned to each of us.
To her credit, Effie stands with us. When the Peacekeepers object, she responds:
— They are the second Quarter Quell victors. Drusilla and Magno are not available. Someone should honor their achievement.
— Your funeral — says one of the Peacekeepers.
I think about what I did in the arena. What they must've shown. Loupe and Panache. And what they didn't—like the Gamemaker. Maybe they're right to chain us. I feel grateful to Effie.
— I won't hurt you — Haymitch mutters to her.
— Me neither — I say.
— I know that — she replies. — I've known who you are ever since you helped with my makeup box. — She say to him then glances at me. — And the second you picked my favorite lipstick. I know your position hasn't been easy. It's surprisingly touching.
— Thanks, Effie — says Haymitch.
— But the Hunger Games... they really are for a greater good.
And now she's lost me. I look at Haymitch. He feels the same disgust.
The area beneath the stage begins to fills with people and their handlers. Five metal plates await to carry the featured players up. Proserpina and Vitus fidget in place, fixing each other's makeup. Drusilla teeters in six-inch heels with a stuffed eagle on her head. Magno, covered in live reptiles, stumbles and is propped onto his platform. I crane my neck, searching for our mentors. Mags arrives in a wheelchair. Wiress walks, though distressed, twitching and mumbling nonstop. What happened to them while we were gone? A dull ache pulses in my chest. Mags sees us and tries to stand, but they force her back down. No reunion. Haymitch squirms beside me. The anthem plays.
Caesar Flickerman begins.
— As a reminder that the Capitol triumphed over rebellion, that two rebels died for every citizen of the Capitol... twice the usual tributes were sent to the Games. Two girls and two boys per district, for a total of forty-eight. This Quarter Quell demanded four tributes from each district. And yet, in an unprecedented act of mercy and love, the Capitol grants victory not to one, but two tributes from District Twelve: Miss Maysilee Donner and Mister Haymitch Abernathy. Proof that our beloved nation rewards strength, loyalty... and sacrifice.
He continues, calling the Games historic, unparalleled, unforgettable—one of the most devastating reminders of the Dark Days. Proserpina and Vitus go up first, clapping. Drusilla follows, arms extended like eagle wings. And I can't wait for the time we reunite to shove my win on her wrinkled face. Magno stumbles again, then strikes a victory pose. Peacekeepers haul Mags to her feet. She and Wiress lean into each other for support. Finally, freed from our shackles, we are held on the plates until they rise.
Fear.
I've never had much of it. Not even when I broke my arm falling off my new bicycle as a child and really thought I'll loose it forever. The thing was bright pink, a gift from my father after our first reaping. It mean so much back then, we were so scared, we knew the chances were lower, but still the fear was unmatched, as the day ended dad brought two little pink bicycles and the house was soon filled with joy. Angus Donner has always wanted to give her daughters everything he has to offer.
And thinking of that day just makes my heart warm in a way I hadn't been feeling since I got here in the capitol.
And I wonder how much time has to pass until I see my family again.
What did the audience see during the Hunger Games? Will they boo or applaud for us?
And who am I supposed to be?
Did they painted me as a bratty teenager yet?
Or are they salivating to see the cold-blooded killers from District 12?
Effie Trinket, the only one I could ask... has melted into the shadows.
Notes:
Hope you enjoy it 💗
Chapter 3: The Post-Game Interview
Chapter Text
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I take Haymitch's hands and we intertwine fingers. I can feel he's scared too. We don't know what's going to happen now. If we are just preparing ourselves to be pelted with rotten fruit or jeered off the stage.
Bright lights partially blind us, and I lift my hand to shield my eyes. When they adjust, I realize the entire audience has given us a standing ovation. Cheers and tears included.
I give them a bright smile.
Almost pristine.
Almost dazzling.
Almost real.
We are the stars of Panem. The victors of the Quarter Quell.
People in the crowd begin to chant a mishmash of sounds that reduce to: "Show it! Show it! Show it!"
I turn to Caesar in confusion, and he draws a line across his abdomen while looking at Haymitch.
Oh.
They want him to show them his scar.
That's sick.
With apparently no choice, he pulls his silk shirt up, unzips his pants as far as modesty allows, and displays his scar.
Then Caesar points to me and makes a gesture for me to spin around in circles.
I make a show of it.
Pulling my hair behind my ears, lifting my chin, I take a step forward. Then, slowly and smiling, I spin around in my dress.
Suddenly, my necklace is shining, and its lavender tone turns to a bright purple.
My smile widens, and the applause lasts for a full five minutes.
Giant screens throughout the auditorium come to life with the anthem playing over a fluttering flag of Panem. Caesar guides us to a bright orange couch, positioned at the center of the stage for the recap. It's the first glimpse we have into how our Games were broadcast to the public.
The recap opens on the reading of the card, which I watched from home with my parents and my sister in the spring. A little girl dressed all in white—the picture of innocence—lifts the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes. They widen the shot to include President Snow, who intones:
"And now, to honor our second Quarter Quell, we respect the wishes of those who risked all to bring peace to our great nation." He leans over and carefully selects the envelope marked with a 50 and reads the card inside. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes to the Hunger Games. Two female and two male. In this doubling of reparations, we remember that true strength lies not in numbers, but in righteousness."
Bam! They start drawing the names at the Reapings, beginning with District 1. "Silka Sharp!" "Panache Barker!" They machine-gun through the tributes with a quick shot of each and a counter in the corner of the screen that tracks from one to forty-eight.
Being the home of the victors, District 12 is allowed a bit more time. Drusilla, yellow hat feathers bobbing, gets in her "Ladies first!" before "Louella McCoy!" I swiftly close my eyes, then open them again. The sight of her after so many days makes something flutter in my stomach and bile threatens to rise.
"Maysilee Donner!"
And there's me and my girls—Merrilee and Asterid—hugging one another in the crowd. One of the tearful goodbyes captured by Plutarch.
And I really want to throw up.
"And the first gentleman who gets to accompany the ladies is... Wyatt Callow!"
They briefly cover Wyatt, and then Drusilla calls Haymitch's name. And nothing more. I feel him slightly shift on the couch.
"Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming the District Twelve tributes of the Fiftieth Hunger Games!" says Drusilla, as if daring District 12 to do anything else. "And may the odds be EVER in your favor!"
We are obliterated by a swirl of confetti.
I feel repulsed. I want to scream the truth. A boy's head was blown off! People in 12 were shot! Haymitch's reaping was rigged!
But I just sit there, mute and radiating implicit submission. I look at him and I just know he feels the same. We can't do anything. We have to sit still, look perfect, and smile. Nothing less, nothing more.
Incitatus Loomy couldn't have masterminded a finer parade. The frantic backstage prep never makes an appearance—just a majestic, orderly rollout of the tributes. There's a final aerial shot of all twelve chariots cruising along the route in perfect sync, which ends about fifteen seconds before that blue firecracker exploded, sending the whole event into chaos. That's all the country saw anyway. You had to be there in person to know about the crashing chariots and Haymitch holding Snow accountable for Louella's death.
Which, as we know, also didn't happen—because the next thing the screens show are the interviews, and all forty-eight tributes are in the house.
The Careers have been edited to appear smarter, the Newcomers less unified. Lou Lou's reduced to a girl wearing live-reptile fashion, Wyatt's memorable turns are entirely ignored, and Haymitch and I each get a snarky exchange with Caesar:
"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"
"I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."
The audience laughs, and next to me, he gives them a grin that confirms he's a stuck-up, selfish jerk.
Then mine's next.
"Tell us, dear, how has your stay in the Capitol been so far?"—Caesar says on the screen.
"Well, I must say the coffee here tastes better than the one we have back home. But the fashion is... theatrical. Like you, for example. I didn't know the arena had a petting zoo this year."
The camera focuses on a woman with surgically implanted cat ears who laughs nervously.
Caesar laughs too, then he's serious all of a sudden.
"Any last words for Panem before you step into the arena?"
"Yeah. If I die, please use a flattering angle. And if I win... make sure my statue has cheekbones."
The screen fades to black and one of my questions has been answered.
I'm a self-absorbed, superficial brat.
Now they're showing us rising into the arena. The opening sequence is a love letter to the Gamemakers as we savor the beauty of flora and fauna. For me, though, it calls to mind the deceptively sweet, brain-clouding smell of the air.
The jackass, meaning Haymitch, grabs his gear and hightails it out of there, and then we get to watch the bloodbath, where eighteen kids are killed in excruciating detail. The audience before me gasps and cries out in glee, though they've seen it all before. Wyatt dies a selfless hero, protecting a bewildered Lou Lou, who manages to scamper off unscathed. Then there's me, fighting and trying to follow Lou Lou to protect her. So many Newcomers fall, and with Wyatt, that makes sixteen. The only Career casualties are a boy and girl from District 5. Eighteen in all.
Oh, they really make Haymitch look like a jerk.
And I believed the same thing too, at the beginning, because he really looked like he didn't care about us, the Newcomers at all, not like he promised before the start of the Games. But how would they know that? They didn't show it, so it doesn't matter.
They show me now in the snow-capped mountain. Then how I kill the boy from District 1, Loupe. There are a lot of tributes still recovering from the poison berries and the Career pack's hunting Newcomers.
Day 3, a bunch of mutt squirrels attack Ampert, and then there's a reveal of his skeleton on the ground.
My lil brother.
I shift in my place, I know that image is going to haunt me at night.
Poor little kid, I wish I had known him longer, learned things from him in another circumstance.
Seems like wishing is all I do lately.
The horrors of the volcano take center stage. The tributes experience the flame-shooting eruption, asphyxiation by the ash cloud, and burns from the chemical lava. Twelve die. The rest barely escape and head across the meadow to the woods.
Then shots of Haymitch as he is waking up blanketed by the sparkling ash. Then when he's seen with Panache and company. And it's brutal. And even so, when I came in and finally silenced the Career with my dart.
"We'd live longer with two of us," I say.
Shots of Haymitch and I looking out for each other, and Silka and Maritte take out Ringina and Autumn in combat. But in a mind-bending realignment of events, Haymitch and I drawing off the porcupine mutt, and Maritte and I killing the three Gamemakers at the berm have vanished. Somewhere in time, Maritte and Silka chase us through the woods, and Buck, Chicory, and Hull die from the quills, but it appears the porcupine just wanders off on its own.
Is it Day 4 or 5? Haymitch's attempt to carve our way through the hedge has merged into one big sequence that involves the ladybugs and blowtorch. We're on the cliff that looks down on the treacherous rocks, but they steer clear of the generator. They've edited out the cannon announcing Maritte's death, and with it the part where I say I'm just going back for the potatoes, but they did leave our discussion, silenced, though, so it looks like we've really decided to split up. And they actually leave the force field thing; guess they need it for Silka's death?
The pink birds attack me, and I scream.
Haymitch runs to me, kills them, and then he leans in and starts cleaning me as he begins to talk again.
And I'm hella shocked at the nonsense I'm hearing.
"Please, my love, don't leave me! You can't go yet," he whispers. "I know I said some bad things, and we shouldn't split up. But please don't leave me, we've got stuff to do back home. And... because I love you like all-fire."
I gasp as I put my hands on my mouth.
Haymitch stands up from the couch with an infuriating look. A Peacekeeper approaches to make him sit down quickly. And I look at him with horror.
That never happened. That's not what he said.
That's not his fucking voice.
What the fuck is going on?
When the cannon sounds, Silka spears on the screen. Wellie's head in hand.
Then clips of the cliff, where Silka corners Haymitch, throws her ax. He drops. They cut to her anticipation and then back to him, convulsing. This must have happened after I lost consciousness.
The ax rebounds and buries itself in her head. And then? —and then?
Silka dies, her cannon fires, and Haymitch is hanging on by a thread.
The hovercraft removes Silka's body. Haymitch slowly comes back to me, barely holding himself, and takes out my gunshot. So I'm guessing right now he is threatening to take both our lives away.
And then a voice from above says:
"Ladies and gentlemen, as a gift that love is the most important foundation of our nation, we, in our whole mercy, present you the winners of the 50th Hunger Games! Our Quell victors!"
Trumpets declare our victory.
And now I know how they painted us.
As star-crossed lovers.
And I'm starting to think that back home, Lenore's Dove hands are itching to pull off my hair.
The camera pulls back slowly as they carry us away, for the first time revealing the arena as a whole. It looks like a giant eye. The Cornucopia marks the pupil. The wide circle of spring-green meadow makes up the iris. On either side, the darker green of the forest and mountain terrain narrows to points, forming the whites of the eye. Well, the symbolism has been lost on no one. Even the little kids in the Seam know the Capitol powers are watching us.
I wonder if they ever consider that we're watching them, too.
All eyes on us now, the crowd is applauding, some even crying.
Then Caesar, steps into the spotlight with a dazzling grin.
—Panem! What a show we've just seen! Victory, heartbreak, and a declaration of love that could melt even President Snow's heart! Haymitch Abernathy, let's start with that moment—'I love you like all-fire.' The whole nation is still swooning. Was that spontaneous or... something you'd been meaning to say?"
The crowd cheers, eating it up. Haymitch shifts in his seat, jaw tight. And I a glance at him smiling.
—Didn't say it.
Caesar chuckles, playing it off.
—Oh, come now! Don't be shy! You had the whole arena, and now the whole country, hanging on your every word!
He just sighs through his nose and forces a smirk.
—Guess the arena messes with your head more than I thought. I barely remember half of what happened.
A few people laugh. Caesar's smile falters just slightly, but he recovers.
—Well, if it was the heat of the moment, it certainly made our hearts melt. Maysilee, care to comment? You two had undeniable chemistry out there.
He shifts his gaze to me, and it's scary. He smiles, but something dark is underneath it, and his eyes grow big as he looks at me, in a gesture kind of like a warning.
So I have to play it off, I understand.
I have to make this look real, like we were meant to be, and not just two people who didn't get along at first but, by the end of the most horrible thing that could happen to them, they become more than allies; they become siblings by choice.
—Oh, absolutely. Nothing says romance like a girl bleeding out in the woods while a guy yells poetry with tears in his eyes.
The audience laughs. Caesar laughs louder, like it was his joke.
—Humble and hilarious, as always. But tell me—what was it like, working together in the Games? At what point did you realize that teaming up was your best shot?
Haymitch finally settling into the Capitol game, smiles slightly.
—Probably around the time we were both being hunted. You start looking around for the least likely person to kill you, and lucky me, there she was.
I just shrug my shoulders and flick my hair back with a fake smile.
—I really know how to pick 'em.
More laughter.
— And Ceasar just so you know... I'm looking forward to see that statue of myself around here.
—Oh, she's good! What a firecracker! Panem, your new darlings! Let's hear it for the Victors of the 50th Quarter Quell—Haymitch Abernathy and Maysilee Donner!
The confetti falls. Thunderous applause. I wave, smiling, a smile so big it's almost hurting. Haymitch, barely holding back the anger, takes my hand and squeezes it, eyes on the floor for just a second too long before looking at me and smiling.
The anthem plays as President Snow descends from the heights on a crystal platform, a blood-red rose in his lapel. In his hand, he holds a golden crown, next to him an assistant—an avox, I'm assuming—holds the other crown, which lays on a soft red pillow.
Some victors bow, some kneel, but we just stand there trying to read his expression as he approaches and places the crown on Haymitch's head first.
—I guess Snow lands on top.
I heard him say, and it's barely audible under the applause.
What's that supposed to mean?
Snow merely smiles and says. —Enjoy your homecoming.
Then it's my turn. The avox hands him the pillow, and the president takes the crown. I'm stunned, and as he approaches, I can't stop smelling his scent. It's awful, kind of like blood and something else I can't figure out.
He places the crown on my head. It's heavy, but it fits perfectly.
—I hope you liked your gift, Miss Donner.
I smile and look at him confused.
—What gift, sir?
—I figure some makeup could be more helpful for painting a poster while looking pretty and shut up at the same time, don't you think?
He smiles, then waves goodbye to the audience and goes into the platform again.
I'm frozen in my place, and now I just don't want to throw up, but rip my face off at the same time.
The pink glittery bag flashes through my mind, and Effie's "I'm happy you liked it. He said you would." Doesn't look more confusing anymore.
Fuck.
Now I'm scared. I'm really, really scared.
————
By the time we get back to the apartment, there's a box on my bed and a note with golden letters next to it.
"From now on, Miss Donner, you'll find silence and beauty are your greatest assets. The rest... is just noise."
And in bold red letters.
"Like life, enjoy the after-party."
I open the box, the most beautiful lavender dress I have ever laid my eyes on.
It makes me sick.
And I've been holding it long enough. I rush to the bathroom, get in a quick shower, and then go out and put the dress and makeup on.
As I step out into the living room, Haymitch raises an eyebrow before eyeing me up and down.
—So they gave you something to change into? And I'm stuck in an old great-uncle Silius suit!
I glance at the Peacekeepers by the door, then back at Haymitch and smile at him.
—It's for my poster.
The after-party is held in the ballroom of the presidential mansion. And it's exactly what I never imagined it would be. We're displayed in a giant golden birdcage hanging from the main chandelier, at eye level. It's supposed to be a joke, I guess; the guests sure seem to get a kick out of it. But it isn't. I just stand there, shy. Haymitch tries to open the little handle on the door, but it's locked tight.
A bunch of Peacekeepers stand nearby, encouraging the partygoers. We roll with it, bantering with sponsors and posing for pictures, painting the best poster I can to convince President Snow that I'm on his team. Because my blood's been running cold since his gifts. What awaits me? And if I behave, can I change it?
At some point in the night, they got bored of watching us stand still, so people started shouting at us to kiss or they wouldn't feed us. By that point, my stomach's already in knots, and I'm hoping they're not showing this in District 12. The shame of this isn't something a person can live down.
Haymitch steps away for a moment to speak with Plutarch Heavensbee. The cameras continue to follow their every move, and the sounds of laughter and chatter from the guests surround us.
I can't help but notice how the atmosphere shifts whenever he's near Plutarch—like the weight of the situation changes when he's involved. It's all so... calculated. I feel uneasy but try to keep up the act, smiling at the guests like I've been trained to.
When Haymitch comes back, he looks furious, and his expression is still tense. Plutarch calls everyone for a big photo shoot with us, and the guests—completely drunk at this point—start to forget their earlier request. Haymitch gives me a nod, signaling that it's time for the photos. As we position ourselves, something shifts between us. There's something different now. Something heavy in the air.
—So, what did Plutarch say? —I ask, trying to read his face while forcing a smile.
—Nothing. —he replies with a shrug, but the way he says it—too quickly—makes me doubt him.
His voice is low, almost as if he doesn't want anyone else to overhear.
—Are you sure? You didn't look... enthusiastic —I prod, raising an eyebrow, knowing I'm pushing him.
Haymitch gives me a look, but it's not the sharp one I've grown used to. It's different now—more tired, almost like he's wrestling with something inside.
I stare at him, processing his words. He looks me straight in the eyes, and for a moment, it seems like he's about to say something else. But he stops. His gaze softens and he takes a step back, as if afraid of the consequences of speaking out.
—Well, for now, we smile and wave —I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere, though I know the doubt is still there, buried deep in my thoughts—. Let's just get through this night.
When dawn finally breaks, we're allowed to relieve ourselves in a pink marble bathroom with curlicues and rose-scented soap.
We hope to be sent to the train station, but instead, we're returned to the apartment. Fresh rolls and milk have been provided. Clean clothes as well.
No gift in sight.
Chapter Text
~
~
That night was the worst.
They drove us back to the apartment, and Haymitch and I went to our bedrooms in silent, back to step cero again, where we didn't knew how to act around each other. Too much pain and confusion to put up with.
Sleep found me eventually, but it wasn't kind.
At first, I was back home. The air smelled like raspberry glaze, and someone was laughing—maybe my sister, maybe someone else. The sky was soft and golden. Everything was safe. Until it wasn't.
The ground crumbled beneath me, and I was standing in ashes. My shoes were gone. I looked down—my feet were bleeding, cut open by tiny, glinting things. Not rocks. Not glass.
Tokens.
Tributes' tokens. I knew every single one. I had helped make them. I had seen them when their owners still had faces. Before the cannons.
My dress kept changing—reaping gown, training uniform, parade costume—twisting tighter and tighter, like it was trying to choke me. I couldn't breathe.
I tried to run, but the arena had swallowed me again.
Trees whispered. Wind carried names I didn't want to hear.
"Maysilee..."
"You let me die."
I turned, and he was there—Ampert from District 3. The token was so tight in his throat it was sucking the life out of him. His eyes were wide, but not angry. Just... sad. Like I'd broken something that couldn't be fixed.
"You left me to die," he said.
"No," I whispered, or tried to. The words stuck. My throat burned. Then Mariette appeared, with her trident launching straight into my chest. Blood started to pour down.
"You left me to die," she said.
I could hear Haymitch yelling, somewhere far away. But I couldn't move. Couldn't answer.
Then the ground split open.
Tributes fell into it—screaming, grabbing, calling my name. I saw all of them. All at once. Their faces blurred together.
"Victor," they hissed.
"Victor."
"Murderer."
I fell to my knees. Covered my ears. But I could still hear them, louder and louder and louder—
And then—nothing.
Silence.
I was alone, in front of a mirror. Capitol makeup on my face. Lipstick like blood. Gold dust in my hair. And my eyes—my eyes weren't mine anymore.
I opened my mouth to scream.
But I woke up instead, choking on my own breath. My hands were shaking, tangled in the sheets, and the scream still clung to my throat like smoke. For a moment, I didn't know where I was—just that I wasn't safe.
Then the door creaked open.
—Maysilee?
His voice was low, cautious.
I blinked at the shadows. —Haymitch?
He stepped inside. His hair was a mess, like he'd jumped out of bed. His shirt was wrinkled. He looked half-asleep, but his eyes were sharp.
—You were screaming.
—I...—My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. —I didn't mean to wake you.
—You didn't —he said, then added— It was a nightmare, wasn't it?
I nodded. A beat of silence passed between us. I tried to sit up straighter, but my limbs were still trembling.
He hovered by the doorway. —You okay?
No. Not really. But I nodded anyway.
He didn't buy it. Not even close.
After a second, he came closer. Sat on the edge of the bed like it wasn't a big deal. —You want me to leave?
I didn't answer.
He waited.
—I saw him. Ampert.—I whispered. —Then Mariette. And the tokens. And the faces.
Haymitch didn't say anything. Just stayed there. Solid. Real.
—I couldn't breathe.
Still quiet.
—I told him I'd be his sister. Then left him to die. —I said, trying to contain a sob.—He told me that in my dream and it hurts because it's the truth.
Haymitch's hand found mine. Rough calluses against my palm. No words. Just pressure. Steady and warm.
I stared at our hands, barely able to see them in the dark.
—You wanna talk?—he asked finally.
I shook my head.
—Then I'll just stay.—he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.—Hang on, I'll bring my stuff.
And he did.
Just like the first night we met Lou Lou. He brought his pillow, some sofa cushions, and he made up a bed for himself on the floor.
—Sleep tight, sis. I'll keep an eye on you.
—————
The sun was already peeking through the thin Capitol curtains when I opened my eyes.
I didn't remember falling asleep. Just the weight of the sheets, the steady sound of Haymitch breathing from the floor, and the silence that had finally settled around my ribs. Like the ghosts had backed off—for now.
I sat up slowly. My hair was a mess, pillow-creased and sticking to my neck. And my necklaces were all tangled.
Haymitch stirred as I moved. He was curled up under one of the ridiculous throw blankets from the sofa, his pillow crooked beneath him. For a second, I thought he was still asleep. Then his voice, quiet:
—Morning.
I nodded. —Morning.
Neither of us said anything else.
He stood up from the floor, then went to his dorm. To the bathroom, I assume. So that's what I do anyway.
Now that I look at myself in the mirror, I really look like a mess.
There's a shiny plastic bag near the sink, with a note stuck to it, and I really hope it's something my prep team sent and not another gift from...
"Now that you are a Victor, you must take care of yourself as one. Hope you enjoy them! These are my favorites! — Xoxo, Effie."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Inside the bag are some cream products, in bottles and tubes, thankfully with instructions on them. Asterid would love them. Back home, we only use a mix her mother taught her to keep your skin hydrated, and she would share it with us afterward.
I miss my friends so much.
I wash my face and just use one cream product today. I don't want to risk any allergies or something, since I've never been around these things before.
As I make my way to the dining table, I realize Haymitch is already there, sitting, hair still wild, hands wrapped around a mug like it's keeping him grounded.
—You know what? I'm tired of bread and milk.
—So what? —he says, bluffing—there's nothing we can do here anyway.
—I know what we can do.
I go to the kitchen, open some cabinets, and reach for a bowl, a spoon, and a pan. Then I open the fridge. There's only milk in there.
I open more cabinets and find something that might work. Eggs, butter, and sugar—all in powder. Nothing's fresh. But it could be worse, I guess.
I take the milk from the fridge, the bread from the counter. Then I mix the milk with the powdered egg and sugar in the bowl.
I cut some bread into slices and put them in the mix so they can soak up the flavors.
Haymitch hears the noise, so he comes into the kitchen.
—What are you doing?
—Sweet velvet toast. —I say casually, as I take the pan and put it on the stove.
—What?
—Straight out of Otto Mellark's recipe book. You'll love it.
I mix the butter powder with a little bit of milk and spread it on the pan so the bread won't stick. Then I place the slices in and let them toast.
—Hand me a plate, please.
Haymitch reaches for one and hands it to me. I put a slice on it, then pour some sugar on top.
—Now, taste it. —I say, and watch him grab a fork and eat the toast carefully.
—Maysilee, this is delicious!
I smile and nod.
—See? I told you. It's kind of different from our usual breakfast, at least.
We sit back at the table, plates between us, steam curling off the toast. For a while, the only sound is chewing, the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic.
It's comfortable. Easy. Almost like we're just two kids having breakfast after a sleepover—except we're not.
—Otto came up with it last winter,—I say, taking a bite. —We were all freezing. The heating in the shop broke, and we spent most days trying to find excuses to stay near the oven. He was messing around with leftovers and—boom! Sugar velvet toast. Merrilee said it was the closest thing to comfort we'd get before spring.
Haymitch chuckles, mouth half-full. —Otto Mellark, huh? He's got taste.
—He wants to be a baker just like his father,—I say, smiling. —Sometimes, when I'm feeling creative, I'll go over to his house and we make new recipes I could never try at home.
He nods. —Burdock sells squirrels to the Mellarks.
—Is he the one who comes to school with new scratches just 'cause he keeps tripping over roots in the woods?
Haymitch smirks. —That's the one. Always blames Blair for distracting him. Which is fair. He whistles like a damn bird when he spots game. Doesn't stop talking.
I smile at the image. —Asterid would get along with them, I think. She's good with plants. Knows which leaves cure fevers and which make your hair shiny.
—Shiny hair, huh? Not exactly useful when you're hunting rabbits.
—Maybe not. But she always said, "If we're gonna suffer, we might as well look decent doing it."
He snorts into his mug. —She sounds terrifying.
—She is.
For a few minutes, we just eat in silence. It's not awkward. It's... warm. Familiar. I imagine Otto's flour-covered hands, Merrilee coming home with new rumors she heard around town, Burdock tripping over himself because Asterid smiled at him once.
—You think they're okay?—I ask, finally.
Haymitch doesn't look up, but his fingers tighten around his mug. —I hope so.
Me too.
———
The peace didn't last long.
We'd barely finished cleaning up the dishes when the door burst open with a dramatic whoosh, as if the wind had suddenly learned how to apply mascara and wear sequins.
—Good moooorning, Victors!—Effie Trinket, in full Capitol attire—yellow ruffles, towering heels, and lashes, smile wide and dazzling—sang, stepping into the room like she owned not just the apartment but the entire building.
She was wearing something that might've been a dress—or maybe a parachute that had collided with a birdcage. Proserpina followed behind her, balancing a tray of little pink smoothies, while Vitus struggled with an armful of silvery garment bags that sparkled aggressively in the light.
—We let you rest yesterday because, you know, the party was on fire,—Effie said brightly, as if she were talking about a hangover,—but today, darlings, it's back to work!
—Work?—Haymitch muttered beside me, still barefoot, mug in hand.
—Of course! We've got your post-Games recovery glam, your sponsor appreciation shoot, and of course, we must begin brainstorming your Victory Tour wardrobes! I was thinking feathers. Or flames. Or flaming feathers.
—What about clothes?—I asked.
Effie blinked. —Feathers are clothes, darling. In the Capitol, anyway. Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Eventually.—She paused as she examined me.—Maysilee dear, your skin looks much better today. Did you use the hydrating pearl serum I left for you?
—I tried one of them,—I admitted.—The one with the lavender scent.
Effie beamed. —Excellent choice! That one's Capitol-approved for even the most sensitive skin types. We'll make a lady of you yet.
I nodded, trying not to flinch at the idea.
Proserpina handed me a smoothie with a dazzling smile. —This one's made from algae, liquid stardust, and, like, one single blueberry. It's sooo rejuvenating!
Haymitch sniffed his and grimaced. —This smells like paint.
—Luxury paint,—Vitus corrected cheerfully. —It's what the elite artists drink when they're stuck on a creative block.
—Lovely.—Haymitch deadpanned.
Effie clapped her hands, her rings jingling like windchimes. —Alright, Victors, let's get to it! Proserpina, darling, take Maysilee's measurements again. Just in case her waistline has changed. You know how it is.
—Wait, again?—I asked.
—Oh, we'll do it every other day! Luckily you didn't maximize anything yet. So I'm sure nothing's changed much.
I shot Haymitch a look of confusion. He just raised his shoulders confused too.
Vitus opened one of the silvery garment bags with a dramatic flourish, like he was revealing a treasure chest. Inside: an outfit made entirely of shiny synthetic leather and—yes—actual flaming feathers. Well, mechanical ones. They lit up at the tips like tiny LED candles.
—This one is inspired by the coal mines, of course,—he explained, holding it up to the light.—Black, dangerous, and a little explosive!
—You want me to wear that?—Haymitch asked, expression flat.
—Oh, don't be shy,—Effie said, patting his arm.—Your shoulders will look divine in it.
Haymitch turned to me, deadpan. —They sure as hell will get a good grade in school out of us.
I snorted.
Meanwhile, Proserpina had zipped open another bag for me. This one had a fitted bodice of crushed velvet the color of ash and a skirt made of what looked like pleated plastic wrap and vines. Fake ones. Glittery.
—We call this one The Resilient Rose of Twelve,—she said proudly.—It's made from recycled Capitol party streamers and ethically-sourced panic.
—I... love how it crinkles when I breathe,—I said weakly.
—Oh, thank you! It's supposed to sound like victory. Or foliage. Both, really.
—Where's the rest of it?—Haymitch asked, looking at my dress.
—This is the rest of it,—Effie chimed in. — Everyone will love it! Minimalism! So daring. So now.
So revealing, I would say.
After we change, we're headed to a studio for the promotional shoots and campaigns.
———
Nine days.
Nine days have passed since that day, and we are still in the Capitol. Gala after gala, photoshoot after photoshoot, we were displayed like dolls at every single event in the Capitol.
This is something we never see back home. What happens when someone wins the Games, I mean.
They just show the interview with Caesar — something we did — and then how the victor goes back home and they throw a party in their honor.
But nobody knows about this.
As the noon approaches, my team were fussing over me again.
Proserpina was fluffing my hair like I was some Capitol poodle, and Vitus was arranging jewelry across my neckline like I was a mannequin with better posture.
—Remember— Proserpina chirped, —this gala isn't just a celebration. It's... symbolic. First impressions count. Especially with the Claimants.
—Claimants?— I echoed. —Is that what they're calling sponsors now?
Vitus gave a strange little laugh, avoiding my eyes. —Nooo, not quite. Claimants are... a bit more exclusive. They... invest in your continued success.
—Right,— I said slowly. —And what exactly am I supposed to do to... thank them?
Proserpina went still. Her hands froze mid-curl.
Vitus cleared his throat. —Well. That's... more of a private arrangement. You'll get guidance. Eventually. When you turn eighteen, usually.
—Guidance?— My voice was flatter.
—Nothing to worry about yet!— Proserpina said too brightly. —You'll look stunning tonight. And that's the important thing. They like new faces.
That chill in my spine? It wasn't from the dress.
I didn't say another word. But I caught my reflection in the mirror — painted, polished, packaged.
———
The ballroom at Snow's mansion shimmered with brutal elegance — massive chandeliers floated above the crowd, casting soft, syrupy light over marble floors and walls encrusted with mirrored panels. Waiters in sculptural outfits weaved silently through the throng, balancing trays of iridescent cocktails and canapés that glowed faintly in the dark. Perfumed fog curled at everyone's feet. Music, high and haunting.
We were introduced to so many people, and eventually some wanted to dance with us, but before anyone reached us, we started dancing on our own.
Haymitch's hand found the small of my back as we danced, both of us trying to move with grace while avoiding eye contact with the Capitolites.
—Effie says I should be flattered. That not everyone gets Claimants so soon after winning,— Haymitch murmured, his lips barely moving. —Do you know what she's referring to?
—I have no idea,— I said, forcing a polite smile as I spun. —Proserpina and Vitus were... hinting at something too. Said I'd understand everything once I turn eighteen.
He nodded and kept moving, slow and smooth. The kind of dancing that looks elegant from a distance and feels like drowning up close.
The crowd parted ahead of us like fabric.
Drusilla appeared, and we stopped dancing.
She wasn't like Effie. Effie was glitter and smiles. Drusilla was something sharp dressed in charm — all sculpted metal and synthetic feathers, her gown catching the light like oil on water. Her smile was generous but wrong, like a knife wrapped in lace.
—Well, aren't you two just... radiant,— she purred. —Dancing like you were bred for it. Which, of course, you weren't.
Neither of us spoke.
She laughed lightly, as though she'd said something darling.
Drusilla's eyes lingered on Haymitch a moment too long, then moved to me. Her smile thinned.
—There's someone I simply must introduce you to,— she said, turning her head just slightly, where a tall figure stood cloaked in shadows by a column, sipping something glowing and green. —He's quite taken with both of you. He's already put his name on the list. Isn't that exciting?
What list?
My stomach dropped.
Haymitch's grip tightened.
She tilted her head, expectant.
—Come now,— she said. —It's just a little conversation. You'll want to make a good impression.
Haymitch looked at me. I nodded.
We followed her through a corridor of bodies—painted, perfumed, jeweled things that looked more like sculpture than human. Some turned to watch us pass. One man reached out and touched a lock of my hair as we passed, murmuring something I didn't quite comprehend.
Drusilla moved like she owned the air around her, her heels clacking delicately against the marble. When she finally stopped, it was near the edge of the ballroom, where the lights were lower and the laughter sounded stranger.
The man was tall, dressed in a deep burgundy suit that shimmered like blood under the crystal lights. His hair was platinum white, combed back like wet porcelain. He was younger than I expected. Not old. Not kind, either.
He turned as we approached, setting down a half-empty glass of something neon green. His eyes found mine first, and something in them made my ribs shrink inward.
Drusilla's voice floated like smoke.
—Magistrate Voran, may I present our newest heroes? I believe you've been... curious.
He smiled. Not widely. Just enough.
—I only asked for a place in line. — he said with a laugh. —I've followed your Games closely. Exceptional instincts, both of you. I admire cleverness.
What line?
Haymitch shifted slightly beside me.
—Thank you— I said, not knowing what else to say.
Voran's eyes lingered on me, then flicked to Haymitch. Slowly. Measuring something we hadn't offered.
—I must say, District Twelve has exceeded expectations. Twice, no less. What are the odds? Anyway, I'd be honored to host you someday.
My throat tightened. Host us?
Haymitch's hand brushed mine subtly. A signal. We needed to leave. —We're expected back on the dance floor— he said.
—Of course you are. — Drusilla said, her voice dipped in amusement. —Still, I do hope you remember this meeting. First impressions matter, even in waiting.
My heart ticked faster at that word. Waiting. For what?
Voran gave a slow, deliberate nod.
—I've made my interest known through the proper channels. — he said. —I look forward to the day the choice becomes... available.
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
Drusilla stepped in again, ushering us back with a flick of her fingers and a syrupy smile.
—Go, darlings. The night is young.
We turned without a word.
Haymitch didn't speak until we were halfway back to the center of the ballroom, the music growing louder again.
—I don't like any of this. — he muttered.
—Me neither,— I whispered. —But I think we just shook hands with a Claimant.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of glass and gold and fingers that lingered too long. We danced and smiled until our faces ached.
Effie clapped when we boarded the train in the morning. Proserpina and Vitus looked exhausted but proud. Magno and Drusilla posed for pictures while Plutarch's cameras recorded our "farewell shots"—a slow pan of the train platform, where banners waved and we posed.
Finally, we're going back home.
A doctor, waiting at the door of the train, deftly removed my pump, leaving oozy spots where the teeth had secured it to my chest. I can't pretend I'm sad to see it go, although within minutes the drugs wore off and my scars started to hurt.
Then we said goodbye to all of them. This time, I didn't bother being polite to Drusilla.
—Funny, isn't it? Last time we were on this train, you slapped me —I say, smiling— and now I'm on my way home, entering it as a Victor. Must sting, doesn't it?
Drusilla gave a thin, tight smile.
—Oh darling, I couldn't care less. Soon enough, you'll wish you had died in that arena. Remember, the Victory Tour starts in just a few months.
I arched a brow. —And?
Drusilla leaned in, the edges of her smile sharpened like glass. —Now you'll see what the life of a Victor really looks like.
I froze for a second, searching Drusilla's face for meaning.
—Enjoy the quiet ride home. It's the last time you'll belong to yourself.
Then she turned around and left me, just as Plutarch called out—Final shot, everyone! Let's send our Victors home in style!
Haymitch glanced over as the door to our train compartment slid shut behind us—What was that about?
I didn't answer immediately. I sat down, staring at my hands. They were trembling, just a little.
—She said that now I'll see what the Life of a Victor really looks like and... that this would be the last time I belong to myself —I finally said.
I blinked, hard. I wasn't going to cry. I wouldn't.
But he saw it anyway.
He exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
—Hey —he said softly, voice low like he didn't want to startle me— you still belong to yourself. No matter what they dress us in, no matter who they parade us in front of... you're still you. Don't let them take that. I know I won't.
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes on the floor.
—Then what was all that? The Claimants, the whispers... what is this?
He didn't answer right away. Rubbed a hand over his mouth like he was trying to find the right words—or decide if he should say them at all.
Then he looked up and met my eyes.
—Leonore Dove's in prison.
My breath caught.—What?
—Almost since the Reaping. Plutarch told me.
—That's what you two were talking about when we were in the cage?
He nodded, jaw tight. — I talked to her, and she said they were letting her go in the morning but they never released her.
Something in me twisted.
—You should've told me.
—I know.
—We're in this together now —I said, more sharply than I meant to—. You and me. That means no secrets. I don't care if we're not best friends or whatever. I need to know things. I need to be able to trust you.
He was quiet for a beat, then nodded.
—I get it. And you're right. I'll tell you what I can, when I can.
I pressed my lips together, trying to breathe through the pressure building in my chest. Haymitch leaned back, eyes on the ceiling like he couldn't bear to look at me.
—I'm scared, Haymitch.
—I know.
Silence stretched between us, thick and tired. After a while, we stopped talking altogether.
⸻
The train didn't move.
Hours passed. The light outside faded. Then a Peacekeeper stepped into the compartment holding a stale roll and a carton of milk.
—Why aren't we moving?— I heard Haymitch asks.
—Been waiting for your friends. — the peacekeeper replies, with a nod to the window, then goes.
What friends?
Two carts are being rolled down the platform. Each carries a plain wooden box. After a momentary confusion, I put it together.
They are coffins. Louella and Wyatt will be riding home with us. I thought them long buried, peacefully resting in their family plots on the hill in District 12.
Instead, we will finish this journey together.
Notes:
Sugar velvet toast as in French toast lol.
So what do you think about the book so far?
Would you like shorter chapters?
Let me know in the comments please 💗
Chapter Text
~
~
I jolt awake as the train jerks to a halt at the District 12 station. We are home. Peacekeepers enter the compartment, unlock our shackles—ones they must have put on while we were sleeping—and gesture toward the exit.
—Out.— one of them says.
The platform outside is coated in coal dust, dimly lit by the early morning sky. The clock reads 5 a.m. There's no crowd, no fanfare. Just emptiness.
—It must be Sunday.— Haymitch whispers. —The mines are shut down. Everyone must be in their homes.
I nod and look around. The coffins were shoved out carelessly—Wyatt's, Louella's.
The train pulls away, taking with it the Capitol's gleam, and we are left in silence, with the scent of coal and the bitter weight of survival.
I walk over to Wyatt's coffin and rest my palm on the cold metal nameplate. Did he think about these odds? That two tributes would win and come back home? I want to laugh at the idea. I bring my hand to my mouth, place a kiss on it, and touch the nameplate again.
Haymitch touches Louella's coffin, his face solemn, unreadable. We exchange a glance. Neither of us say a word.
We descend from the platform and I walk behind Haymitch as he opens the heavy glass door.
—We made it,— he says, smiling mid-walk. —I can't wait to hug Ma and ruffle Sid's hair. Oh, and for sure, strip off these old man's clothes.
And I smile too. But before I can say anything, I follow Haymitch's gaze toward the horizon, where something glows too brightly to be the sunrise.
Then the smell hits me.
Not coal. Not wood.
Smoke.
And something worse.
Haymitch takes off running toward the Seam.
—Haymitch!— I call out, but he's already gone, a blur of Capitol silk and desperation vanishing into the morning fog.
My legs move before my mind catches up. I chase after him, heart pounding harder with every step. I don't understand what I'm seeing—not at first. But the glow grows brighter, redder, angrier.
Then I hear it. Screaming. Voices shouting for water.
And I understand.
A house is burning.
His house.
He crashes through a line of neighbors with buckets. He's shouting names—Ma, Sid. I push through after him.
People draw away when they see him, and even more when they see me. Maybe our appearance is too much to bear.
—Where are they? Where is my family?— he begs a little girl. She points at the flames.
I can't believe it.
The roof is collapsing. The front door is nothing but fire. Haymitch tries to run in, but he's dragged back by two men. I can't see clearly from afar, but I assume it's Burdock and Blair.
—I'm sorry, Haymitch. We tried. It's too late,— I hear one of them say.
I fall to my knees. I can't breathe. I can't think. I just watch as he fights them, screaming until his voice breaks—until all that's left is a sound that barely resembles human pain.
I stand apart, frozen in the blur of ash and motion, until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I flinch—then relax. It's Merrilee. Behind her, my parents are walking toward me.
—You're safe,— she says, and her voice is gentler than I deserve.
—I'm not,— I whisper.
Mama—Valerian—pulls me into a tight embrace. She smells of chamomile and cinnamon, just like home. Papa, Angus, stands behind her with red-rimmed eyes and a clenched jaw, a hand resting on Merrilee's shoulder.
—I should go get him,— I say, but Dad holds me before I can run to Haymitch.
—Wait, pumpkin. Let me hug you first.
I stay in his embrace and let myself cry and mourn.
Then I hear more noise and see her—Asterid—kneeling beside Haymitch, calm even in the middle of the nightmare. She presses something to his lips.
—Drink, Haymitch. Drink until I say when. One, two, three, four, five... okay, when. That's right. Try to rest now.
His eyes flutter. He slurs something—Ma, Sid—and then he's still.
As my dad hugs me, I close my eyes, pressing my hands over my mouth to stop myself from sobbing.
This was supposed to be a return. A celebration.
And instead, it's a funeral.
The flames finally die when there's nothing left to burn. Haymitch is unconscious, cradled in Blair's arms like a broken doll. Asterid's dose worked fast. Too fast, maybe.
I free myself from my dad's arms and head toward the group.
—Please,— I say to Burdock and Blair, —take him to my place. We'll take care of him.
They eye each other, then look at me suspiciously. Burdock is the one who speaks first.
—Okay. We'll come by in the afternoon.
—And I'll just be a few doors down, just in case,— says Asterid in a reassuring way.
We go to my house, and the scent of sweets and candy makes my eyes water. I missed this so much.
Back in the arena, when I thought I'd never see the light of day again, I wished I could change my destiny—wished I didn't have to spend another day making sweets. But life has this weird way of messing things up, and there's nothing in the world I'd trade more than being here right now, doing this for the rest of my life, if it just meant a little bit of peace.
—Don't worry, boys. We'll take care of him. Go rest. It was a tough morning.
My mom's voice is what pulls me out of my stupor.
Blair and Burdock step out of the house, and Merrilee covers Haymitch, who is on the couch, with a blanket. Then I feel my mom's hand on my shoulder.
—Otto brought some bread yesterday, and I can reheat last night's soup for you. You look like you could use a home-cooked meal, my love.
I look at my mom and hug her.
I always considered myself a daddy's girl, and though Mom loved Merrilee more than she could ever love me, we always had this complicated relationship—she'd make me feel small compared to my sister. But I suppose nearly dying has a way of making us value each other more.
She hugs me back and starts to sob.
—Since the moment your name was called, I believed you could make it out, Maysee. My strong, strong baby. I love you so much.
—I love you more, Mom,— I whisper.
Dad brings me some water and we all go to the kitchen.
Mom starts heating the soup while Dad boils some water for coffee.
Merrilee hands me some bread and butter to spread, but I stop her before she puts the plate in front of me.
—I'll pass on the bread. I've had enough of it.
She scowls and smiles before answering.
—Fine, Maysee. No problem.
They all sit, and as I watch them eat in silence and peace, I start to wonder when my time with them will be over.
Haymitch already paid for what he did. But me? I'm here at home with my whole family while his is buried under the ground.
The thought makes me sick and I have to excuse myself.
—I'm really glad we're here and nothing bad happened to us,— I smile at them. —But I'm sorry, I seriously can't tolerate food right now. If you'll excuse me, I'll be in the living room with Haymitch. Good night.
I plant a goodbye kiss on each of their foreheads and head upstairs.
My room looks the same as I left it. The bed with its pink sheets is made, and new flowers are on the nightstand. The curtains are open and the night wind enters through my nostrils. I never thought I'd miss the minery smell of District 12 before.
I take some pillows and blankets and go back downstairs, then place them next to Haymitch on the floor.
I watch him, sleeping peacefully with no care in the world—for now. Thinking everything is some kind of twisted nightmare. But tomorrow, he'll wake up here. Not in his home. And certainly not with his family.
I feel warm, surrounded by my family's voices and glad that I can still hear them talking from the kitchen. But my body is in pain. And my heart aches in ways I can't describe.
I try to sleep, and though it's hard, I finally manage to get some rest.
———
The sun is already high when I wake up. I blink against the light flooding through the curtains and sit up on the floor, disoriented for a moment, until I remember. The fire. The screaming. Haymitch.
He's still asleep beside me, curled up on the couch, face slack and quiet for once. His breathing is steady now. I take a moment just to watch him. In this small, silent pocket of time, he looks almost in peace.
Then I hear footsteps, soft and cautious. It's Mama.
—I figured you two would be starving. It's nearly one o'clock,— she says gently, balancing a tray with toast, scrambled eggs, and two cups—one with tea and one with coffee—then places the tray on the little table near the couch.
I nod, but Haymitch doesn't stir. I reach out to shake him lightly.
—Hey,— I whisper. —You need to eat something.
He blinks awake slowly, confused, eyes darting around the room. When they land on me, there's a flicker of understanding. And then pain.
—They're gone,— he says, voice rough.
—I know.
We sit on the floor and eat in silence, the clinking of forks and the ticking of the old wall clock filling the room.
Later, when we've finished, Papa appears in the doorway. His hands are in his pockets, and there's something quiet and steady about his presence that I've always found comforting.
—Haymitch,— he says, stepping closer, —I want you to know something. Whatever happens from now on... you can count on us. You've got a place here. Always.
Haymitch looks like he's about to protest, but Papa doesn't let him.
—You helped bring my daughter home. You're part of the family now. That's final.
Haymitch swallows hard, blinking fast. He nods once, like anything more might break him.
—I don't know what to say.
—No need to say anything, son. Just take your time.
Mama comes to stand beside Papa, placing a hand on his back. She doesn't say a word, but her expression says the rest.
We all stand there in a circle of quiet understanding. And for the first time since we stepped off that train, I see something shift in Haymitch's face. Not quite peace. But maybe the beginning of it.
—Shower's ready if you want to take a bath,— says Merrilee, and her gaze flickers toward me. —Haymitch, I put some of Dad's old clothes out if you want to take one too.
—Sure, thank you,— he says.
—You go first, I can wait,— I tell him. He just nods and follows my sister upstairs.
I grab the tray and put the dishes in the kitchen, then come back to the living room.
—What happened? —I ask my parents.
—We don't know much, just that one of the McCoy kids spotted it,— my father says. —The house was already aflame. The people in the Seam started in with the water, but the pump was slow and their cistern was dry.
—Haymitch can't know that,— I snap. —He'll blame himself even more. That was his job on Reaping Day and he didn't do it.
—He'll find out eventually, my dear,— my mother says. —But sure, we won't tell him.
—Good. Thank you,— I say.
Then we hear a knock on the door. Papa goes and answers it. Burdock is waiting outside.
—I came by to check on Haymitch,— I hear him say, —and to let you all know that we're about to head over to the graveyard.
I walk toward him.
—He's taking a bath, but he'll be out soon. Would you like to come in?
—Sure,— he says and steps inside.
—They had hold of each other. Thought we'd let them stay that way,— he says after a while.
—What are you talking about? —I ask.
—Sid and Mrs. Abernathy.
I freeze. Together. Hugging each other for eternity.
Haymitch enters the room slowly, in fresh clothes, my sister behind him, holding a towel for me.
—Good, you're here,— he says to Burdock. —Lenore Dove. I've got to get her.
—Haymitch, probably not,— I say cautiously.
—I heard she's got a hearing with the base commander today. You showing up won't help her any, Hay. Besides, we're about to head over to the graveyard.
—Oh...— he replies, directing his gaze to the floor.
—We should go,— I say, then turn to Merrilee. —Thank you, Merry.— Then I look up. —If you all excuse me, I'll just change into something more appropriate.
⸻
By the time we reach the graveyard, a couple hundred people have assembled. Seems like a lot compared to the Abernathys' burial, but then I realize we're not grieving alone.
Four fresh graves await. One for Mrs. Abernathy and Sid. One for Louella. One for Wyatt.
—Who's the fourth for? —I hear Burdock ask.
—Jethro Callow,— a woman answers, not bothering to lower her voice. —Hung himself this morning when his boy returned. Couldn't bear the shame.
A Booker boy's death.
The mayor comes to speak over the dead. The words make no more sense than the chirping of birds in the surrounding trees.
I look at Haymitch, soaked through his shirt and into his jacket. I can sense he's trying so hard to stand with dignity, so I reach for him, hug him, and whisper that it's okay—he can cry.
Coffins are lowered into the graves. Many shovels work to bury the departed. Dirt's patted down. Some kind soul lays a wreath of wildflowers on each mound. People weep and wail. It's so awful, I want to run away.
Then Burdock begins to sing, in that clear, sweet voice of his:
You're headed for heaven,
The sweet old hereafter,
And I've got one foot in the door.
But before I can fly up,
I've loose ends to tie up,
Right here in
The old therebefore.
The mockingjays, who nest in the surrounding trees, fall silent as he continues:
I'll be along
When I've finished my song,
When I've shut down the band,
When I've played out my hand,
When I've paid all my debts,
When I have no regrets,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.
The mourners have quieted.
When I'm pure like a dove,
When I've learned how to love,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.
The song, suggesting the separation is only temporary, consoles the heart. And the mockingjays seem to approve, because they pick up the melody and make it their own.
As my eyes sweep the crowd, I see person after person press the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and then extend it to their dead. Our way of saying goodbye to those we cherished. I grab one of Haymitch's hands and follow suit, raising my hand high, because I have so many to honor. We both do.
Then it's over. I notice that a boy, with hands and face bandaged, spits on Jethro Callow's grave. No one reprimands him.
⸻
The McCoys host a gathering after the burial and invite us all. I convince my family to go home, that I'll be okay with Haymitch at the McCoys' house. There's soup—bean and ham hock—but I can't swallow a spoonful. Their eyes are full of questions about Louella, questions we don't know how to answer. So we slip away, unnoticed.
—I knew something was wrong the second we smelled it,— he says, his voice raw. —But I hoped...
He stops. The silence is thicker than the smoke.
—Haymitch,— I begin.
He turns to me, and his eyes are nothing like the ones I remember. They're empty. Carved out.
—It was Snow,— he says flatly. —He did this. For my homecoming. Because I did some stupid stuff in the arena, Maysilee. Stuff you can't imagine.
I can't breathe.
—We both did,— I say, and the words slice through me like glass.
—You don't get it,— Haymitch answers.
—Then help me get it,— I shout. —Help me get it because I don't. I can't read you or know every thought that comes through your mind, Haymitch.
He falls silent, and I just beg.
—Haymitch, please.
He lets out a sigh.
—That night when we practiced how to sleep in the arena, Beetee came to the apartment. He told me about a plan to destroy the arena. I don't know—maybe to try and end the Games.
The world tilts. And suddenly it all makes sense.
—That's why you were out? And acting all strange the next day? —He nods.
—In the arena, I tried to fulfill my purpose but failed. And Ampert died because of it.— A tear rolls down his face and I hold my breath before I start sobbing. —Then I discovered the force field, which led to us surviving and trying to threaten them so they wouldn't let us die.
Haymitch gives a bitter laugh. Not the kind that holds humor.
—I was naive enough to believe I was doing us a favor. To think we could outsmart them. But I'm a fool,— he whispers. —I thought... I thought winning meant I could protect them. I really believed that. Like it was some kind of shield.
He rubs a hand over his face, eyes red-rimmed.
—Turns out, it just put a bigger target on them.
—It's not your fault,— I say gently. —You didn't kill them.
He turns his head then, finally meeting my eyes. There's something hollow and raw in them, like someone who hasn't stopped bleeding.
—Snow killed them because I made a mockery of the Games. Because I didn't play by the rules... If I'd just died like I was supposed to—
—Don't,— I interrupt. —Don't say that.
—Why not? —His voice rises slightly. —If I'd died in that arena, they'd still be alive. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it.
—And if you had, I wouldn't be here,— I say firmly. —You saved me. You made it possible for there to be two victors. You gave me a chance.
He stares at me, breathing uneven.
—And I paid for it with them.
I reach for his hand. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't squeeze back either. Just lets it rest there, cold and heavy in mine.
—Then don't let that be for nothing,— I say softly. —Don't let Snow turn their deaths into another way to break you. Or me.
He looks away again, swallowing hard.
—Sometimes I wish I hadn't come back. That I'd just let Silka finish it.
—Then I'd be here alone or not at all.— I whisper.
That makes him go still.
—We should go home,— I say. —It's late and my parents must be worried.
—I can't... I don't want to.
—Haymitch.— I begin, but then I watch him fall, and Blair and Burdock come and help him up, trying to convince him to go home with them.
—I want to be alone,— he says.
I just stand there, not knowing what to do. Blair murmurs something I don't hear. Burdock studies Haymitch with a grim kind of tenderness.
—Well,— he mutters, nodding toward the distant hill, —there's your new house, then.
Victor's Village. I'd forgotten.
A Capitol-made cage at the edge of everything.
When you win the Games, you're granted a big salary for the rest of your life, and a big house in the Victors' Village. No more school for us. And no more living in our old homes.
We walk there. They lay Haymitch down in a bed. The air hums with artificial chill. We head out of the room, leaving the door slightly open.
—I'm going to find Asterid,— Burdock whispers. —See about more syrup.
—I'll watch him,— says Blair, nodding to the other room where Haymitch sleeps. —You should go too, Maysilee.
I knew they didn't like me that much but shutting me out like that?
—What? —I say, too loud for my own good.
—I mean try to get some rest. And dig up some clothes, too, can you?
—I want to stay here with him, in case anything...
Burdock cuts me off.
—Don't worry. We'll be here. I'll walk you home and then come back. Blair and I will watch him. We'll let you know everything.
—Okay,— I say. —I'll just go and say goodbye to him.
I go to the next room. Haymitch is still sleeping, and I murmur things he probably won't hear.
—I'm leaving you with your friends, but I promise you, I'll be back in the morning, okay? I'll never leave you alone. I promise.
And I intertwine our pinkies before going out of the room.
Notes:
I just wanted to say thank you all for reading, for the kudos, and for the comments! ❤️
It's my first time ever publishing something here on AO3, and I really wasn't expecting people to read it so fast lol, again thank youuuu!
P.S.
Haymitch's POV next chapter! 💗👀
Chapter Text
Haymitch.
Later that night, Burdock brings Maysilee's dad's old clothes and some syrup that Asterid gave him for me to drink.
Sleep doesn't last long though. I wake up shaking in the middle of the night with only one thought in mind: Lenore Dove. I need to get to her. I need to take her out of here. Staying in District 12 is certain death. Through the crack in the door, I can make out Burdock and Blair asleep in the living room, snoring on the couches, too worn out to notice. I slip out through a bedroom window and disappear into the night.
The Covey's house is in darkness. Her uncles gave Lenore Dove the attic to herself. I climb up the drainpipe and try to find out if my girl has arrived home, but everything seems empty.
Has she spent the night at the base? Have Tamber and Clerk Carmine also been arrested?
I doubt they're playing, considering how things are.
I don't want to stay in the Victors' Village in case they come back. If Clerk Carmine didn't approve of me before the Hunger Games, I can imagine what he'll think of the rascal's murderous streak now. I go to the Meadow and hide behind some bushes. If they release Lenore Dove, I know that one of the first things she'll do is take her geese to graze—unless she goes to the Victors' Village to find me. Either way, she'll have to cross the Meadow.
I wonder what will happen to her now. Every person I've loved ended up dead. Maysilee and her are the only exceptions—for now.
I think of escaping with Lenore Dove, but I'm no Burdock—I wouldn't survive in the woods. And as much as she loves the woods, she certainly wouldn't survive much longer than me out there either.
Sitting on a fallen log, barefoot and wearing the worn clothes of Mr. Donner, I feel a bit of safety, enough to catch some sleep.
The morning mist creeps low across the Meadow, softening everything it touches. And just as the sun begins to shine, I hear the first low honk. Then her voice, loud and defiant.
She appears in the clearing, spinning slowly in the tall grass, arms outstretched like she's trying to catch the wind. Free, even just for a moment. Her uncles bark warnings from the edge of the trees, but she shoos them off with a salute and a roll of her eyes.
I should stay hidden. Just watch her for a second more.
But then she bends down. Picks up something small. A gray paper bag.
The gumdrops.
My breath catches. I told Sid to deliver them after the Reaping—sweets from the Donners' shop. I hadn't even remembered them until now.
She holds the sweets to her heart and dances, smiling, before reaching into the little bag.
So beautiful.
I can't wait a second longer. As I cross the Meadow, she sees me, shouts my name, and runs to meet me.
I lift her off the ground and spin her around; we laugh and kiss like crazy.
—Lenore Dove. My love —I say.
—You're back —she says, tears in her eyes, though they're happy tears—. You're back with me. In this world!
—And you managed not to get hanged! —I exclaim.
We hug so tightly it's like we're a single person. And in truth, we are.
She runs her hands across my face.
—Are you okay? Really okay?
—Fresh as a flower —I promise her.
I don't care about anything else; I can't leave her. She'll want to run away with me, and I'll let her. We'll find a way to survive. Because I don't think either of us can live without the other.
We collapse into the grass of the Meadow, holding hands. She picks up the bag of gumdrops she dropped when she saw me.
—Thank you for the sweets. Goodness, look how I'm shaking!
I'm about to kiss her again when a voice comes from behind us.
—There you are!
I turn sharply. Maysilee steps out from the trees, arms crossed, her pale purple coat catching the dawn light.
—What are you doing here? —I ask.
—I woke up scared, so I went to the Village to check on you, only to find your bed empty and Blair and Burdock sleeping on the couch! —her voice is sharp, anxious—. So I thought, where else could you be but here with her?
Lenore Dove and I stand up from the grass, and she's the one who talks first.
—And that's bad because? —she says defiantly— I'm his girlfriend and someone who just got out of jail! Where else do you expect him to be?
Maysilee stares at her for a moment, as if biting back a hurtful response to Lenore, but then she steps closer. Her eyes narrow as she sees the bag in my love's hand, and she runs to snatch it and throw it onto the grass.
—What are you doing!? —Lenore Dove shouts, trying to reach for Maysilee's arm. I stop her.
—Maysilee, what's going on?
—This isn't from our shop —she says—. It's not the same label, and those are certainly not our rainbow gumdrops. These are only red.
I meet Maysilee's eyes. Her expression confirms it—we're both thinking the same thing.
—Snow —she whispers.
Lenore Dove looks between us, confused.
—What's going on?
I freeze. My stomach twists.
That's when one of the geese chugs a gumdrop—and then slowly, it starts to close its eyes, not before dropping some bloody foam from its mouth.
And my sweet Lenore Dove... Her eyes go wide, frightened, as she leans down to grab her goose, but it's too late now. It's gone.
—No, Rudolf!
And the realization hits me—it could've been her, not the goose. If things had gone differently, if Maysilee hadn't arrived in time, I might be mourning her now.
Lenore Dove cries as she pets her goose.
—You think someone tried to poison me?
—Not someone —I say—. President Snow.
Lenore stands up, her breath shaky.
—What? —she says, shaken.
Maysilee slides a steadying hand around her back.
—You didn't eat them. You're safe now.
And in that moment, I'm not sure who I owe more—Lenore, for surviving, or Maysilee, for saving her.
—I wasn't planning on telling you everything —I say to Lenore Dove, reaching to take her hands in mine— not before we ran away and headed deep into the woods at least.
Maysilee looks at me, and I think I can see a flicker of hurt in her eyes.
—What? You were planning on escaping? On leaving m... —her voice falters, and I don't let her finish anyway.
—I did some stupid things back in the arena. Stupid things that cost Ma's and Sid's lives.—I look to Lenore, and she puts a hand to her mouth.
—They are...?
—Yes —Maysilee says in a whisper.
—And why are you both here? —Lenore asks.
—Have you watched the Games? —Maysilee says.
—No genius, I was in jail the whole time.
Maysilee shifts, and the kindness she was showing earlier vanishes.
—Well, you do you then. I'll leave you two alone so you can explain it to her. I'll be at my parents' in case you need anything —says Maysilee before heading back to where she came from.
—Maysilee, wait! —I say, running to grab her arm— Thank you.
I hug her. It takes a while, but she hugs me back before leaving.
I turn and face Lenore Dove, ready to tell her everything.
All about the Games. All about Snow's threats. And all about this new Victor relationship with Maysilee.
We sit back down on the grass, knees touching, hands clasped. Lenore's shaking has subsided, but her breath still comes in shallow waves. She watches me like she's trying to memorize every part of my face—like she's afraid I'll vanish again.
—Tell me —she says.
So I do. I tell her everything.
About the arena. The deaths. Lou Lou. The force field. Plutarch. The way they cleaned the blood off my body like I was some broken Capitol toy that needed polishing. How Snow smiled when he crowned me, and how he didn't even flinch when he told me about my homecoming.
She listens without interrupting. Her fingers tighten around mine when I talk about Ma. When I say Sid's name, her eyes fill with tears.
—I'm so sorry —she says—. None of this is your fault.
We fall into silence. There's nothing else to say. Or maybe there's too much.
After a while, she lies back in the grass and pulls me down with her. Her voice is quiet when she speaks again.
—So, what now? Do we run?
—I don't know —I say honestly—. Maysilee and I... we're supposed to mentor. The Victory Tour's coming. And I think Snow wants to make an example of us.
—He already has —she says—. You both are still alive. That's the example.
I rest my head beside hers.
—You really want to come with me? Out there? No safety. No food. Just the woods and whatever we can carry?
—I've lived with worse odds.
I turn to look at her. Her jaw is set, her eyes steady.
—I can't promise anything —I say—. Not a future. Not safety.
She smiles, but it's sad.
—You're the only thing I want. Even if it's just for a little while.
We lie there for a while, just breathing, like the silence could buy us time. But it can't.
And I know it.
Because as much as I want to disappear into the woods with Lenore Dove, I can't.
I see Maysilee's face again—sharp, worried, exhausted. The girl who stood beside me in that arena. Who made me promise our friends' deaths wouldn't be in vain. And who, just now, saved the girl I love from a bag of poisoned gumdrops.
She didn't ask for any of this. But she's standing in it, same as me.
I made her a promise.
And I'm going to have to keep it.
I turn to Lenore, brushing her hair back behind her ear. Her eyes search mine, already sensing the shift.
—I can't run —I say softly—. Not yet at least.
She blinks.
—Why?
—Because she's in this too. Maysilee. We won together, my love. And now we're in it together. Snow won't just come after me... he'll come after her. She still has her family to fight for. And I won't leave her to deal with that alone.
She nods slowly. Not angry. Just... sad.
—I get it —she says—. You made her a promise?
—Yeah.
—And you always keep yours.
We smile, barely. And I pull her closer, my hand resting on her back like I can shield her from everything. I wish I could.
—I'm not giving up on us —I tell her—. But I need time. We need time.
—So we stay?
—I stay. You... you decide what's safest for you. I'll support whatever that is.
She presses her forehead to mine. A long, quiet breath between us.
—There's something else —I say quietly—. In the Capitol, they... they made people believe that Maysilee and I are together. As in, together together.
Her head jerks back a little.
—What?
—It wasn't even our choice —I say abruptly—. They edited our voices in the arena and made scenes where I'd say stuff to her. And Caesar Flickerman fed the idea, and the audience loved it. Star-crossed lovers. A pair of victors, perfectly packaged. They lapped it up. The Capitol eats that kind of story alive. —I let out a sigh.— And now... now I think they'll want to keep the illusion going.
Lenore is quiet. But I can see it in her face—she understands the danger in that.
—So what are you saying?
—I think the only way I can keep you safe is by... not being with you. At least not openly. Maybe not at all, not until I figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do.
She stares at me, lips parted like she wants to argue, to scream even. But she doesn't. She's too smart for that. She's scared, too.
—You think we should separate —she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
—I think we should wait. Just until the Victory Tour. I need to see how this plays out, what Snow expects, what the Capitol demands. I need time to learn how to play this game. Because right now, we're all just pieces on a board, and I don't know the rules yet. But I promise you this: I'll figure it out. I'll find a way back to you.
She nods, slowly. Her chin trembles.
—I don't want to lose you.
—You're not —I say calmly—. But if we stay together now... if they see us... I'm afraid you'll end up just like... —I pause— I can't lose you too, Lenore Dove. I couldn't survive it.
A tear slides down her cheek, and I wipe it gently away with my thumb.
—I'll keep you safe, even if that means staying away —I whisper—. And I'll come back. I swear it. When it's safe. When I know how.
She leans in and kisses me, soft and slow, like she's memorizing me.
—Then you'd better learn fast, Abernathy.
—I plan to.
And for a little while longer, we hold each other as the morning stretches around us—like it can't quite decide whether it wants to break or not.
———
After the conversation with Lenore, that day I managed to sleep through the night without much syrup. But when I wake up I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. My chest feels tight, and the thought of leaving her, even temporarily, gnaws at me. But it's for her safety. I know that. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
And then there's Maysilee. The feeling that she did save Lenore Dove, and that I hurt her with my words, is something I can't forgive myself for. She's changed—she's not the mean girl I used to know. She's my friend. And I hurt her.
So, I make my way to the Donners' shop, the familiar scent of sugar and baked goods filling the air as I walk through the door. The bell above the door jingles as I enter, and I hesitate for a moment before stepping further in.
Mr. Donner is behind the counter, sorting through jars of candy. He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised to see me.
—Haymitch —he says, his tone unexpectedly kind, even sweet. —I thought you were resting?
—I'm fine, Mr. Donner, but I... I need to talk to Maysilee.
He nods slowly.
—She's upstairs —he says. —You know the way.
I thank him and head up the stairs, feeling like I'm walking toward something inevitable. I knock on Maysilee's door, my heart beating faster with every step.
She opens the door after a moment, a mix of curiosity and caution in her eyes. She looks sleepy, hair tied back, eyes sharp and unreadable. There's a line between her brows that wasn't there yesterday, and she doesn't smile. When she sees me, she steps aside, allowing me to come in.
—Haymitch? —she asks, tilting her head slightly.
I step in, feeling a little out of place in the cozy room. A pale purple covers the walls, and the fresh scent of lavender flowers fills my nose. I clear my throat and try to steady myself. I'm not great at this stuff, but I owe it to her.
—I... I owe you an apology —I begin, the words coming out slower than I intended. —I shouldn't have even thought about escaping without letting you know. I'm sorry.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see how hard she's working to hold herself together.
She doesn't say anything right away, but I can tell she's listening. Her eyes soften a little.
—I understand, Haymitch. It's been you and her for a long time. Of course you would think of running away with her —she says calmly. —I shouldn't have stepped in or expected something different.
I shake my head, frustration bubbling up.
—What? No, you didn't step out of line. I made a promise to you, and I haven't kept it. You didn't sign up for this, and neither did I.
Maysilee doesn't speak. She leans against her white vanity instead, arms crossed, waiting.
—I talked to Lenore Dove —I say.
—I figured.
—I told her what happened. About everything.
That softens something in her face. Just barely.
—I also told her we should... lay low. That I'd stay away, for now.
Now Maysilee looks away, blinking like she's trying to hold something back.
—I don't want her dead, Maysilee. I don't want anyone else dead.
—I know.
—I made her a promise. That I'd come back. That I'd find my way back. And I made you one too. That I'd stand beside you through this.
She turns slowly, her voice brittle.
—It seems like you're full of promises.
I just stare at her, and she slowly rise an eyebrow.
—And you did leave, by the way, at least in thought.
—But I came back.
She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them again. They're glassy, but hard.
—You're going to have to mean it this time.
—I do. I will.
I get up and take a step toward her. Her arms are still crossed, but she doesn't move away.
—I don't know how to fight this thing. I don't know what Snow wants. But I feel like something big is going to happen, and we need to stay strong. Together.
Her voice is quiet when she replies.
—So what now?
—Now, we act. We play the parts they want us to play. The star-crossed lovers. We smile for the cameras, and we plan for what comes next. Together.
She nods. Slowly. Reluctantly.
—And your girl?
—I'll keep her safe. From a distance. For now.
Finally, Maysilee unfolds her arms and steps forward. She doesn't hug me—not exactly. But she stands close enough that our shoulders touch.
—Okay —she says.
Just that. But it's enough.
For now.
I open my mouth to say something more when we hear a light knock on the door, followed by a voice from the hallway.
—The doors of the bedrooms stay open when boys are inside!
I freeze. Maysilee's eyes widen, and a soft pink flush spreads across her cheeks.
—Uhg! I hate him! —she mutters, but there's a playful grin on her face.
I can't help but chuckle. The tension in the room breaks for a second, and I feel myself relax a bit. She turns to open the door, still blushing slightly.
—I'm not doing anything inappropriate! —she says, raising her hands in mock defense. —We're just talking.
I grin at her, knowing full well she's not really in trouble, but the rule is funny nonetheless. I walk over to the door and look at her father.
—Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Donner —I say with a smirk.
Maysilee groans, burying her face in her hands.
—You just had to embarrass me, didn't you?
I laugh softly, enjoying the lightness of the moment. It's a brief escape from the heavy things weighing on my mind, and I'm grateful for it.
—I'm not here only to embarrass you, my child —he begins, looking at her— but your mom says lunch is ready. You should come downstairs and eat something. Don't think I didn't notice, Maysee.
She lowers her gaze, then looks at me.
—You should stay. Mom said she's making lamb chops with mashed potatoes.
My mouth waters at the thought of food.
—I... —I begin, thinking of an excuse. I shouldn't bother the Donners. They already help me enough. —I probably should get back to the village.
—Nonsense, son. You stay —Mr. Donner says.
We go down to the kitchen and eat and talk about nothing and everything at the same time. They don't mention the arena, nor my family. Merrilee starts telling the latest gossip she heard around town, and they respect how little I want to talk.
It's kind of a relief—and it's strange at the same time—being here, sitting among these people from the merchant side of town. And I realize I've probably been kind of judgmental about them all. We don't choose the reality we're born into. My suffering—or anyone's in the Seam—isn't their fault. Not the people from the district, at least.
When we're done eating, Mrs. Donner gives us some chocolate sweets for dessert. Merrilee helps her mom clean the dishes, and Mr. Donner goes to attend the shop, so Maysilee and I go eat them in the living room.
We sit in silence for a while longer. The quiet isn't uncomfortable anymore. It's shared. Steady. Almost warm.
Finally, she whispers:
—Promise me something.
—Anything.
—That no matter what happens from now on... no matter what lies they make us say... you won't forget who you are. Who we are.
I take her hand, fingers interlacing with hers.
—I won't forget. —I smile. —And we still have our paintings to paint.
She smiles back. And even though we're both scared of the days to come, of Snow's games, of what the cameras will want to see and what the Capitol will expect—we make a promise. To count on each other, always.
Notes:
I was wondering, after reading this chapter, is the narration good enough?
Xo
Chapter Text
There's a difference between surviving the Games and surviving after them.
No one tells you that.
No one prepares you for the quiet mornings, the polite nods that masquerade fear inside, the smell of artificial sweeteners that clings to your new house like it doesn't belong there. Like you don't.
Not even for the cruelest nightmares in the middle of the night, when not even your mom can help you out because she isn't around.
The months have passed since the Games. It has been eleven months since Haymitch and I were pulled from the depths of the arena, with our fates forever changed. The world moved on. But we didn't.
At first, it was overwhelming when the mayor of District 12 called me in to let me know that it was time. After a month of being home, I was sure my parents were expecting to spend more time with me before I had to leave the only house I had spent my whole life living in.
The request was official — as a victor, I had to take up residence in the Victors' Village. The houses there were never used, constructed way out of the Seam area but near enough to the merchant side of the district, around fortyish years ago. Not having a well-known victor to use them, they remained alone on that hill, big enough to put two families together in one. But not mine, of course. They would continue their lives in the merchant quarter, and I would begin my new life without them.
But I could visit them, of course.
Then there were the mandatory celebrations: a banquet for the victors to which only the most important people were invited; a vacation for the whole district, with free food and entertainment brought from the Capitol; Package Day, the first of twelve, when they delivered food packages to everyone in the district. At home, there would be the heaviest foods, such as bags of cereal and cans of oil. Then once a month for a whole year, they would receive another package...
Plutarch came back too — only him, not our team — to film everything, including the final dinner with the mayor at the Justice Building where Haymitch and I had to kiss for a picture. And of course, they televised it. It was weird having my first kiss broadcast for everyone to see, and even weirder looking at Haymitch afterward, seeing the look in his eyes because he hurt Lenore Dove — even if he didn't mean to.
I didn't see her after that morning in the meadow a month ago, with the gumdrops and all. And neither did he, from what he told me. Apparently, her uncles heard a little about her and Haymitch's exchange that morning, so before she could choose what to do about their separation, they decided to send her away to some relatives. I don't know how they managed it, but it must have been their Covey connections. Haymitch barely talks about it — too much pain to bear, I guess — so I have no way of knowing how she pulled it off.
So after winning, not only did he go to Hattie's to help her make the liquor she sells — he also started drinking it. One morning he woke up half-naked in the town square. My dad found him and thought about bringing him to the shop to help him out. Being the good man he is, he tried to change Haymitch's fixation with liquor to a fixation with candy. It didn't help much. But instead of passing out every day, he at least got some homemade food a few times a week from my mom before going to sleep at night.
And I would come to those dinners too. We would chat, eat in peace, and pretend everything was alright — like the Games didn't happen, like we didn't suffer any consequences because of them.
If it were in my hands, I would try to forget the Hunger Games completely. I would never talk about them. I would pretend they had been no more than a bad dream. However, the Victory Tour makes my wish impossible. They organize it at a strategic moment — between one Games and the next — as if the Capitol intended to keep the horror alive and close. In the districts, we are not only forced to remember the iron hand of the Capitol's power once a year, but, in addition, we are forced to celebrate it.
This year I am one of the stars of the show. I will have to travel from district to district, put myself in front of crowds that cheer me on, even if, in reality, they hate me. Look at the faces of the relatives of the boys I've killed...
We are expected to be in District 11 next Monday, so we have exactly a week to prepare for it.
I don't leave the house — and wasn't planning to — but on Wednesday, Asterid comes by. We usually meet here now, in my house in the Victors' Village. She and Merrilee would come by, while Burdock and Blair spent time with Haymitch. I like to think they all planned a routine of visiting us often so we don't drive ourselves insane with loneliness.
Asterid had always been strong — a survivor in her own right — and the way she spoke about Burdock, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about him, made me wonder if I could ever feel something like that. Something had shifted between them in the last few months, and Haymitch's wellbeing being the perfect excuse, they would often spend more time together.
— I don't think he'll ask me out on a proper date, — Asterid says, the words slipping out in a half-laugh. — But it's nice, you know? It's the first time anyone has ever looked at me that way.
I couldn't help but smile. — He's a good guy, Asterid. Don't doubt that.
— I'm not. It's just... it's new, — she admitted. — But it feels good, you know?
I actually didn't know what it felt like. I wished I could afford that luxury — to let myself be just a teenager who only thinks about boys. I wished there were a way to stop the clock, to pause it, to breathe before everything became too much. But there was no stopping it. My sentence was dictated the moment my name came up on Reaping Day. The Victory Tour was coming. The cameras, the lights, the pressure. All of it.
— Have you seen him lately? — Asterid asked, breaking my thoughts. — Haymitch, I mean.
I looked up, blinking. — Not much. He's been working with my dad. You know how he is.
Asterid frowned. — I don't know, Maysilee. He's... not okay.
— No, — I agreed quietly. — I know.
— And you? — Asterid pressed gently. — How are you holding up?
I hesitated, glancing at the empty chair across the table. — I'm... getting by.
But I wasn't. Not really. The truth was, I am scared. Scared of what the Capitol would do to us. Scared of how much further Haymitch would fall. And scared of the person I might become — the version of myself who could smile, wave, and pretend everything was fine when it wasn't.
Asterid studied me for a moment before tilting her head thoughtfully. — What about Otto? I've seen him around a few times.
— What about him?
She laughs.
— I don't know! You're the one who's been walking through town with him.
I frowned.
— I thought... he liked you, — I said, a little too quickly. — He was always offering you those honey biscuits not so long ago.
Asterid laughs softly. — No, Maysilee. Otto's been looking at you, not me. And I recall properly — those biscuits belong to you now.
I blink. I hadn't considered that. I'd always assumed the kindness he extended was for Asterid. She's beautiful, clever.
Otto Mellark has been around more often, it's true. He brings pastries. Walks me home after I visit my parents. He says very little, but he listens. He remembers things I've said in passing. When he smiles, it's not pitying. It's sincere.
— I never really thought of him that way, — I murmured. — Not until now.
He had always been a good friend, ever since we were kids. He was kind — always showing up with something: bread, a batch of cinnamon rolls, whatever he could spare. He wasn't like everyone else. He never expected anything in return — not even the attention his generosity deserved.
— He's been coming by, — I said quietly. — Sometimes he brings bread and little things from his family's bakery, or when I go visit my parents, he'll walk back with me if it's too late at night. He's been so kind to me.
Asterid smiled, but there was a knowing glint in her eyes. — I've noticed the way you look at him, Maysilee. It's different from the way you look at Haymitch, you know?
I stiffened. — It's not like that with either of them. Otto is just... he's a friend. He's been there for me. And sometimes, that's all I need.
Asterid raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. — Right. And I'm sure that's why you get all flushed when you talk about him.
I let out a small laugh, though it didn't reach my eyes. — Okay, maybe I... maybe I do care about him. But it's complicated, Asterid. With Haymitch, everything's just so messy. He's the only one who could understand what I went through. And with Otto, it feels like it's... easy. Simple. But I'm not sure if I should let myself feel that way.
Asterid leaned forward, her gaze softening. — Maysee, you deserve to feel good. To feel something other than all this... this weight. You've been through so much. You can't just carry the past with you forever.
I nodded, but my thoughts wandered back to Haymitch. It was true — I couldn't carry the past with me forever. But how could I move on when everything felt so unresolved?
— What if I'm not ready for that? — I murmured. — What if I never will be?
Asterid looked at me with a mixture of understanding and concern. — I can't tell you what to do, my friend. But I can tell you that there's no harm in letting yourself feel something good. And I think Otto would be the right person to help with that.
I was silent for a long moment, the words weighing heavily on my chest.
— In fact... — I paused for a moment. — Otto asked me to go with him to a picnic. On Friday. He said we should get away for a day. Before I get on the tour. Just talk. I don't know... I don't know what to make of it.
Asterid looked at me with wide eyes, her face lighting up with curiosity. — What did you say?
— I haven't said anything yet. — I bit my lip, unsure of how to feel.
— Well, — she said, standing up to give me a hug. — I should get going now. I'll let you think about it.
Then she left, and for a brief second, I let myself imagine a life where I wasn't constantly looking over my shoulder — where things felt simple.
She hugs me then, and when she leaves, the house feels emptier than before.
Thursday comes and goes.
Friday, too.
I do not go to the picnic.
That evening, when he knocked at the door, I didn't answer.
Because no matter how hard I tried, or forced myself, my thoughts always drifted back to the Capitol. To the Victory Tour. To the inevitable reality that, no matter what I felt for Otto—or for anyone, for that matter—Haymitch and I had to become something else for the Capitol's cameras. The perfect victors. The perfect pair.
⸻
Saturday morning comes. The Victory Tour starts on Monday, and as we are near it, I've been really stressed. Effie is the one who comments on it at the station, when they arrive:
—You look so much thinner than last time we saw you! You really have to put on a little weight, dear!
I don't respond, and I try not to think too much about Effie's comments as we go inside the train—where we are met with a face I haven't seen in months. Wiress is standing there, drinking from a cup in her hand. She stands up and comes to greet me, happy to see me too.
—You look well, Maysilee —she says kindly, adjusting the glasses that slide down her nose—. Nervous?
—Terribly —I reply—. Do you remember your own Tour?
—Oh, bits of it —she nods—. I tried to erase most of it. But the Capitol people were... oddly kind to me. Or maybe they were just intrigued. I think they liked how I spoke.
—You mean in half-sentences and riddles?
She chuckles softly.
—Exactly.
And then the noise of something breaking stops us. Some pink glitter bursts into the air as someone opens the door.
—Oh my, Maysilee! Look at you!
Proserpina beams, this time in a yellow wig and a gold shimmering dress. She hugs me so tightly I think she might break a bone.
Vitus comes in with a blue milkshake in his hand, matching the blue in his hair and eyebrows, and as he finishes hugging me, he says to Proserpina:
—You owe me twenty. I told you!
—Ugh, fine! —she groans, pulling some money out of her little golden purse and handing it to him—. Here.
—You told her what?
—That next time we'd see you, you'd look just as stunning as last time.
—It's just that we've heard some victors really let themselves go and don't take care of themselves —Proserpina explains—. If not for the help of their team once a year in the Capitol, they'd look horrendous!
Wiress laughs beside me and goes to sit again, focusing on drinking from her cup.
—But you, darling, are just perfect —Effie says. Then she grabs my face and tilts it gently, inspecting it—. Look at that skin—flawless!
In fact, I think my mom is responsible for that, not me. I love looking pretty and composed. She taught me that. To always look pristine.
—Let the poor child breathe, Effie! —says Plutarch, entering the room from another compartment of the train—. Where's Haymitch?
—Drunk in the town square, probably.
It comes out sharper than I meant it to, but it's true anyway.
From the same door comes Mags. I run to hug her. She holds me so tightly that I'm transported back to when my granny used to hug me like this, too.
—You've grown, haven't you? —she says, smiling as she cups my cheeks—. Not just taller. Stronger.
—Sometimes I don't feel strong at all.
—That's exactly when you are. —She winks— You keep going anyway.
I smile, suddenly feeling steadier.
—Well, we should go to the Victors' Village now —says Plutarch—. See if we can sober him up before traveling.
—I'll make sure of it! —Effie says with a smile.
Some Peacekeepers lead us to a car, big enough to carry us all, and we go to the Village. To my nonexistent surprise, Haymitch is lying in the front yard of his house, completely passed out.
Mags is the first to step out of the car and rushes to help him. She kneels down and gently shakes him awake, lifting his head into her lap. I can't help but pause at the car door, watching them.
—You're not alone, dear —I hear her whisper—. Even if it feels like it. You're still here, and that means something.
Haymitch groans softly, barely conscious, but Mags keeps holding him as if he were her own child. She helps him into the house with Effie and Plutarch close behind.
Effie and Plutarch go with him into his house, while Vitus, Proserpina, Wiress, and I head to mine.
Thankfully, it's clean enough for them—or at least that's what I believe, because they don't say a thing about it. I've always been a clean person, the type who would maniacally clean my room the moment a little bit of dust appears.
Proserpina tells me to take a bath. I tell her I already took one before their arrival, but she insists I must take another so she can use some products she brought from the Capitol.
I nod, much to my dismay, and go upstairs. When I come out of the bathroom, she and Vitus are already in my bedroom, discussing my wardrobe for the following days.
—No feathers this time, Proserpina —Vitus says, holding up a blue silk dress—. Remember what we learned in class about the wind in District Seven?
—I still think it wasn't that bad!
—The video showed a flying pig!—he counters, dead serious.
They both notice me standing there and beam.
—Perfect timing! —sings Proserpina— Come here, darling. We have options. Royal blue or cream chiffon for the welcome banquet?
—I liked the velvet one —I say, pointing to a dark plum dress on the bed.
—Velvet? Again? —Proserpina gasps— You'll start a trend we can't control.
—She likes velvet —Vitus says with a shrug—. It's warm. Comfortable.
—I suppose we can do her hair more daring, then —Proserpina muses, already eyeing her case of Capitol-approved accessories—. Maybe some galaxy clips?
I sit down on the edge of the bed and sigh.
—You two are unstoppable.
—We're professionals —Vitus grins—. You're lucky to have us.
—Tragically true —I mutter, but I'm smiling.
____
The dining room at my house in the Victors' Village has never felt so full. My parents had the long table dressed in pale yellow linens and fresh flowers from our garden, and the kitchen smells like roast chicken, cinnamon glaze, and cardamom bread. It's almost surreal—too perfect, too quiet for the occasion.
Effie sits at one end, straight-backed and enthusiastic as ever.
—Your mother is such a treasure —she declares after the second spoonful of soup— This tastes amazing.
—I'm glad you like it —my mother says, visibly pleased, though I can tell she's scanning everyone's posture and cutlery choices.
Plutarch, sitting beside her, hums in approval.
—District Twelve may surprise people one day. So much flavor, so much... character.
Vitus and Proserpina are deep in debate over seating arrangements at the banquet in District One, while Mags simply eats with quiet grace, occasionally smiling in my direction.
Haymitch is across from me. He hasn't said much. He hasn't touched much, either, but he's clean and mostly upright, and for now, that's enough.
Wiress is seated near the window, tapping her fingers rhythmically against her fork.
—The clock in District Three chimes at the wrong intervals —she says softly, as if continuing a conversation from earlier.
—I'm sure it'll be fixed in time for our visit —I answer gently, even though I don't know what she's talking about.
Then Effie turns toward Haymitch with a frown that somehow still looks cheerful.
—I'm so sorry about your family's accident, Haymitch. Tragic. But the drinking and stuff, just won't do. We have a responsibility to carry on.
Accident? Bullshit.
Haymitch doesn't even flinch. He just keeps staring at his plate, jaw tight.
Plutarch clears his throat and leans in with a conspiratorial tone.
—Word got out. Magno was fired for negligence and Drusilla broke her hip falling down an escalator —he says, then glances at me with a smirk—. It seems Maysilee was right about those heels.
He lifts his glass slightly in my direction.
—Anyway, I pitched Effie last-minute and they jumped on the idea. Especially since she brought the depraved uncle's wardrobe with her.
—Hey! —Effie and Proserpina say in perfect unison, both scandalized.
Vitus chuckles into his napkin.
My father fills everyone's glasses with blackberry cordial, then raises his own.
—To safety, and to home. May you both come back just as whole as you are today.
We all sip. I catch Haymitch's eye for a moment. He looks away first.
After dessert, Merrilee packs boxes of sweets for the trip—peppermint bark, almond clusters, sugared plums. Mags compliments her on the wrapping. Wiress pockets a sugared violet and whispers something about symmetry.
Soon, we're back at the station. The train steams gently behind us, ready.
Asterid, Burdock, and Blair arrive just as the final call is announced.
Asterid throws her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug.
—Take care of yourself, Maysee. You're going to be dazzling, as always.
—Bring me back a silk scarf from the Capitol —Merrilee says with a grin.
Burdock doesn't say much, just gives me a nod, and then he and Blair go talk to Haymitch alone, I didn't heard much.
While the girls and I talk Otho shows up, late and slightly breathless. He steps closer, avoiding Haymitch's gaze.
—I made you cookies, for the trip.
I laugh, but before I can thank him, he adds—Maybe when you're back, we could have that picnic?
Haymitch shifts beside me, stiffening.
—I don't think there'll be much time for picnics —he says dryly.
I turn, surprised at his tone, but he's already looking away.
Effie clasps her hands and starts ushering us all aboard, herding everyone toward the train.
—Come along, come along! Capitol waits for no one!
I give one last wave to my parents and friends. My mother dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. My father smiles, proud and quiet. And my sister runs to give me one last hug.
The doors close, the whistle blows.
We're off.
The train has barely started moving when I find him alone in the observation car. He's sitting by the window, one boot propped up on the seat across from him, staring out at the blur of green as District 12 fades into distance.
I hesitate for a second, then slide into the seat across from him.
—You didn't eat much —I say.
He shrugs without looking at me.
—I wasn't that hungry.
—I know you're lying —I murmur—. But I won't push.
That earns me a half-smile, faint and fleeting.
We sit in silence for a while. The kind that isn't entirely uncomfortable.
Then, he speaks.
—Otho's still around, huh?
The words come casual. Too casual.
—He's a friend —I reply.
Haymitch finally looks at me, eyebrows raised.
—Didn't seem like just a friend when he invited you on a picnic. Or when you stood him up and never mentioned it.
I stare at him, caught off guard.
—Were you spying on me?
—District 12 isn't that big —he says with a shrug—. People talk. A drunk guy lying in a field still hears things. –he let a little laugh— And I live across your house, poor guy stud at the front door for hours, I heard the knocking.
—You're impossible —I mutter, turning to the window.
There's a pause. Then his voice softens.
His eyes find mine again, and this time they stay there.
—I didn't mean to sound jealous.
—But you did.
—Yeah. I know.
Another pause. My voice is quiet when I finally say:
—I didn't go to the picnic because... it didn't feel right. Not with all this hanging over us.
He nods.
—Same reason I drank myself sick last week. Didn't feel right being sober while everything I care about is falling apart.
His honesty knocks the wind out of me. I don't have a reply—just reach out across the table and cover his hand with mine.
He doesn't pull away.
———-
In District 11, the Tour begins. We stand on the steps of their Justice Building facing the grief-stricken families of Hull, Tile, Chicory, and the other girl, Blossom. I search the wider sea of faces for Lou Lou's kin and come up empty. I notice Haymitch does it too. No words are needed between us. Their absence says enough.
The party begins. Haymitch drinks his way through the evening, which drags on for hours, well into the night. I just try to look pretty and still. Composed and elegant. When someone asks I make excuses for him, lying through my teeth with a perfect smile.
—He's absolutely not drunk! He's simply... overwhelmed by the honor.
When the Justice Building finally sleeps, we don't. Plutarch appears out of nowhere and hustles us up flights of stairs, past empty rooms, into an attic that seems forgotten by time.
—Respite and nepenthe,—Haymitch mumbles into his bottle.
Plutarch rips it from his hands.
—Listen, children, we don't have long. This attic is the only spot in the entire Justice Building that isn't bugged.
I believe him. The place looks like no one's touched it in a hundred years. There's a thick coat of dust blanketing everything—enough to lie down on and sleep comfortably. It's a huge room filled with broken furniture, piles of books, and rusted weapons. Why anyone would sneak off here for privacy instead of stepping outside, I don't know. The ceiling must be at least twenty feet high, adorned with moldings of fruits and flowers, along with chubby winged children watching us from every corner.
Haymitch sits on a crate, arms crossed, staring dead at Plutarch.
—How is it you're looking so well, Plutarch? Wiress and Mags were tortured, right? And I'm guessing Beetee's dead.
—Beetee's too valuable to kill,—Plutarch answers calmly.
—I thought he'd have killed himself,—Haymitch mutters.
—He can't. His wife's pregnant. Besides, he wouldn't let Ampert down that way.
Haymitch lets out a bitter laugh.
—Oh, I see. He's going to overthrow the Capitol, is he?
—Maybe one day. But we can't do it alone. You demonstrated a lot of nerve and intelligence in that arena. We need your help.
—Me?—Haymitch scoffs. —I'm living proof that the Capitol always wins. I tried to keep that sun from rising on another Reaping Day. I tried to change things. And now everybody's dead. You don't want me.
I've had enough.
—Stop it. Right now, both of you,—I snap, stepping forward. —This needs to stop. You both need to tell me what's going on. You've been like this since we won—no, before we won. Always secretive, whispering in corners. Guess what? I won too. So you need to tell me the truth.
They freeze. Haymitch lowers his bottle a few inches, Plutarch's face tightens. I press on.
—I've kept quiet. I've pretended I didn't notice the way you both go silent the moment I walk in. But I see things. I hear things. And I'm not stupid. I've gotten... gifts.
My voice drops then, as if even here, in this forgotten attic full of dust and ghosts, Snow might be listening.
—Little gifts. From Snow. Boxes of sweets that match the ones that almost killed Lenore. Tight dresses. Notes tucked into them with phrases like "a sweet reminder" or "only two years left" Cryptic messages that smile at me with the same syrupy malice as his eyes. You want to know what they smell like, those letters? Blood and roses. That's what the Capitol smells like to me now. Blood. And. Roses.
My breath comes fast, uneven. I feel Haymitch move slightly, but I raise a hand to stop him.
—And I smile. I smile and wave and wear the damn dresses and pretend to kiss Haymitch like I care like I know he's not disgusted by the idea of kissing me, and all the while I'm terrified. Every step I take on since the end of the games feels like walking on cracked ice, waiting for it to give way under me. And you two—you think it's fine to keep me in the dark? I'm not some precious thing you need to protect. I'm already broken. So just tell me what the hell is going on.
They finally talk. Plutarch tells me more than I ever expected. About the unrest, the will to end the Games, the quiet war behind the cameras. About how my defiance and Haymitch's wit struck something deeper than we realized.
—We do want you,—Plutarch says, voice suddenly soft. —Both of you. You, Haymitch, shook up the Capitol—figuratively and literally—with that earthquake. You imagined a different future. Hell, both of you are alive. Maybe it won't happen today. Maybe not even in our lifetime. Maybe it'll take generations. We're all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?
—I'm scared,—I whisper. —I don't want to lose my loved ones.
—I just don't know,—Haymitch says, running a hand through his hair. —But I do know, you need someone different from us.
—No, Haymitch. We need someone exactly like you.
—Just luckier?—I add, eyes on the dusty floor.
—Luckier. Or with better timing. Having an army at their back wouldn't hurt.
—Sure, that would've helped. Where're you going to get an army, Plutarch?—Haymitch asks flatly.
—If we can't find one, we'll have to build one. But obviously, finding one's easier.
—And then we can all kill each other, like in the good old Dark Days?—Haymitch says, bitter to the bone.
—Well, you know better than anyone what we're up against with Snow. If you think of another way to stop that sunrise, you let me know.
Then Haymitch's voice drops to something darker.
—You think you're a good person, don't you, Plutarch? You think you're a good guy because you told me about the sun and the berms. But what you really did was help build the Capitol's propaganda machine. Forty-eight kids died for it, but you gave it the old Heavensbee spin and made yourself a hero.
Of course he's angry. He lost more than I could ever imagine.
Plutarch takes a long pause.
—I'm nobody's idea of a hero, Haymitch. But at least I'm still in the game.
I don't know whether to feel comforted or even more afraid.
In District 1, things were colder than I ever imagined. We'd killed three of their children. No amount of Capitol glamor could cover that. Their eyes followed us like sharpened blades. In District 2, it was discipline over rage—cold shoulders, perfect posture. Haymitch flinched when they named the boy he killed.
Dinners, ceremonies, and train rides. Every day is the same: we wake up, get dressed, wave through crowds of cheering strangers, listen to a speech written in our honor, then give a speech of gratitude—though it's only the one passed down from the Capitol, no personal additions allowed. Sometimes there's a short excursion. In District 4, we glimpse the sea from afar and are forced to say goodbye to Mags, who will stay there. In another, we see tall forests; in District 3, screens so bright they nearly blind me, and we meet Wiress's family before saying goodbye to her too.
Then it's back to gowns and suits, another dinner, and back onto the train.
During ceremonies, Haymitch and I are solemn and respectful, but always connected—either holding hands or linked at the arm. At dinners, we drift into something close to romantic delirium; we kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away for a moment alone. On the train, we carry our misery like luggage—quiet and heavy—while trying to assess the impression we're leaving in each district.
Proserpina begins to cinch my waist tighter each day and insists I take special vitamins to gain a little weight. Vitus worries about the shadows under my eyes. Effie offers me sleeping pills that don't work—or at least, not well enough. Each time I manage to sleep, I'm dragged back into nightmares that grow more vivid and brutal by the night.
One night, after I wake up drenched in sweat and shaking, Haymitch comes in quietly. He doesn't say much. Just rests a hand on my arm and waits for my breathing to settle. Then goes to his room, brings down some pillows and blankets and he lies on the floor. He stays there until I fall asleep again.
From that moment on, I stop taking Effie's pills. But I let Haymitch into my room every night. We face the dark the same way we did in the arena—curled around each other, guarding against the dangers we can't see but always feel pressing in.
Nothing else happens. But of course, it becomes gossip almost instantly.
—Maysilee, darling, I must ask, are you and Haymitch... sharing quarters now?—Effie asks one afternoon, pretending she's only mildly curious but with eyes gleaming like she's struck gold.
I just smile and think, Good. Maybe it'll reach President Snow's ears.
—I suppose we'll try to be more discreet, I tell her.
We don't.
We avoid speaking to Plutarch for the rest of the Victory Tour.
Through every district, we go through the same cycle—civic squares dressed in banners and forced cheer, and stages where we stand side by side, looking down into the eyes of the families of the children who were dead. Their grief is quieter now, more formalized, like a tradition. But I feel it nonetheless. A weight in the air, thick and unrelenting. Sometimes I catch the eye of a mother or a sibling and I see it there—what they're not allowed to say out loud. That they'd trade our lives for theirs in a heartbeat.
Through every party, we smile for cameras and toast with glasses filled to the brim. We kiss, we dance, and let them believe we're deeply in love. We meet claimants dressed in sequin and gold, with eyes that scan us like we're possessions, not people. I can feel Haymitch's grip tighten around my waist in those moments. I lean closer to him and pretend it's all part of the act, but it's not. Not really.
Through the Capitol's fever-dream of lights and extravagance, where we sit across from Snow at long banquet tables and pretend we're honored, not terrified. He praises us. He raises a glass. And then, when no one's looking, his eyes linger on me just a second too long. Just enough to remind me that he knows. That he's always watching.
We return to District 12 beneath a sky that feels far too wide. The air smells like coal dust and memory. There's a celebration waiting for us—modest compared to the Capitol, but still a celebration. Music plays. People pretend to be happy for us. Some of them even are. But I can see it behind their smiles. The tension. The suspicion. The realization that we've changed, and we're not coming back the same.
After the ceremony, no one bother us. I take Haymitch's hand, and we walk back to the Victor's Village in silence. We don't say much. We don't have to. We survived the Games. We survived the Tour. But we both know this was only the beginning.
—I hate this, Haymitch whispered.
Me too.
Notes:
Ok this chapter took me so long to write.
Hope you enjoy it! More chapters as soon as I finish my exams at uni this week.
Xoxo 💗
Chapter Text
a week later.
June 7th.
I woke up to the gentle creak of my bedroom door in victors village, swinging open, followed by the familiar rhythm of Merrilee's steps—soft and quick, like her thoughts when she's excited.
She crossed the room with a glossy box in her arms, placed it carefully at the foot of my bed, and then climbed in beside me like she used to when we were kids during thunderstorms.
Her arms wrapped around me without hesitation.
—Happy birthday —she whispered, voice thick with something she wouldn't name.
I held her just as tightly.
—Happy birthday to you too.
We didn't cry, though we probably could have. We just lay there for a while, facing each other like reflections, breathing in sync. Just us. Just air and cotton sheets and the steady thrum of summer morning through the window.
I hadn't realized how much I missed her until she was here. Her skin smelled like lemon soap and strawberry lotion, and her fingers were cold from walking over. Everything about her was familiar, and yet I could feel a part of myself hesitating, like I wasn't sure I was allowed to settle back into this life.
I feel like I've grown up so much since my last birthday.
Last june, I woke up in my old room.
Last june, I didn't have nightmares.
Last june, I was oblivious of the fact that in a few weeks the hunger games would take place and my name would be reaped.
—Is that... from the Capitol? —I asked eventually, nodding toward the glossy box. It shimmered slightly where the morning light touched it, pale blue and silver, the kind of packaging that practically whispered exclusive. Even from here, I could smell perfume.
Merrilee gave a soft laugh and pulled away just enough to sit up.
—Four boxes, actually. This is just the first. The others are downstairs. Effie sent you a necklace from some designer called Bvlgarine, and Proserpina sent you a pair of shoes that look like they'd cry if you ever wore them outside.
—Do they sparkle?
—They weep, Maysilee. Weep.
That made me laugh, really laugh, for the first time in days. Maybe weeks. The kind that starts in your chest and surprises you with its force. The shoes in fact don't weep, Proserpina has a pair herself, they just make some weird noise every time you take a step on them.
—Effie also wrote a card —Merrilee added, reaching into the box —but I didn't peek. I figured you'd want to read that one yourself.
She handed me a smaller envelope sealed with a golden wax "E." I broke it carefully and pulled out a folded card. Inside, in Effie's curling, overenthusiastic script, it read:
"For the girl who beat the Games and the glare. Keep dazzling."
—E.
I stared at it for a moment, smiling. The necklace was precious, set with soft lavender stones and crafted with delicate precision—something only a Capitol designer could dream into existence.
— It's gorgeous—Merrilee said, and I nodded— Come on.— she said tugging my arm.
I lingered for one more breath. Just to keep this moment a little longer.
—Okay. Let's go.
We padded barefoot down the stairs. The scent of banana and dark chocolate drifted up to meet us, warm and familiar. In the kitchen, Papa was just setting out two steaming mugs of coffee and slicing into a banana pie. A small dish of handmade chocolate bonbons sat between our plates, wrapped in gold foil.
—He's gone full breakfast banquet —Merrilee whispered, eyes gleaming as she leaned into me. —Brace yourself.
—Morning! —I said to dad as we entered the kitchen.
—There they are —he said, turning to us with his apron crooked and a smudge of flour on his nose. —My birthday girls!
He crossed the kitchen in two strides and pulled us both into a hug, warm and too tight, like he still couldn't quite believe we were here.
—Seventeen —he murmured into my hair. —You're both seventeen.
—You say it like we turned thirty —Merrilee teased.
—Feels like thirty years since last June, doesn't it? —he replied, and we all knew what he meant. —Sit, sit. Your birthday breakfast is here!
Ever since we turned fourteen, we just decided to grow out of the little pink cake and orange juice for our birthday breakfast. So, since then, our dad has made coffee and banana pie for me —and for Merrilee...
Mama appeared from behind the pantry curtain, holding two pink cupcakes on a small silver tray. Each had a swirl of strawberry frosting and a waxy number 17 candle sticking proudly out the top.
Banana pie for me and strawberry cupcakes for my sister.
—Make a wish, my girls —she said, her voice gentle, like she didn't quite believe we'd made it this far.
Dad lit the candles and looked at each other across the table. Merrilee raised an eyebrow at me, and I nodded once.
Same wish. Always the same.
To Be together. Forever and always.
We blew the candles at the same time.
—Happy birthday, my loves —Papa said, leaning across to squeeze our hands. His fingers were calloused, warm. —Seventeen already.
Mama smiled faintly and looked at me, her eyes were soft but clouded.
—I'm so proud of you, Maysee —she said. —And so grateful. For this day. For your voice at the breakfast table.
I looked down at my plate.
—Me too —I said, my voice quieter than I meant. —I didn't think I'd see seventeen.
Merrilee nudged my arm, gently.
—Well, you did. And now you get presents and pie. Honestly, what's the point of cheating death if not for that?
I smiled. It reached further this time.
But before we could even bite into the frosting, the front door opened and shut with a cheerful bang.
—Hello? I brought ribbons and zero culinary skills —called a familiar voice.
Asterid.
She stepped into the kitchen with a basket over her arm and her hair up in a ponytail.
—If I try to cook, someone will lose an eyebrow —she announced — Happy birthday my favorite twins!
—We are the only twins you know! —says Merrilee.
Mama smiled warmly and gestured toward the dining room.
—You're just in time. We could use a pair of creative hands. There are garlands, streamers, confetti flowers—whatever Merrilee picked out.
—I didn't do it alone —Merrilee said, while Asterid hugged her.
I raised an eyebrow.
—Wait. You've been planning something?
Papa chuckled.
—We have. Your mother, Merrilee, and I made some arrangements. Invited a few familiar faces from town.
—A few? —Mama arched an eyebrow at him.
—The house might be a bit full by sundown.
I blinked.
—You... talked to the townspeople?
—And the Peacekeepers —Mama added casually.
—Turns out they're not entirely against the idea of birthday music and a little noise. As long as it stays indoors after nightfall.
—Noise —I repeated, stunned.
Merrilee grinned.
—Think music, noise, maybe even dancing if the floor holds up.
I hesitated. The idea of people watching me again—even kindly—made my skin buzz.
—Who confirmed they're coming? —I asked, quietly.
Merrilee listed off on her fingers.
—Burton, obviously! he's bringing cider. Um... Let me think... The butcher's daughter and son, a few people from school too, Otho said he's baking something special, Blair's definitely coming, and Burdock asked what he should wear, which I assume means he's attending right, Asterid? —she said smiling at her, who just nodded shyly.
—And Haymitch? —I asked.
Silence.
It was Asterid who finally answered, eyes gentle.
—We haven't heard from him.
She didn't say more, but she didn't have to.
The air thinned a little, as if someone had opened a window too wide.
I nodded once and looked back at my cupcake.
The candle had melted a little, bent sideways under the heat. I straightened it with one finger and said nothing.
My pa cleared his throat after a beat.
—Well, he's part of the family, isn't he? —he said, almost too casually. —He probably will be here later. Don't worry pumpkin.
I didn't look up.
—Right... That's if he's not getting drunk in some corner around town —Merrilee added with a little shrug, like it was nothing.
—Merrilee Donner —Mama snapped, sharp as a knife.
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. Her lips were tight, her fingers clenched around her coffee mug.
Merrilee had the decency to look mildly guilty.
—I'm just saying —she mumbled.
The truth was, part of me hoped—quietly, in the place where hope still lived in me—that he might show up this morning. Just knock once on the back door, in rumpled clothes and with tired eyes, muttering something half-sarcastic about forgetting it was our birthday. Something. Anything.
But no. Just silence.
My chest tightened.
I stood up slowly, wiping my hands on a napkin.
—I'm going to open the gifts. —I said, smiling, like I didn't care.
As I stepped into the hallway, I heard it—Asterid's voice, low and careful.
—You didn't have to say that, Merrilee.
Merrilee didn't answer. Or maybe she did, but I didn't wait to hear it. I climbed the stairs slowly, carrying the boxes left on the steps. Upstairs, the house felt quieter, removed from the kitchen's warmth and the hum of birthday chatter.
I started to open the presents. I smiled as I read Vitus's note: "In case you two pretty girls end up with a party!" He'd sent two beautiful dresses—soft pink for Merrilee, and light lavender for me.
Then I opened a small red velvet box—a set of the brightest sapphire earrings I could've ever dreamed of owning. They were perfect—they'd go stunningly with the dress.
I unfolded the note, half-hoping they were from Vitus too. But of course, life isn't that kind.
"The eyes never lie. These match yours—unforgettable. Happy Seventeenth, Miss Donner."
—President Snow.
My fingers trembled as I pressed the earrings back into their velvet bed and shut the box. I shoved it under the vanity, as if burying it might undo the weight blooming in my chest.
A knock at the door made me turn.
It was Merrilee.
She didn't come in right away, just stood at the threshold with that slightly guilty look she always wore when she thought she'd gone too far.
—Hey —she said, voice lower now. —Sorry.
I nodded once, not really angry.
She stepped inside and leaned against the wall.
—I didn't mean to make it weird. I just... I don't know. I'm sorry, Maysee.
— Don't worry, you probably weren't far from the truth anyway.
— Maysilee, he's been trying. What I said was mean.
–No. – I let out a short, dry laugh. – I've been there for him. I told him not to shut me out. That he should come to me every time he feels like drinking. That we could figure it out together—as a team.
—You don't have to carry him on your own, you know?
I sighed and sat down on the edge of my bed.
—We're having that party today because of him, Merrilee. I'm alive because of him. So yeah... I kinda do.
———
People started arriving by early afternoon. Friends from the merchant side of town, and neighbors I barely remembered.
Asterid had outdone herself with the decorations. Pale pink and gold ribbons cascaded from the ceiling beams, twisting like candy stripes. The paper lanterns she hung over the windows flickered softly even in daylight, catching motes of dust like stars suspended midair. Merrilee arranged tiny flower bouquets in teacups, placing them on every surface that wasn't already claimed by trays of food.
Papa floated around, refilling cups and telling loud jokes. Mama slipped in and out of the kitchen like a conductor managing a very delicate orchestra.
Merrilee danced between guests effortlessly, hugging, laughing, accepting birthday wishes on my behalf when I was too overwhelmed to answer. Asterid stuck close to me, anchoring me with sarcastic remarks and gentle nudges.
But with every doorbell, I kept glancing toward the front hall.
Just in case.
The party buzzed around me—glasses clinking, laughter spilling from the open windows, someone playing a waltz too slowly on a borrowed violin. I was halfway through a conversation with Mrs. Jade, the shoemaker's wife when Merrilee appeared at my side, eyes bright.
—Otho's here —she whispered. —And he brought a gift.
I barely had time to respond before she disappeared again, swallowed by the crowd. A moment later, Otho emerged, careful as always, holding a small yellow box in both hands like it might shatter. He looked more polished than usual—his shirt neatly tucked, hair brushed back, smelling faintly of cinnamon.
—Happy birthday, Maysilee —he said, offering the box.
I opened it carefully. Nestled inside was a golden chain, delicate, with three small flowers in shades of violet and indigo. They were arranged like a miniature bouquet, each bloom different—two open at the sides, and the one in the middle still budding. Like a garden frozen mid-breath.
—It reminded me of you —he said, then hesitated and added quickly, stumbling over the words —I saw it weeks ago at the jewelry shop and... I've been saving up for it. I just thought—
He cut himself off, cheeks flushing.
Something lodged in my throat.
—It's beautiful —I whispered, fingers brushing the petals. —Thank you. Really.
He took a breath like he was about to say more, then stepped forward slightly. His eyes searched mine for a moment. Then he leaned in, maybe aiming for my cheek—but either I turned too soon or he moved too slow. His lips brushed the corner of my mouth instead.
We both froze.
A half-second too long.
He blinked, stepping back quickly.
—I—I'm sorry, I meant— I wasn't—
—I know —I said quietly, offering a small smile. My fingers fumbled to close the box. —It's okay.
There was a silence. Not awkward, exactly, but charged. Then Otho cleared his throat.
—Do you want me to... help you put it on?
I hesitated for a breath, then nodded and turned around, lifting my hair. He moved carefully, his fingers brushing the back of my neck as he clasped the chain.
It was light. Gentle. But it sent a ripple down my spine.
—There —he said, stepping back. —Looks lovely on you.
I touched the charm lightly, more for something to do with my hands than anything else.
—Thanks, Otho.
He nodded, smile flickering across his face. Then someone called his name—Burton, from across the room—and with one last glance, he gave a wave and slipped back into the crowd.
I stood still for a long moment, letting the noise wash over me. The necklace shimmered faintly against my collarbone, but my skin felt cold underneath.
An hour later, I slipped out through the back door when no one was looking.
The music still carried across the grass—someone had started a faster tune now, something rustic and bright that didn't match the heaviness in my chest. Laughter rose from the windows, plates clinked, and somewhere, someone was dancing. But it all felt far away.
The air outside was softer than I expected, still clinging to the warmth of the day. Fireflies blinked lazily at the edge of the trees, and every now and then, I caught the scent of frosting and flowers drifting in the breeze.
I didn't have a plan.
My feet just knew the path.
The meadow was quiet, all gold-tipped grass and low-humming wind. The stars hadn't fully appeared yet, but the moon had. A half-moon, pale and sharp, hanging low above the tree line like a quiet witness. I stood still for a moment, just listening. Breathing.
And then I heard footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried. Familiar in a way that made my pulse stutter.
Haymitch.
He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes shadowed, a bottle dangling loosely in one hand. But he was here. And that was more than I expected.
—Thought you'd be here —I said softly, settling beside him.
—Thought you'd be in your house eating cake —he replied, his voice scratchy and dry.
—You knew —I said with a dry laugh, barely hiding the sting. —Must've slipped your mind to show up then.
—I figured you had enough people around.
—That's not the same.
We started walking without thinking about it, just two shadows slipping quietly through tall grass. The silence between us wasn't empty—it was full of things unspoken, too heavy to voice.
Still, the question rose before I could stop it—sharp, uninvited, but necessary.
—Lenore Dove?
Haymitch stiffened beside me. His grip tightened on the bottle.
—Out of the picture. —he said too fast, almost angry.– she send me a letter last week and... – he exhaled harshly. — it's over.
I turned my head. His profile was all sharpness and shadows. Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself:
—Are you okay?
I didn't reply. Just reached out and took the bottle from his hand. The burn in my throat said enough. He watched me quietly.
—You don't have to pretend with me, Maysilee. You know that, right?
—Do I, Haymitch? —I asked, maybe too sharp. —Because ever since we came back from the Tour, you’ve barely acknowledged my existence. Like it’s easier to pretend none of it happened if I just disappear too.
He stopped walking.
—That’s not fair.
—Isn’t it?
His jaw clenched. He looked like he might speak—but didn’t. He kept walking, footsteps crunching softly against the dry grass, and for a moment, I hated that he always got to disappear like that. Even when he was standing right next to me.
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. But instead of breaking, I did what I always did—I smiled. Small. Crooked. Fake.
We kept walking and eventually we reached the edge of the lake, the surface silver and still under the moonlight. Haymitch sat on a flat rock near the water, and I followed him. He looked out over the lake, then back at me, his eyes not quite meeting mine.
—Nice necklace.
—Yeah… It’s gorgeous.
—Guess the baker boy has taste —he said slowly.
—How do you kn—
He cut me off before I could finish speaking.
—I was at the party. Watching from a distance.
I blinked, surprised. —You were?
He nodded. —I saw Otto walk up to you... and, well, he kissed you.
My heart skipped a beat.
—I don't know why —he went on, quieter now —but when I saw that, I... I couldn't stay. It felt wrong. Like I was intruding. So I left. I figured it wasn't my place.
His words left me momentarily speechless.
He had walked away because of me. Because of what he thought looked like a kiss. Because... it bothered him.
But why?
I sat up straighter, my voice low. —Wait... you left because of Otho?
He shrugged a little, uncomfortable, gaze on the lake. —Yeah. I didn't want to make things harder than they already are. If Otho means something to you... I didn't want to be that guy.
—You're not that guy, Haymitch —I said softly, not even sure what I meant. I just needed him to hear it.
I could see his hesitance, the fear of being something I didn't want. But I wasn't sure what Otho meant either. I wasn't sure what anything meant anymore.
That's when the words came out, slipping past my lips like a secret finally allowed to breathe.
—And he didn’t kiss me—I let out a small, breathy laugh. —it was a mere peck on the lips. It wasn’t intended, just… nothing. In fact, I think the first real kiss I ever had… was with you.
Haymitch raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. —What?
I smirked, leaning back on my hands. —The one they showed on TV, remember? The one where we were both supposed to look romantic for the cameras. Actually, now that I think about it, it doesn’t even count. It was just acting.
Haymitch stared at me for a moment. And then—slowly—he smiled. Just a little. But it was enough to make my heart skip.
—You're right —he said. —That one definitely didn't count.
And then, without another word, he leaned in. Slowly. Gently. His eyes searched mine like a question he already knew the answer to. And then his lips found mine.
It wasn't a kiss for cameras. It was soft. Unhurried. Warm and aching and real. The kind of kiss that makes the world quiet. The kind of kiss that reminds you you're still alive.
When he pulled away, the air between us was different—charged, tender, true.
—This one —he whispered, his voice low —this one is very, very real. Happy birthday May.
Haymitch looked at me as if he was memorizing something. Not just my face, but the way I blinked, the way I leaned into him ever so slightly, the way my fingers still clutched the soft fabric of his sleeve without realizing it.
The way the moonlight shimmered on the lake, the stars gleaming high above us—it all felt so impossibly still. Magical, even.
I was hyperaware of every detail—my pulse thrumming in my ears, the cool grass beneath my legs, the way his thumb brushed mine absentmindedly, like he hadn't even realized we were still touching.
I couldn’t help but to lean in.
And this time, when our mouths met, it wasn’t sweet. It was hunger. It was everything we hadn’t said, everything we couldn’t undo. His lips parted against mine and I deepened the kiss without hesitation. I felt him respond—firm, certain—his hands finding my waist, pulling me in.
He kissed me back with a sound low in his throat, a growl barely swallowed. My fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his neck, anchoring myself there. His mouth was hot and insistent against mine, our breaths mingling in short, uneven bursts.
His lips left mine only to trail down the line of my jaw, warm breath skimming my neck. I gasped—quiet but sharp—as his mouth brushed just below my ear, and I felt his smile against my skin. A knowing, almost mischievous curve that made my stomach tighten.
I pressed my forehead to his, both of us breathless now, hearts beating wild and uneven.
—Haymitch…
He looked at me, and this time there was no hesitation. No doubt. His gaze was dark and steady, full of something vast and unspoken.
And then I blinked back to reality.
—I… I have to go —I whispered, my voice barely more than air. He didn’t move. Just blinked, as if the words hadn’t registered. So I said it again, more firmly this time -though I hated myself for it. —Haymitch. I really have to go.
His brow furrowed. —What?
—The party —I said, pulling back just enough to look at him. My hands stayed on his chest. I could feel his heart pounding. —It’s still going on. I’ve been gone too long. People will notice.
He exhaled slowly, like the spell had been broken—but not shattered.
—Yeah. Okay.
He stood, brushing off his hands, then looked down at me.
—I'll go with you.
We walked in silence through the meadow, side by side. The night had grown cooler, and the wind moved through the trees in a whispering hush. I could still feel the buzz of the kiss on my lips, like electricity under my skin.
Then, out of nowhere, a low rustle came from the trees. A snap of a branch. A bird maybe—but my breath hitched.
Without thinking, I reached for him.
My fingers slid into his. His palm was warm. Rough. Familiar.
He didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
We just kept walking like that, hand in hand, not even realizing what it meant until the lights of my house came into view.
And then—
—Maysilee!
We both jolted like someone had poured cold water over us.
I pulled back sharply, startled, and only then did I realize our hands. I let go at once.
Merrilee came trotting across the grass from the patio, arms waving, curls bouncing wildly with each step. She was grinning, eyes sparkling, completely oblivious to what she'd interrupted.
—They're about to cut the cake!
I blinked. The moment evaporated, scattered like fireflies in the dark.
—Right —I said, voice uneven— Cake.
Merrilee tilted her head slightly, glancing between Haymitch and me with a curious little smirk, but—bless her—she didn't comment.
—Come on, birthday girl —she added, more gently now— Everyone's waiting. And you too, Abernathy. You’re not sneaking off that easily.
—I'll be there in a sec —I called back, trying to sound light.
She nodded, gave us a cheeky little salute, and turned back toward the house.
I looked up at Haymitch again. He was watching me with an unreadable expression, eyes flickering between me and the house as if weighing something.
Then he said, with a crooked smile that didn't quite reach his eyes:
—Well. You heard her. Cake time.
I nodded, heart still hammering, chest tight with everything we hadn't said.
—Yeah —I whispered— Cake time.
And we went inside.
————
The clock on the wall blinked 2:17 a.m.
Upstairs, my room was a soft mess of dresses and half-unzipped boots. The windows were slightly cracked open, letting in the cool night breeze, and the moonlight filtered through the curtains. Downstairs, my parents had decided to sleep in the guest bedroom after helping clean up the remains of the party. They hadn't heard the giggling coming from above. Hopefully.
Merrilee was lying sideways at the foot of my bed, feet swinging lazily. Asterid had claimed the chaise lounge by the window.
I was tucked under the covers, cheeks flushed for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat.
Asterid was fiddling with the hem of her silk nightgown now, eyes flickering between us.
—By the way... in case you didn't know —she said, voice a little quieter— After your Victory Tour, Burdock and I... we made it official.
Merrilee and I both sat up a little straighter.
—You and Burdock? —I said, surprised— So it finally happened?
She smiled softly, but there was something bittersweet behind it.
—Yeah. It did. He asked me, actually. Just... shyly. Like he couldn't quite believe I'd say yes.
—Well, duh —Merrilee grinned— He's been in love with you since we were twelve.
—I know —Asterid laughed quietly— But still. My parents weren't thrilled, though. They think he's not... refined enough for me.
I frowned.
—That's ridiculous.
—They want me with someone with prospects. A merchant. But Burdock... he knows me. And he doesn't want anything from me except, well, me. That has to count for something.
Merrilee reached out and squeezed her hand.
—It counts for everything.
Then she smiled, leaning back.
—Soo... we saw the kiss —Merrilee said suddenly.
I looked at her. Then frowned.
—Wait, you too? It just looked like one, it wasn’t a kiss.
They said it in perfect unison, faces lighting up:
—What do you mean you too?!
I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face.
—Nothing.
—Don't "nothing" us —Asterid teased— Because after the Otto thing, we saw him pacing around the cake table like a lost puppy. And then poof—you're gone. And when you come back? Haymitch's shirt's all creased, your hair's a disaster, and you have this dazed, moon-touched look on your face.
—Right! That's true! —Merrilee jumped in, leaning closer— Spill, sis. Now.
I exhaled, slowly pulling the pillow away. They were both waiting, grinning, but not in a mean way. Just... eager.
—Okay, fine. But it’s not what you think.
They leaned in like hawks.
—I went out for some air, and I ended up in the meadow. I needed to clear my head. And then… Haymitch found me.
—Found you? —Merrilee echoed.
—Yeah. He said he’d been at the party. Watching. From a distance. He saw Otho kiss me and… he left.
Asterid’s eyebrows rose. —Wait, what?
—He told me. Said it felt wrong. Like he was intruding. So he walked away. And I didn’t even know he’d been there, didn’t know he’d seen it. But it clearly got to him.
—Clearly —Merrilee muttered, smirking.
I smiled faintly, then shrugged. —We started talking. He was being distant at first, but…
My voice dropped without meaning to.
—he kissed me.
Their jaws dropped.
—He kissed you?! —Asterid blurted out.
—Not like... a soft kiss. Not like before. It was... different. Real. Like he meant it. And then I—I felt something rise in me. I wanted to kiss him back. Really kiss him. And I did.
I sat up slightly, hugging my knees, looking at both of them.
—I've never felt that before. That kind of... need. Like I couldn't not do it. Like something in me would burst if I didn't.
They didn't laugh. For once, neither of them even smirked.
—Have you ever felt that? —I asked softly— With Burton? With Burdock?
Asterid tilted her head, thoughtful.
—With Burdock... not at first. He was always sweet, and steady, you know? But one day we were in the woods, and just the way he talked with so much passion about every little thing in there… I don’t know I felt it then. That same urgency.
—Same with Burton —Merrilee said— It’s stupid but there was this time he was fixing something in his father’s truck and I just had to kiss him. It wasn't even about the kiss. It was like... I loved him so much it had to go somewhere.
We went quiet after that, and for a moment, all you could hear was the wind outside, the soft creak of trees.
I looked down at my hands, fingers twisting in the sheets, and then back up at them.
—It wasn’t just the kiss.
Their eyes were on me again.
—I think he felt it too. That urgency. That… pull. But I don’t know It felt like we crossed some invisible line. And now I don’t know what happens next.
I paused, voice quieter now.
—And… that scares me. Because I think part of me really wants to find out. And the other part is terrified of what it’ll mean if I do. Of how much it could change everything.
Merrilee gave me a small smile, resting her chin on her knees.
—Well, for what it’s worth, I think Haymitch makes you better. Not just lighter—but stronger. Even Dad says there’s something different about him when you’re around.
I blinked. —Dad said that?
—He did. Don’t let it get to your head.
Asterid smiled, pulling her blanket tighter around her.
—So… where is the mysterious kisser, anyway?
I hesitated for a second.
—He left after the cake. Said he was exhausted and had to be up early to help Hattie tomorrow. I walked him out.
—That’s it? —Merrilee asked, frowning slightly.
—I walked him to the porch. He kissed me on the cheek before he left.
Their eyes lit up again, but I shook my head, already cutting off the teasing.
—I don’t know what it meant. It wasn’t like earlier. It was… gentler. Quieter. I really don’t know where it leaves us.
They were quiet again, letting me sit with that.
Merrilee leaned over and gently nudged my shoulder.
—You don’t have to know tonight.
Asterid nodded.
—Sometimes… the not-knowing is part of the magic. Either way… you had cake, a kiss, and someone worth kissing you. That’s a pretty solid birthday.
I laughed again, this time with more breath behind it.
—Yeah —I said, leaning back into the pillows— It really was a good birthday.
And as the room settled into a hush again, I let myself hold onto that—just for a little while longer.
Notes:
Guess WHAT?!
Out of nowhere, my phone got blocked and I had to restore it, which led to everything in it getting erased (because I hadn’t made a backup copy since Christmas). That includes my notes with two almost-finished chapter drafts and a bunch of ideas for the book 🥲
ast I passed my exams! 🙃P.S. Is this the kind of curse they talk about when writing stuff on AO3?? Or does it get worse??
Just kidding—hope you enjoyed the chapter! xoxo <3
Chapter 9: “51st Games.”
Notes:
Italics and "" are for flashbacks. :)
Also I posted the trailer for the book on my tiktok @ mdnightspoet, go watch it and let me know what you think!
xoxo
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Today is Reaping Day and Haymitch's birthday.
There's something fundamentally cruel about that. A day meant to celebrate his birth, forever tangled with a day made to ruin someone else's.
I wake up with my heart racing. The light slipping through the curtains is too strong—too late. I sit up so fast that the blanket falls from my shoulders, and for a moment, I forget where I am.
Then I see him.
Haymitch is still asleep, sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the bed like he's about to fall. His curls are a mess. There's a dry patch of drool at the corner of his mouth. He's snoring lightly.
I breathe out, trying to slow the panic rising in my chest.
Effie, Proserpina, Vitus. They're probably already on their way to the Victor's Village. Cameras, instructions, press cues. They sent us a letter last week, and told us they'd arrive early on reaping day, "just after sunrise." I have no idea what time it is now, but it feels dangerously close to "too late."
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub my face with both hands. My head aches with the kind of dull weight that only comes after a night filled with tension. Or guilt.
Last night he had been drinking. Again.
I had just pulled my sweater over my nightgown when I heard the clatter—boots on wood, a bottle hitting stone, someone groaning. Then Blair's voice cut through the air, sharp and tense.
"Watch his head, for fuck's sake, Burdock—he nearly cracked his skull open on the stairs!"
I leaned out the window just in time to see them turning the corner, half-carrying, half-dragging Haymitch between them. His head hung low, curls a mess, one boot untied and dragging behind him.
Without a word, I turned from the window and ran down the stairs, flinging the door open and crossing the street.
Blair and Burdock stopped when they saw me.
Burdock looked up first. His face was flushed and there was something wild in his eyes, like he'd had enough for one night. "Maysilee," he said, not a question, not a greeting—just my name, like a hand held out in the dark.
"What happened?"
"He was with us at the Hob," Blair said, adjusting Haymitch's weight on his shoulder with a grunt. "Started drinking around dusk. Wouldn't stop. Said something about the Reaping and—" he faltered, glancing at me like he wasn't sure how much I needed to know.
"I figured," I said quietly, stepping closer.
Burdock let out a harsh breath. "We told him to slow down. He wouldn't listen."
Haymitch groaned between them, incoherent. His head lolled to the side and landed against Blair's collarbone. There was dried blood on his knuckles. I wasn't sure if it was his.
I reached out and touched his arm. He flinched, but didn't pull away.
"Leave him with me," I said quietly, reaching up to take his arm off Blair's shoulder. "I'll get him inside."
They both hesitated.
"I've got him," I insisted.
Burdock glanced at Blair, then let go. "You sure?"
"Yes." I didn't say anything else. I just curled Haymitch's arm over my shoulders and took his weight. He groaned again, weakly, but didn't resist.
Blair watched me for a beat longer. Then, softer: "He asked for you. That's why we brought him here."
I didn't answer. I just turned and guided Haymitch toward the door.
And they let me. Cause they weren't wrong.
Haymitch didn't want to be alone. That much was obvious. So I stayed.
And now, here we are—one bed, two victors, and a ticking clock we're already late to.
I stand, carefully, trying not to wake him. He'll hate this part of the day more than anyone. I'm not sure if he even remembers what today is.
But I do.
And it's going to be hell.
I barely have time to splash water on my face and tie my hair back before I hear the knock downstairs.
Three sharp raps. Too polite to be urgent, too early to be friendly.
They're here.
I glance back at Haymitch. Still out cold. I don't know how he's managing to sleep through the pounding in my chest.
I go down the stairs and open the door slowly, and sure enough — there's Effie, with a yellow wig and already smiling like she's on stage. Proserpina stands beside her in a floor-length navy robe, holding a tablet. Vitus is leaning against the doorframe, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, far too relaxed for this hour.
Effie Trinket blinks twice, caught mid-smile.
—Oh!—she says, her voice a half-octave higher than usual. —Maysilee. I... didn't expect you to be the one answering here.
There's a pause.
A loaded second of silence.
—I just came here early to wake him up, that's all.
She straightens her posture, recovering quickly. —Well, no harm done. It's just—surprising. But no matter!
They step inside. And it's when I noticed they are not alone.
A man steps in behind them, tall and striking, with warm brown skin, vivid green eyes and a cascade of brown curls that fall just below his ears. He's wearing a black jacket with sharp gold detailing that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow fits him like it was grown on his skin.
—Ah!— Proserpina turns around, her voice lifting. —This is Nygel Rodge. He'll be joining us this year.
—New stylist—Vitus adds, reaching for his coffee. —Graduated from Tigris Snow's atelier just last winter. We were going to coordinate the wardrobes ourselves, but... final exams completely consumed us and well—there was nothing.
—Absolutely nothing—Proserpina says quickly, almost embarrassed.
Nygel chuckles, stepping forward with a kind, easy confidence.
—Don't worry, I didn't come to judge you two. I actually volunteered.
That gets my attention.
He looks at me directly as he speaks.
—I saw footage of last year's Games. The two of you stood out. Real chemistry. And something honest in how you carried yourselves. When Effie asked if I'd step in, I didn't even think twice.
Effie beams.
—He'll be a great asset. Creative. Efficient. And very in tune with Capitol fashion. We're lucky to have him.
—Well,—I say cautiously, folding my arms, —as long as you don't put me in live-reptiles or set me on fire, I think we'll get along fine.
Nygel grins. —No reptiles. No fire. I promise.
From above the stairs I can hear Haymitch calling my name.
Effie claps her hands. —Wonderful! He's awake! Let's make him presentable. Vitus, darling, your emergency grooming kit? And Maysilee, dear — do see if you can wake him gently. No bruises on camera, please.
—Sure.
I head up the stairs, push the door open.
He's sitting up, shirtless and blinking at the light, curls a mess, blanket barely hanging on his hips.
—Were you in my bed? —he mumbles.
—You passed out at the Hob —I say simply. —Blair and Burdock carried you home. I stayed.
He processes that in silence. Then mutters:
—Right.
I toss him a shirt.
—Hurry up.
Downstairs, the noise has shifted from casual chaos to full Capitol momentum. Effie's voice is directing traffic, Vitus is steaming a jacket, and Proserpina is mid-argument with Nygel over whether Haymitch should wear boots or polished shoes.
When we descend the stairs together, the team turns to greet him.
—Happy birthday, Haymitch! —Proserpina and Vitus chirp.
Haymitch runs a hand through his hair, deadpan.
—At this rate, I'll need a second drink before breakfast. Maybe a third.
They laugh, unbothered.
After we are all dressed up Effie appears at my elbow with a clipboard.
—All right, lovebirds. You'll exit the front door together, pause on the porch for a still shot, then walk down to the square at a casual pace. Plutarch's team will be filming all the way, no looking at the camera unless prompted.
Haymitch snorts.
I slip on the coat and step beside him. He glances at me sideways. His eyes are still tired, but there's something softer behind them now.
—Thanks —he mutters under his breath. —For last night.
I brush a piece of lint from his sleeve.
—You're welcome.
We step outside together.
And the circus begins.
———
The square is already full when we arrive.
Crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder. Children dressed in their best—really, their cleanest. Parents with stiff mouths and white knuckles. Peacekeepers lined up like pale statues. The sky is too blue for a day like this.
I keep glancing at Haymitch as we're ushered toward the chairs behind the podium. He looks like he's somewhere else entirely, and maybe that's a mercy. Today must be unbearable for him.
I sit down slowly, smoothing my coat over my knees. My eyes search the crowd automatically.
Merrilee.
Asterid.
Otho.
Burton.
Burdock.
Blair.
All of them still eligible. All of them still written on slips of paper inside that bowl.
Every name of the people I care about could be drawn today.
And if the Capitol wanted to punish me—if Snow wanted to remind me that he's always watching—what better way than this?
My stomach twists.
Peacekeepers take their places. A low murmur runs through the square, but no one really speaks. Not unless they have to.
Then Mayor Leedwodge steps up to the podium. Her voice is soft and deliberate, shaped by years of ceremony. She talks about our "legacy," our "resilience," and the "honor" of what District 12 has achieved by our victory.
I barely hear her.
All I can focus on is the urn.
That glass bowl. Fragile. Deadly.
Effie stands beside it, radiant in a mint-green dress patterned with strange abstract flowers. Her hair is the color of lemon candy, and her smile is all teeth.
She says a few words about pride. About tradition.
And then she moves toward the bowl.
My heart drops.
Please not—
Effie's hand dips into the slips, fluttering lightly through them like she's picking from a bowl of sweets.
She closes her fingers around one.
The air tightens.
She unfolds it delicately.
—Our female tribute from District Twelve is... Hatya Rilla!
Gasps ripple through the square.
Somewhere in the fifteen-year-old section, a girl lets out a soft, stunned sound.
I don't know her.
I've seen her around, maybe. But she's not Merrilee. She's not one of mine.
Relief hits me like a betrayal.
Hatya walks slowly toward the stage, as if each step takes a little more of her. She's pale, thin, and clearly trying not to cry.
She looks so young.
Effie gives her a beaming smile, as if she hasn't just sentenced a girl to die.
Then she turns back to the podium.
—Now for the boys!—she says brightly.
I barely breathe.
Effie reaches into the second bowl.
Her fingers flutter again. She hesitates just a moment longer this time. Then pulls a name.
Unfolds the paper.
—Our male tribute from District Twelve is... Roy Midant!
A smaller silence now.
Then, shifting in the crowd. Movement. Someone being pushed forward.
He's tiny.
Thirteen, maybe. Barely reaching the shoulder of the Peacekeeper who guides him to the stage.
His clothes hang loose on his frame. His dark hair sticks to his forehead in uneven chunks, like someone tried to cut it with dull scissors. He's clearly from the seam.
I don't know him.
But I look over at Haymitch.
And something inside him seems to break.
His mouth parts slightly. His eyes stay locked on the boy, not blinking.
He doesn't whisper anything, doesn't speak. But I know what he's thinking.
Roy is Sid's age.
Would be Sid's age.
The anthem begins to play.
Roy and Hatya stand side by side, trembling in front of the crowd.
And just like that, the Reaping is done.
But the real horror is just beginning.
———
The crowd has already dispersed. Hatya and Roy were taken to the Justice Building for their goodbyes. We weren't allowed in — mentors aren't supposed to intrude on those final private moments.
So we're ushered into the sleek Capitol train like guests at a gala.
Luckily my family and I had a dinner a couple days ago, I had this feeling that we weren't getting a proper goodbye on reaping day so I suggested it and they all agreed.
The train smells like citrus and steel. It's too clean. Too removed from what we just left behind.
Haymitch sinks into one of the long velvet couches by the window, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.
—I didn't expect them to be so... young —I whisper, even though I know it's a useless sentence.
Haymitch doesn't move. His eyes are locked on the window.
—He's Sid's age.
I sit down across from him. Slowly.
— Do you know them? — I ask.
He swallows hard.
—No, I don't and I have this cruel feeling that I'm lucky I don't.
—Don't feel so bad, I am kind of relieved too.
—They pulled a thirteen-year-old kid and a girl who looked like she can't even stand on her own. —His voice is hoarse. There's something angry about it, but not directed at me.—And we just stood there, Mays. We didn't say a thing.
—There's nothing we could say or done to prevent this from happening Haymitch. Nothing.
We sit in silence for a while after that.
Later on, Hatya and Roy arrive on the train and the machine starts moving, As the evening stretches on, something shifts.
There's a quiet that falls between the four of us—not heavy or awkward, but... soft. Like a thread beginning to tie itself between strangers. I catch Hatya watching me every so often, her gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary, as if she's searching for something familiar. Something safe.
And maybe she is.
Because there's something in her—behind the tension in her shoulders and the way she holds her words too tightly in her mouth—that reminds me of myself. Of who I used to be before the arena carved out parts of me I'll never get back. She's all sharp eyes and cautious silences, but I recognize the way she absorbs everything, the way she keeps her walls up yet lets the light in through the cracks. I see her, because I was her.
And Roy... Roy is something else entirely. A quiet boy with strong hands and a heavy heart. He hasn't said much since we arrived, but Haymitch seems to be watching him closely. I don't miss the way his eyes narrowed slightly when Roy mentioned having three younger siblings. Or how his gaze softened when the kid rubbed at his temples and mumbled about always feeling like he had to take care of everyone. There's something in Roy that makes Haymitch stand still. I don't know if it's because he reminds him of Sid or because he sees a version of himself in that boy—but whatever it is, it anchors him here.
And Hatya—sweet, quiet Hatya—already seems to trust us. Not blindly. Not fully. But there's a warmth in the way she looks at Haymitch and me now, the beginnings of belief. When I brought her a glass of water, her fingers brushed mine, and she didn't flinch. When I asked if she'd like to choose which bed she wanted, she nodded and murmured a soft thank you. Small things. But things that matter.
Dinner arrives not long after. A Capitol hovercart delivers the covered dishes and whirs away. I take the lids off and blink, a small smile tugging at my lips.
Roasted turkey with golden, crackling skin. Herbed vegetables, lightly caramelized. Soft rolls with whipped butter. And for dessert, a tub of rich, chocolate ice cream.
—You requested this? —I ask, turning toward Haymitch as I serve the plates.
He shrugs, but there's the faintest smirk on his lips.
—I thought we deserved something decent before we start dragging them through hell —he mutters, grabbing a slice of turkey and stabbing it with his fork.— Besides, I was hungry.
—Well, for the record, it's a good choice —I say, placing a bowl of roasted carrots and potatoes between the kids.— And for dessert, we've got ice cream. Chocolate. So... we're starting this whole death-and-destruction journey with at least one good thing.
Hatya lets out a quiet laugh. It startles her. Like she didn't mean to let it escape. She glances at me, sheepish, but I offer her a wink and take a bite of turkey.
Roy just mumbles a soft "thanks," but there's color back in his cheeks.
—I know you're scared — I say, softer now. —That's okay. I was, too. But right now, you need to start thinking beyond fear. Think about what you want. What you really want. Besides not dying, of course.
They're quiet.
Roy swallows. —I want to come back... and make sure my mom doesn't starve.
Hatya speaks after a long pause. —I want to prove I can survive without hiding. That I'm not weak.
I nod slowly, her words lodging somewhere deep in my chest.
Haymitch finally speaks.
—Good answers.
And for a moment—just a moment—it almost feels like a family. The kind built out of necessity and circumstance, not blood. A table of strangers trying to save each other in a world that was never built to let us survive.
———
At the capitol They dressed me in gold.
We're stopped before entering the interview hall. A Peacekeeper opens the door and motions for us to step out. Cameras are already rolling.
Caesar Flickerman is standing under a series of blinding lights. His smile is big, teeth dazzling white, eyes full of their usual rehearsed warmth.
—And now, before our grand tribute parade, we bring you an exclusive segment with our reigning victors of the 50th Hunger Games! —he beams to the camera— We'll find out what they've been up to since their lives changed forever!
The applause cue lights up and the audience behind the cameras claps like they're being paid to. Maybe they are.
Caesar extends both arms as we approach.
—Maysilee Donner and Haymitch Abernathy, everyone!
We sit in the soft chairs set up in front of him. I smooth my dress, try not to shift too much. Haymitch leans into the seat like he's bored already.
The audience claps. And I force a smile.
—Maysilee, we saw that amazing work of yours with sweets! Such flavor! Such beauty! It's a tragedy the audience couldn't taste them —they were glorious!
I put on the best fake smile I always use here before answering.
—I'd say it's a joy to finally explore my own taste in sweets and you all be hearing news about trying them soon.
A few months ago, Effie told us we should pick something we were good at before the Games, something we could turn into a talent for interviews. So I started creating new recipes. I send them back home by train, tucked in letters. Effie has been compiling them. Some are already being published in a culinary magazine. She says the reviews are so good that by the end of the year I might have my own book or have my sweets being sold here. I'm... kind of excited about that, because it's the only activity I've been enjoying so far in sharing with the country, because it's not fake or disgusting to do so.
Caesar turns to Haymitch.
—And you, Haymitch? What about you? What have you been working on?
He lifts one eyebrow, says nothing. The silence lingers a second too long.
Haymitch's talents are... quite peculiar, actually.
In fact, lately, he doesn't have any beyond drinking and... smoking. At first, I was so shocked that I didn't want to believe it, but I found out he sometimes does it because it helps him sleep better.
There's this thing called morphling—it comes in pills or liquid, used to treat severe pain. We were given some when we came out of the arena. But some stupid jerk before we left District 11—Chaff, a Victor older than us who won a couple of years ago—showed Haymitch how, if he ground the pills and mixed them with some herbs, he could make a cigarette and smoke it.
So since then, he's been using it. It's been two months. He only told me a few nights ago, when it didn't help him anymore and he called me to sleep in his room.
It was the first time we ever slept in the same bed, because he was running out of those two things—alcohol and morphling—and he was shaking and sobbing so much. He confided in me about his fear of the upcoming reaping and how difficult everything had been. But he said he was cooperating, putting on a show, so I wouldn't get hurt.
—Oh, I've been thrilled—his sarcastic voice is what pulls me back to reality.—I'm doing some modeling here and there. You probably saw me in some of your friend's frames, am I right?
Proserpina had come up with that idea, and Vitus called one of his photographer friends. So one afternoon in the fall, they sent over some clothes and concepts for Haymitch to pose in, which been distributed in some magazines clothes later on in the capitol.
—It's been so nice catching up with you guys! But now let's see what this year's Games bring us!
We wave for the final segment and after the lights go down, Haymitch leans in and says something to Caesar — a joke, judging by the man's laugh — but I don't catch it. Then his hand finds mine, and we walk offstage together to meet our team.
Proserpina is fixing the lining of one of the capes Hatya will wear, murmuring last-minute instructions to Nygel, while Effie taps around making sure everyone is in place. All tributes are already being led toward their chariot.
As I try to stay calm, watching the bustle of Capitol stylists, Peacekeepers, and mentors crisscrossing in preparation. I remind myself that it's just one more step in the show. One more tradition to play along with.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur of pink—no, not just pink. Blinding, searing, screaming pink, so bright it seemed to stab the air around it.
A man, tall and thin, with a smile too wide to be real, was walking toward us, waving excitedly. His suit was made entirely of shiny pink feathers, layered and shaped to mimic wings. The same feathers. The exact shade. The same iridescent glint. The same cursed pattern that had hunted me through every single nightmare, glinting in the sun as they circled overhead, ready to tear me apart in that arena.
My breath stopped.
My chest collapsed inwards and the sounds around me twisted into a low, pulsing echo. I couldn't move. My knees buckled.
They're back.
I can hear the wings.
I can feel the blood.
The screaming.
Someone's voice called my name, distant and underwater. The pavement beneath me wobbled and I stumbled back into someone—Vitus maybe? I couldn't tell. My throat closed up. I tried to speak but only a rasp came out. My vision blurred and all I could see was pink. Feathers. Beaks. Claws.
I clutched my stomach and dropped into a crouch, arms wrapped around myself as if I could hold my organs inside, as if I were back there, hiding, waiting for death that never came.
—Maysilee! Maysilee, breathe! —Effie's voice, sharp and too high-pitched, broke through the static. A hand pressed against my back, another held my arm.
—Get her out of here, now! —I heard someone else shout.
Haymitch was in front of me then. He knelt, one hand reaching out but not touching me.
—It's not real —he whispered firmly, and this time I met his eyes. His voice dropped even lower—. You're here. With me. They can't touch you again.
My heart was racing, my chest hitching for air.
I try to breathe but I can't.
He moves closer, his forehead nearly touching mine.
—You're not there. You're here. With me. Look at me.
His voice is quieter now, like something just for me.
—They're gone. They can't touch you again.
I blink hard. My eyes finally meet his. He's right there. Solid. Warm. Breathing.
He sees something click, because he exhales slowly — then leans in and kisses me.
Not showy, not staged, not like anything the Capitol would script.
Just real.
Grounding.
His hand brushes the side of my face when he pulls back.
—I'm here. You're safe.
And for the first time in minutes, I believe it.
I nod.
Just once.
And I breathe.
———
He brought me back just in time.
We were being ushered to the far side of the City Circle, to our seats above the parade lane where the tributes would be showcased for the first time. I was trying to stay focused, I really was. I held the hem of my dress tightly. My legs were trembling, but I told myself it was just nerves from being on stage again. I didn't expect what would come next.
I sat down slowly in the elevated viewing section, knees still trembling slightly under the smooth fabric of my dress. A water bottle had been pressed into my hand, opened for me. I hadn't taken more than a few sips. My mouth was dry for different reasons.
—You're okay? —Haymitch murmured beside me, leaning in, elbows on his knees, avoiding direct eye contact.
I nodded once. I couldn't say more than that. Not yet.
Across the City Circle, the anthem boomed to life, and the audience around us erupted in cheers as the heavy gates creaked open. The chariots were lined up, one behind the other, already beginning to roll out.
Then, our tributes appeared.
Hatya was first—standing proud and defiant despite the weight of the gold-laced coal-themed dress she wore. Nygel had outdone himself. The black fabric clung to her like armor, layered in jagged pleats that shimmered as if lit from within by embers. Her long braids were tied back with gold wire, and a flaming crown circled her head.
Roy stood beside her, dressed in a matching black suit with volcanic textures along the sleeves and chest, glowing faintly red under the lights. He looked nervous, but dignified. So much older than thirteen.
I blinked, swallowing hard.
The chariot moved forward and the camera drones followed, swooping above them. The crowd roared. People threw glitter and petals down from the upper balconies.
I glance up at the balcony, and of course, there he is. President Snow, standing at the center in his polished black coat, with the ever-blooming white rose pinned to his chest. His lips curl into that cold, diplomatic smile.
He knows. He always knows.
Hatya waves timidly at the crowd. Roy lifts his hand next, imitating her.
I tried not to think about last year's parade, about Louella and Wyatt. Haymitch does it too I can feel it, so I search for his hands and he takes mine for the entire show.
———
The elevator hums as it ascends, smooth and silent, but the weight pressing on my chest only grows heavier with every floor we pass. I glance at the two kids standing in front of me—Hatya, with her knuckles white around her own fingers, and Roy, small and visibly shaken, his eyes refusing to meet anyone else's. Haymitch leans lazily against the mirrored wall, arms crossed like he couldn't care less, but I know better. That silence in his jaw, the way he's clenching it—it's not apathy. It's armor.
We reach our floor with a soft chime. The doors slide open to reveal the corridor leading to our assigned apartment. I step out first, feeling the Capitol's over-polished floor beneath my heels again, and motion for the others to follow. No Peacekeepers, no avoxes. Our prep team is already gone for the day. We're alone now.
The apartment is identical to the one I stayed in during my Games. This year, the Capitol had seen fit to allocate an entire building just for the tributes. Beside the building, there was a spacious gymnasium, meant as a central training facility for them.
—Alright, this is where you'll be staying until the Games begin —I say, turning to Hatya and Roy.
They look around with wide eyes, unsure of where to go or what to say, just like I once did. I recognize that fear. I wore it too.
For once, it was just Haymitch, me, and the kids. I felt the weight of the responsibility settle on my shoulders. I couldn't afford to take it lightly. Not this time.
The aroma of roasted chicken and vegetables filled the air, but my mind was elsewhere. I watched Hatya and Roy as they carefully poked at their food, clearly still adjusting to the new surroundings.
I glance at Haymitch. He hasn't said a word since we came back from the parade, and I want to shake him to scream at him so I can feel less lonely in this. But I can't not in front of the kids at least.
So I step forward, smile as gently as I can, and sit across from them.
There's a long silence. Hatya's the first to break it.
—Do we... have to kill people on the first day?
Her voice is so quiet, it's like she's asking if we'll get breakfast tomorrow.
I shake my head softly. —No. Not unless the arena pushes you into that. First days can be chaotic. But survival doesn't always mean fighting.
—What if I don't want to kill anyone at all? —Roy asks, eyes dark and guarded.
—I hope you don't —I say honestly. —But I also hope you want to come home. Sometimes those things clash.
He stares down at his shoes. —My brothers... They don't have anyone else. My mom's sick. She's barely awake some days. If I don't come back...
His voice fades out.
Hatya speaks up again, eyes on the floor. —My dad cried when they called my name. He never cries.
Something twists in my chest.
—I know this is overwhelming —I begin, steadier now.— I won't lie to you. It's going to be hard. But Haymitch and I are here to help you. That's what we're going to do. Every day, every hour, until the arena opens.
They don't nod. They just... breathe. Like letting the air in costs them something.
And then I remember what Mags told me the night before I left her district. That helping someone else survive would never erase what we went through—but it would give what we suffered a purpose.
So I lean forward.
—Let's make a deal.
They both look up.
—I'll ask you to try your best. That's it. Try to learn. Try to fight. Try to stay alive. Because I know you can do it. And in return... I guarantee your families will be taken care of. Your siblings, Roy. Your father, Hatya. I'll make sure they don't starve. No matter what happens.
Roy blinks, startled. Hatya tilts her head, as if trying to make sense of what I just offered.
Then, from beside me:
—Maysilee, are you sure? —Haymitch's voice is low, wary.
I don't look at him.
—I'm sure.
Hatya leans forward, her hands shaking slightly as she tucks them between her knees.
—Okay —she says, like it's a decision and a surrender all at once.
Roy hesitates longer. Then finally:
—Okay.
I nod.
We have a deal.
After dinner, the silence stretches—not tense, just full. The kind that comes when everyone is too full or too tired or too uncertain to know what comes next.
Hatya and Roy retreat to their shared room, and I don't stop them. They need the space. To breathe. To process. To pretend, even for a second, that they're still just kids. Not pieces on a board.
Haymitch stays behind, hunched over his half-empty glass. Liquor of course.
I stand by the window. Capitol lights blink and shimmer in the distance. Cold. Hollow.
—You didn't have to say that. Of course I'm sure —I murmur, not turning around.
He snorts. —Are you, though? Are you really sure?
I glance over my shoulder.
—Maysilee you think this is a joke? You think you can just throw around promises like that without consequences?
That's the first time he ever said my full name since my birthday.
—They needed it. I meant it.
—Yeah? And what happens if Snow hears you made that promise? If he decides to teach you a lesson by punishing your family?
I feel the breath catch in my chest.
He steps forward now, eyes sharp, voice low and furious.
—Did you think about them at all, Maysilee? Did you think about your sister when you looked Roy in the eyes and told him everything would be fine? Did you think about your parents? About anyone who'd pay the price if Snow decides he doesn't like your little act of rebellion?
—It wasn't rebellion —I hiss.— It was compassion.
—Call it what you want, it still puts a target on your back.
—I'm already a target, Haymitch. So are you. That's the job. That's what we signed up for the second we stepped off that train with crowns on our heads.
—And that gives you the right to gamble with our lives?
—You want to talk about gambling? You haven't lifted a finger since the reaping. I've been the one talking to them, comforting them, caring about them.
—Don't you dare—
—Don't I dare what? Say the truth? That since the moment their names were called you've done nothing but sulk and drink and disappear into your own misery? You haven't asked them a single question, haven't looked Roy in the eye, haven't said one decent word to Hatya—
—You don't know what I'm dealing with.
—No, I don't, because you won't let me. But I know what they're dealing with. I know what it's like to be terrified and alone and thinking no one gives a damn. And I won't let them feel that. Not if I can help it.
He laughs bitterly. —You think you can save them. That if you say the right words, smile the right way, promise enough food and kindness, they'll have a chance.
—No. I know the odds are against them. I know. But if they believe in us for one second, if they trust that we're not just Capitol puppets in nice clothes, it might help them find the will to survive.
He looks at me, jaw tight, eyes bloodshot.
—You really believe that?
—Yes. And it kills me that you don't.
The words hang there like smoke. Heavy. Burning.
Haymitch turns away, rakes a hand through his hair. For a second, I think he's going to shout again, but he doesn't. He just stares down at the floor, shaking his head.
Then he turns and steps forward. Too close. His eyes are wild, red-rimmed, desperate.
—Did you think about me? —he says, voice cracking.— What it would do to me if you're punished for this? If they take you?
I blink, stunned.
—Why would that matter to you?
And then he kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's not clean. It's raw and messy and trembling. His hands are cold where they press against my cheeks; mine clutch his shirt like I'm holding onto the last solid thing in a crumbling world.
When we pull apart, I'm breathless. Shaking.
—That's not fair —I whisper.— You don't get to shut me out, treat me like I'm reckless, and then do that.
—I know —he breathes.— But I don't know how else to stop feeling like I'm losing you.
I close my eyes, press my forehead to his.
—Then stop pushing me away.
His breath catches. One of his hands curls at my waist, like he doesn't believe I'm real.
—Stay —he murmurs.
—Only if you start trying, Haymitch. Not just surviving. Trying.
———
We barely speak the next morning, but something has shifted. The air between us isn't as sharp. There's a truce now—fragile, but real.
Haymitch stands behind me as the elevator ascends to the training center. He doesn't say anything, just slips a hand into mine for a second and squeezes. It's the smallest gesture, and somehow it anchors me.
Hatya and Roy are quiet, wide-eyed, taking in the gleaming steel and glass of the center as the doors open. Peacekeepers wait by the entrance, bored and half-alert. The room hums with energy. Tributes from all districts gather in their matching gray training uniforms. Some are already testing weapons. Others cluster by the survival stations.
Roy's gaze darts to the knives. Hatya glances at the knot-tying section, uncertain.
—Stick together —I murmur.— Choose stations that make you feel curious or scared. That's where you'll learn the most.
—Not the knives? —Roy asks.
Haymitch steps in, arms crossed.
—Knives won't help you if you starve on day two. Learn to build a fire first.
Hatya nods slowly and pulls Roy toward the survival gear. We watch them go.
—They listen to you —I say, surprised.
—They trust you —he answers. Then adds, after a beat,— And I trust you.
It's the closest thing to praise I'll get. I take it.
——
On day two they're exhausted before lunch. I can tell by the way Hatya rubs her temple and Roy keeps touching the same bruise on his wrist. Haymitch steps in, calling for a break like he's done this a hundred times. He hasn't, of course. But he's good at pretending now. Better than me.
They sit with us in the break room. Haymitch smuggled real bread and honey from our floor. Roy eats like it's his last meal. Hatya stares at her hands.
—I suck at climbing —she mutters.— I couldn't get halfway up that fake tree.
—You will —I tell her.— You just need time.
———
The last day before private evaluations, Roy and Hatya train with focus. Roy's better with his hands than he thought—he manages to tie a functional snare in fifteen minutes. Hatya surprises everyone by hitting a bullseye with a spear. She looks shocked at herself.
—I was just aiming for the dummy's elbow —she mumbles.
—Aim for the heart next time —Haymitch mutters under his breath.
That night, they ask questions. Too many. What if the arena is cold? What if there are mutts? How do we know where the Cornucopia is? Will the Capitol send medicine?
We answer all of them. Honestly, but not cruelly. We tell them what we can, and lie where we must.
When they sleep, Haymitch and I stand in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of water.
—I don't want to lose them —I whisper.
He nods, staring out the window.
—I know.
———
We can't be in the room for their evaluations. I hate it. I want to scream every minute they're inside that silent chamber with Gamemakers behind glass.
Hatya goes first. She's in there for eleven minutes.
Roy takes fifteen. When he comes out, his face is red, his shirt collar damp with sweat.
—How'd it go? —I ask.
—I showed them the snare. And I... I climbed the wall. Not all the way. But most of it.
Hatya says nothing, just collapses into the seat beside me. She trembles for exactly four seconds, then goes still again.
Haymitch offers them both chocolate.
The scores are announced the next day. Hatya gets a six. Roy a four. Not bad.
I find Haymitch sitting alone in the hallway outside the training floor. His elbows rest on his knees, a knot forming between his brows.
—They're scared —he says simply.
—So are we.
He glances at me. Then down the corridor toward the rooms. Then does something unexpected, he leans his head on my shoulder.
For a moment, I think it's just exhaustion. But then he exhales, slow and uneven, and I feel the weight of it settle against me. Not just his body but him.
My hand finds his. He doesn't pull away.
—We're doing everything we can, Haymitch.
—It won't be enough —he whispers.
—I know.
A beat passes. Then he turns his face slightly toward my neck, just enough that I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.
—You keep me standing —he murmurs, barely audible.
I close my eyes and plant a soft kiss on his lips.
—Then I'll stand as long as you need.
————-
For the interview day Nygel has them in wardrobe for hours. Hatya comes out looking ethereal in soft blue, her black hair woven with little crystal threads in it. Roy is in forest green, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket.
We coach them backstage. Remind them to smile. To say who they miss. To be honest, but not too honest. The Capitol likes tragedy, but only the pretty kind.
When they step onto the stage with Caesar Flickerman, I can't breathe.
But they do well. They're shy, awkward, real.
That night, as we return to our floor, the four of us hugged. I tried not to cry as I remembered Lou Lou and Wyatt, but I put on my best smile and make sure they feel safe before the cruelty of tomorrow.
—————
The moment the countdown ends, silence fractures into chaos.
The arena is darker than anything we imagined. A jagged cavern of stone and shadows. Black walls climb endlessly upward, broken only by narrow passages carved like veins in bone. The only light is in the center of the cornucopia, a pulsing crimson glow that flickers to life every five minutes.
My breath catches as the screen flares to life in the viewing room.
—They can't see anything. How are they supposed to know where to go?
Haymitch doesn't answer me. His knuckles are white against the console.
Roy and Hatya sprint—not toward the center, but toward each other. They nod, barely a second of eye contact before they dart to opposite sides, grabbing what they can. A water pouch. A bag pack. A knife.
Then it begins.
Screams, metal, shouts lost in the dark. A Career slams a boy's head against the stone. Another slits a girl's throat cleanly as the red pulse washes over the scene.
Next to us a young man celebrates with his district partner and she makes a high five with him.
I bit down on my lip, I really want to throw up.
But on the arena Roy and Hatya—they're still running. They make it to one of the tunnels, ducking in opposite directions.
They don't look back.
—They made it— Haymitch mutters beside me, as if saying it aloud might jinx it.
—They made it.— I echo, but it doesn't feel like victory. It feels like a reprieve. Like the Games are waiting to collect the rest of the debt later.
⸻
When we arrive next morning the screen flickers. Roy is alone. Dirt smudged across his cheeks, a strange fruit in his hands.
My breath catches.
—Don't eat that —I say, standing.
Wiress steps beside me, pale and trembling.
—He doesn't know —she whispers. —He thinks it's safe.
Roy takes a bite.
Less than ten seconds. He seizes, vomiting. Falls forward. His mouth foams. The cannon fires.
It's over.
I sit down. Slowly. Like gravity suddenly doubled.
The guilt comes in waves. My promises to his family. His trust in me. The way he looked up to Haymitch and me like we were some kind of hero.
—We're not.—I whisper.
Wiress places a trembling hand over mine.
—They always make us believe we can save them —she says. —That's their real trick. That's how they keep us obedient.
I can't respond. All I can do is watch the replay loop on the screen like it wants to tattoo itself into my skull.
Haymitch sits there, still. Hollowed out.
I turn to him sharply, voice cutting through the silence.
—Hatya. Focus on Hatya. We focus on Hatya now.
His eyes snap to mine. Bloodshot. Blinking like he's just come up from underwater.
—Right —he says hoarsely. —Right.
I'm already grabbing the sponsor pad from the table, fingers trembling.
—She hasn't had water in almost twenty-four hours —I mutter.
Haymitch is on his feet too, moving fast now.
We make a call. In ten minutes, a sleek silver parachute is on its way.
On the screen, Hatya flinches as it lands beside her. She was hiding behind a big rock. She stares at it. Touches it like she thinks it might vanish. Then opens it and drinks the entire bottle in seconds.
She breathes. She lives.
I slump back into my seat.
By night I don't know how to make it better anymore.
—We need to keep her warm —I say.
—Soup —Haymitch nods. —Get her something hot.
Another call. Another stretch of Capitol smiles and sponsor bargaining. Another parachute.
She wraps her hands around the can before she opens it. Drinks slowly. Carefully.
Then she lies down, curling into herself with the empty can cradled to her chest.
—She's strong —Haymitch says beside me.
—Too strong for them —I answer.
———
The third day is quiet. Too quiet.
Hatya hasn't appeared on the main screen for hours.
She was near the northwest quadrant last time. Hiding behind jagged stalactites, drinking the remaining water we send her.
I lean forward, eyes fixed on the monitor. My heart pounds.
—Where is she? —I mutter.
Haymitch doesn't answer. He's been silent since sunrise, jaw tight, fists clenched on his knees.
Then the screen flashes.
Movement. Breathing.
Hatya.
She's creeping through one of the maze corridors, hugging the wall. She's slower now. Tired. Pale. But alive.
She turns a corner, and that's when they come.
Careers.
Three of them.
They don't shout. They don't even run. They move like they've been waiting for this moment. Like they laid the trap days ago. Cause they did.
Hatya freezes.
She bolts in the opposite direction.
There's a tripwire. She doesn't see it.
A sharp snap.
Metal springs.
She screams.
I cover my mouth.
Blood spreads across the ground. She's still conscious, trying to crawl, one arm dragging behind her uselessly.
The Careers don't hesitate.
The axe falls.
Cannon.
I can't breathe. I push away from the screen, stand up too fast. The room tilts.
Haymitch doesn't move. He just stares at the screen.
Like his soul left with that sound.
Mags is there before I can speak. She kneels in front of him, places both hands on his face.
—Look at me, Haymitch. —Her voice is soft, but firm. —She died fighting. That girl gave them hell.
He doesn't blink.
—She was just a kid —he rasps.
Mags nods. Her thumbs brush under his eyes.
—We were all just kids once. That's why we keep going.
I sit beside him. The weight of it all settles in my chest. Roy. Hatya.
Gone.
—We did everything we could —I whisper.
Haymitch finally turns to look at me.
—It wasn't enough.
Silence wraps around us, thick and cold.
Some mentors walks past in the background,murmuring something I can't hear. Other discussing strategies and running numbers counting the tributes left.
I just watch the dark screen where Hatya's face had been.
And I know I'll never forget her.
Not ever.
No matter how many Games pass. No matter how many other tributes come and go. Roy's laugh. Hatya's stubborn fire. They're burned into me.
I could claw at my own memory, drown it in drink or distraction, and they'd still be there.
In the silence. In the shadows.
They were mine. And I lost them.
And the worst part is knowing that even if I tried, truly tried, I would never be able to forget them.
Roy and Hatya will always be carried with me.
Even when it hurts.
Especially then.
Notes:
Hi again! This might be the longest and saddest chapter I've ever written. Hope you liked it! <333
P.S. Make sure to check out my TikTok, @ mdnightspoet, to see edits from the book! I already posted one about this chapter and how I pictured Roy and Hatya! ✨
Chapter 10: Crimson Ashes.
Notes:
Please let me know in the comments who do you picture as these new characters before seeing my ideal cast 🙂↕️🙏🏻
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Everything was a blur after our tributes died.
I moved through the Capitol like a barely functioning machine. I must have spoken to people; Effie, Vitus, even Plutarch maybe, but I don't remember a single word of it.
The Games lasted six days. We lost Roy on the second, and Hatya on the third. After that, we had the choice to keep watching the broadcasts from the Mentors' Center, or go back to the apartments.
Haymitch and I decided to go back to the apartment. It felt so lonely without our tributes.
I felt like a failure, so every day until the end of the Games, I spent it drinking with Haymitch, and barely eating at all.
We had the entire apartment to ourselves. Every once in a while, a Peacekeeper would come in to bring us food or something to drink, or just to check in, but most of the time, we were alone.
That night, when we came back from the Center, we slept in my room. We cried so much that by morning, I guess there weren't any tears left in our bodies.
Haymitch had made a tuna sandwich for breakfast, and when he asked if I wanted one, I just stared at the food and cried again.
It felt awful, having the chance to live another day while Hatya and Roy couldn't, and would never again enjoy something as mundane as a tuna sandwich. Just bread and fish and mayonnaise. That's all it was. And yet it felt like a banquet compared to what they'd never get again.
For the first time since I left the arena, I felt this kind of pain. The kind that doesn't go away. That sits in your lungs and dares you to try breathing normally again.
That's when the alcohol came in.
Here, they sell these colorful drinks, mixed with juice and fruit and my latest addition -vodka. You can have as many as you want and only start feeling dizzy around the fourth.
It's amazing.
But so draining.
I've misjudged Haymitch. Drinking does numb the pain, at least for a while. It doesn't fix anything, but it stretches the silence inside your head just enough to rest inside it.
But by noon that same day, I felt a different kind of hunger.
I'll always blame the alcohol for it.
And maybe the silence. And the way grief makes you crave anything that feels like life.
When I got out of my room, I found Haymitch by the door, making excuses for me as Mags was trying to reach out and make sure we were okay after everything.
—She's not feeling well —he said, his voice gruff and low.— But we are fine, we are trying to be.
When he closed the door, I ran into him. I didn't even think. I just moved. Kissed him so hard I could barely breathe. I needed it. Him. Something. Anything.
He kissed me back, of course he did. He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist.
We made it to the couch in seconds. My back hit the cushions. He was above me. I was under him, completely at his mercy, warm and real and dizzy and begging for something to quiet the noise in my chest.
And that's when he stopped.
—No, no, wait... —he said, breathless.
I kissed him again, trying to shut him up, desperate. —Maysilee, wait. You're drunk. Stop. Hell, I'm drunk.
He pulled back, and I sat up, close enough to feel his breath against my cheek.
—And so what? Let's call it even.
—It's a mistake, Maysilee. No.
I went cold. Furious.
So he was allowed to change his mind whenever he pleased, but I wasn't even allowed a kiss? A chance to forget? Oh, fuck it.
—Oh, so I'm a mistake? That's what you're saying? —I sat up fully, legs crossed, turning away from him. I couldn't look at him. Couldn't handle what I might see.— I should've been the one to die in that arena. It makes no sense that I'm still here anyway.
He froze for a second, as if the mere thought of me not existing hurt him. Then he leaned in, looking at me with such tender eyes, his voice soft and sharp all at once.
—That's not what I said, Mays.
—Fine. Prove it then —I whispered, eyes on his mouth. I leaned forward.
—I said no, Maysilee. Respect that.
He stood up and left the room without looking back.
Screw him.
I grabbed the nearest bottle and stormed into the bathroom. The tile was cold under my feet. I filled the bathtub with warm water and whatever lavender scented thing Effie had bought me from some overpriced capitol store. I sank into the water, trying to disappear.
The peace lasted five seconds.
As soon as I closed my eyes, I saw Roy's final breath. Hatya screaming. The cannon. The blood. The damn hovercraft.
I opened my eyes again and took two long sips from the bottle, hoping to drown the images, or myself. Whichever came first.
When the water went cold, I got out, dried off, put on some clothes, and crawled into bed. I managed to sleep for a little while. Just enough to dream.
Then I woke up screaming.
And Haymitch came in.
He didn't say anything. He just walked straight to my bed, lay beside me, and pulled me into his arms.
No matter how hard we fought, or how much I'd regret my lack of decorum in the morning, he came back to me.
To protect me from the nightmares. Even though he probably had a dozen of his own.
—————
On the next day I woke up with a pounding headache and my mouth dry like dust. For a second, I didn't know where I was. The sheets felt too soft, the room too quiet. Then I turned, and Haymitch was there. Still asleep, his chest rising and falling next to mine.
My limbs ached. Not from any physical strain, just the weight of everything.
I blinked at the light pouring from the cracks in the curtains. Afternoon, maybe. We'd slept through the entire morning.
I sat up slowly, trying not to disturb him, but the shift made him stir.
He opened one eye, voice groggy —What time is it?
—Noon, probably.
He groaned and covered his face with a pillow. Then he stand up and went straight to his room. Was he avoiding me? Avoiding last night? I couldn't blame him, and perhaps it was for the best.
The knock on the door came like a gunshot. I froze mid-movement.
Another knock. Sharper this time. Then a muffled, sing-songy voice.
—Hello? Anyone alive in there?
Haymitch came up fast. His hair was a mess, his shirt halfway off. But then I wasn't looking much better. We were both anxious.
—I'll get it. —I said.
He reached out to stop me, but I was already halfway across the room.
When I opened the door, Wiress was standing there in a silver dress that shimmered like static. Beside her, a woman I recognized immediately: Cassia Northon, victor of the 48th Games, District 7. Taller than I imagined, and too elegant for someone who had once bludgeoned her way out of an arena with a bloodied axe. Her green eyes scanned me and the apartment behind with silent judgment.
Wiress tilted her head, a playful grin spreading across her face as her gaze flicked to my tangled hair and Haymitch hovering awkwardly behind me.
—Rough night, ha? —she said, the tone so suggestive I almost laughed. Almost.
I crossed my arms and offered the smallest of smiles. —We've had worse.
—I can tell...—she said, then her smile disappeared and she was fidgeting with her hands before talking again.— So there's this thing tonight...
Haymitch stepped forward, clearly annoyed. —If you're here to invite us to some Capitol bullshit, we'll pass.
Cassia sighed, clearly expecting the reaction. —It's not optional.
Wiress shrugged. —Every year, victors and Capitol sponsors gather during the final stretch. Drinking. Talking. Making bets. They don't show this on the districts. It's more like a vigil before the end of the games.
Cassia added —We're not thrilled to go either. We lost ours yesterday.
A strange quiet settled. We all knew the weight of that sentence.
—I didn't want to come last year. —Wiress said, her voice softening. —But it's expected. Skipping it is an act of defiance. And it doesn't go unnoticed.
I hated how reasonable she sounded.
—You have an hour to prepare yourselves, the party it's actually under this edifice so the ride would only take you a few minutes trough the elevator. —Cassia said, already turning down the hallway. —Dress code is crimson red, like the arena. I'm sure your team already send you something to wear.
Wiress lingered. Her eyes landed on Haymitch, and then back to me. —See ya lovebirds!
She winked, then followed Cassia down the corridor.
I closed the door and leaned against it, trying to catch my breath.
Haymitch was already pacing. And that's when I noticed a box on the sofa, our clothes maybe.
—I'm not going.
—I think we have to, Haymitch.
He turned to me, arms crossed. —You wanna sit in a room full of victors and Capitol creeps and pretend this week didn't happen?
—I want us to survive. You know that's different.
His jaw tightened. But he didn't argue.
We stood there, neither of us moving, neither of us knowing what to say.
—Let's just... get through it okay? —I muttered, heading toward the bathroom.
—One more performance —he said behind me, bitter as hell.
——————
The dress Nygel sent for me was red.
Not burgundy. Not maroon.
Red.
I wore red once, on district two, Proserpina said how well it fitted me and my golden hair. I had agreed, because it actually did, and I was looking forward to wear something similar next time.
But this red?
This red is like the blood that soaked Hatya’s shirt. Like Roy’s lips as he gasped his final breath.
It shimmered under the lights, catching the gold in my hair like it was something to celebrate. With a corset so tight that I could almost breathe.
And when I looked in the mirror the only thing that I saw was emptiness, I didn't feel pretty. I didn't feel well at all. My face was too much white, my eyes were swollen from all the crying and you so could tell I haven got a single ounce of food in me.
When I walked out of the room, Haymitch was already in a pressed carmine suit, staring blankly at the wall.
—You look... —he started.
—Don't —I snapped, adjusting the dress strap. I didn't need it.
The elevator ride to the ballroom was silent. And by the time we reached the hall, it was already buzzing with muted chatter, glass clinks, and the low hum of a Capitol string quartet.
The room was domed and golden. Plush seating circled the center, where a projection of the arena hovered above a glass table, flickering occasionally like a heartbeat. There were only four tributes left. It wouldn't be long now.
As we entered, a few heads turned, but they didn't care a lot due to the drink. A young avox in a plum dress escorted us through a seat beneath a crystal chandelier, then she left, and we sat and tried not to meet too many eyes.
Wiress spotted us first, sitting with a cluster of older victors, sipping something blue from a glass orb. She raised her drink toward us in greeting, lips curled in that half smile of hers.
The conversations floated above us; strategies, deaths, favorites. Some victors were drunk already, slurring praise for tributes who didn't stand a chance. Capitol citizens in feathered coats and glass heels laughed like they were at the theater.
Haymitch poured us both a drink without asking. Something clear and dry. It burned less than I expected. Maybe I was getting used to it.
A Capitol man passed us, reeking of perfume and liquor, and he winked at me. I stared him down until he looked away.
—I don't want to be here, Haymitch.
—Then don't be. Close your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else.
—Like where?
He shrugged, pouring himself another drink. —Anywhere.
—Yeah, right.
—I'm being serious! Come on, close your eyes.
I did.
—Picture the lake. —he said.— the little ducks in it,
— The ones that make the most insufferable noise —I muttered.
—Exactly, —he laughs.— imagine that not far from them, our friends are sitting on a blanket,on a not so planned picnic, it's summer, there's no school and we really don't have anywhere else to be. We're laughing. Eating sweets your sister tried to sneak out of the house. But your father saw her and just... let it happen.
I laughed. I kept my eyes closed. And smiled.
— That's beautiful, Hay.
He hesitated.
— Oh. That's new.
I opened my eyes, confused.
— What's new?
— You. Calling me that.
— Calling you by your name?
He looked away.
— Doesn't matter.
A beat passed.
— Let's make it real —he said.
I stared at him.
— When we go home. Let's make that real.
My throat tightened.
— I'd be so happy to.
A bell chimed overhead. The room went quiet.
The projection in the center zoomed in on a tribute crouching in a tree; Terryn, from District 10. He was bleeding from the side, shaking, knife clutched tight in his hand.
Someone near the bar sighed dramatically. —Poor thing. He's not going to last the night.
—That's a shame! I already put thousands on him! —someone else added, and just like that, the noise returned.
I didn't look at Haymitch when I asked:
—Do you think we'll ever get used to this?
He didn't answer right away.
—No —he finally said. —But I think they want us to.
I drained my glass.
The couch beneath me felt too soft, too indulgent, like everything else in this place. I stayed close to Haymitch, our knees nearly touching, his thumb brushing over mine in quiet rhythms.
The same avox who had welcomed us earlier reappeared to guide us toward the lounge at the center. A handful of victors were already there. Cassia. Wiress. Beetee, who looked smaller than I remembered; thinner, sunken, like grief had taken up permanent residence inside his chest.
Back on the victory tour we weren't able to meet with him, Wiress told us he wasn't feeling able to, and since she was the former victor all the responsibilities of the district went for her, anyway. So last time we saw him was last year, at our games.
Before I could react, Haymitch stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Beetee didn't resist.
—I'm sorry.—Haymitch said, his voice low.
Beetee gave one of those nods men give when there's nothing left to say.
Wiress stood beside him, arms crossed over her chest, her glass of golden liquor untouched. Then, suddenly, she turned toward me, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
— Try this! —she said -a little tipsy-grabbing a plate from the table behind her and offering it to me.
On it was a delicate dessert: shimmering and violet, shaped like daisies. I had no idea what it was.
— It's plum glass —she added. — Crystallized fruit. You have to bite it quick or it melts.
I hesitated, then took a bite. It was sweet, a little bit spicy, and of course, laced with liquor. It cracked and dissolved on my tongue. She was right, the second one I grabbed melted before I had the chance to bite it.
—And I thought I knew all about sweets.
—Where's Mags?— Haymitch asked filling in our conversation.
—She came earlier.— Wiress said softly. —But she left. Older mentors can excuse themselves from these vigils and say they're tired, or whatever. And no one questions it. —she paused then.—I wish I had that luxury.
—Don't we all? —I said.
We sat, and I stayed close to Haymitch, trying not to look around too much. Everything was too pristine. Too polished. Too clean for what we'd just lost.
The conversations blurred into a hum of laughter and glasses clinking, until one voice rang louder than the rest.
—Lucky year, honestly —a woman was saying, laughing lightly. She was seated across from us, reclining in a gold-trimmed chair like she owned the room. —My claimant was feeling generous. Placed all the right bets. Helped my girl out. I'm telling you, she's going to win.
Her red hair was curled into a wave at her shoulder, and she wore diamonds on her collarbone.
—Who's that? —Haymitch muttered.
—Magnolia Gerald. —Wiress said disgusted. —District 2. Forty-second Games victor. She's everything you think she is.
The room went quiet for a beat too long.
—What do claimants have to do with your tribute winning? —I asked, louder than I meant to. And she heard it, of course. I’m so stupid.
Magnolia looked at me, blinked, and smiled like I'd just asked her how to apply eyeliner.
—Oh, Maysilee Donner, our tragic lover from last year, am I right?
I nodded vaguely, already regretting speaking.
—That's sweet, child. You'll see. Sometimes, if you offer a little charm —she winked— they'll rig the odds a bit in your favor. Keep your kids alive longer.
I froze. My skin went cold.
—It's disgusting —Beetee said quietly, voice like a thread of wire. —All of it. And you say it like it's a gift.
—Oh, Beetee —she pouted, mockingly. —You're always so noble. And where did that get poor Ampert?
Haymitch stood halfway up.
But Wiress grabbed his arm.
—Don't —she hissed.
Magnolia tilted her glass toward us. —Oh, this is nothing! You'll get used to it, Maysilee.
Brutus- abroad-shouldered victor from a few years ago- leaning against a column nearby, chuckled and shook his head.
—Magnolia, let the girl be a girl for now, would you?
She rolled her eyes. —Oh, please —she replied, raising her eyebrows, her smile never faltering—. I'm just preparing the children for the world they live in. Someone has to.
—I know, I know. Not everyone can handle reality right away. —Said Brutus as he reached for her.
Magnolia took Brutus's arm and walked off, perfume trailing behind her like poison.
Haymitch glanced at me, jaw tight. He didn't have to say it. I hated it too.
Wiress muttered —Don't let her get in your head. She's Career blood. That's all they know. Killing and bargaining.
Beetee went straight to the bar and we didn't speak of it again. The conversations changed. Drinks flowed. Somewhere, a small orchestra started to play. Time passed.
Then it happened.
The Capitol seal appeared on the wide screen behind the arena replica, followed by the anthem.
Liona Scrett's face lit up the ballroom in full color.
The victor.
District 2.
Of course.
My mouth felt dry.
I stared up at the screen, numb. Then turned to Haymitch and said quietly:
—Whatever Magnolia did, I'll do it next year. I won't let myself carry another Roy and Hatya on my conscience.
Haymitch didn't respond right away. He looked at me, really looked, as if trying to decide whether to respond me at all.
—Me too.—he said, and his voice was so quiet I almost thought I imagined it.
But then he looked away, down at his hands, and added. —I can't do this again. Not like this.
The orchestra was still playing somewhere in the distance. Laughter rose and fell around us like waves hitting a glass wall. But none of it touched us.
—————
I kicked off my heels the second we entered the apartment. Too many drinks and hours later. My feet were throbbing, but that wasn't the real ache.
Haymitch shrugged off his blazer and tossed it carelessly over the arm of the sofa. His shirt was wrinkled, and his collar was stained faintly with red wine. He walked toward the kitchen without a word, heading straight for the liquor cabinet.
I followed him, more out of instinct than need.
—We need to talk —he muttered, while putting out a bottle of something amber and poured into two glasses.
—We don't — I said.
He slid one glass toward me but didn't touch his. He just stared at it like it might answer something for him.
—Last night...
—I don't want to talk about anything Haymitch—I snapped, my fingers wrapped around the glass even if I hadn't taken a sip. — I'll just drink this and head to my bedroom is your choice what to do next.
He turned slowly, arms braced on the counter.
—We promised to tell each other everything.
That hit harder than I expected. My jaw clenched.
—That promise only seems to matter when it's you who wants answers—I snapped back.— But every single time, I'm the one trying to drag the truth out of you. So for once -just once- since I've known you, please let me be. Just like I've let it slide so many times for you.
His eyes dropped to the floor.
I stared at him for a long second. Then I drained my glass and set it down hard on the counter.
— You know where to find me. —I said and left.
He opened his mouth, then shut it. I could tell he wanted to argue. To stop me. But instead, he sighed and nodded once. Like admitting defeat.
When finished changing my clothes I felt a soft nock on the door. So I went to opening half closed.
—What do you want now, Haymitch?
—I'm not gonna be able to sleep alone.—he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I fully opened the door and let him in.
—Me neither.— I said.
We didn't speak as we lay down. The room was dark except for the moonlight slanting through the blinds. I felt the mattress shift as he lay beside me.
His hand found mine between the sheets. Fingers brushing first, hesitant, like asking a question.
I laced mine through his in answer.
We stayed that way, wordless. Breathing.
And that night, I didn't dream of Roy or Hatya. Just a fog of red velvet and golden chandeliers, and the sound of Magnolia's voice echoing like a curse I hadn't yet learned how to break.
-
Anne Hathaway as 20 years old Cassia Northon.
-
Alex Aiono as 27 years old Brutus.
-
Bella Thorne as 25 years old Magnolia Gerald.
-
Taylor Russell as 17 years old Liona Scrett.
Notes:
It’s so short I know! But the next few chapters may be longer 👀
Search Madrid violet candy! Those are similar in shape and color (not taste) as these “Plum Glass” of mine lol
On a side note TAYLOR SWIFT WHAAAAAAT??????? (did you see what I did in the chapter?) I’m so so proud and happy for her like literally crying! She’s such a legend, I love her so much 😭❤️❤️❤️
Chapter 11: Left to the Living in wilted laurels.
Chapter Text
Flashes.
Shadows.
Bright lights.
Feathers. Silk. Gowns.
On the anniversary of my own victory, I understand that the real Games never end .
Not when you win.
Not in the Capitol.
Not ever.
Pretending is the only way to survive the Games after the Games.
And I’ve gotten very, very good at it.
Everything is too shiny, too loud. A blur of colors swirls below the platform where I stand, and yet I barely blink.
Seventeen-year-old Liona Scrett stands in the center of it all, draped in silver and white, her crown freshly placed, her hands perfectly still. The crowd erupts. She smiles and waves.
President Snow says almost nothing to her before slipping away in his own platform.
I should be clapping but I’m not.
Caesar congratulates her again, his voice smooth as ever, all teeth and charm.
Liona raises her hand, then brings it to her chest and says —I’ll carry this honor with pride and glory.
I feel something twist in my stomach.
She means it. Every word. The honor, the glory, the pride.
Like this is the moment she’s been waiting for her whole life.
And maybe it is.
There’s something about the Careers I’ll never quite understand. To them, the Hunger Games aren’t a punishment. They’re a prize.
While the rest of us were sent to school or into the mines, the factories, the fields…
They were sent to train.
To kill.
It’s not survival for them. It’s legacy. Status. A future.
They choose this. They want it.
Every year, two perfect eighteen-year-olds, handpicked from their training schools, step forward and volunteer with a smile.
Because in Districts One and Two, this is what they’re raised for. Not just to win, but to shine while doing it.
And the Capitol eats it up.
The more brutal, the better.
I don’t understand how they can take pride in killing children.
In ending lives that never stood a chance.
Where’s the glory in that?
There isn’t any. Just blood, and applause, and more blood.
If there’s one group of people in this country I’ll never be able to see as fully human… it’s them.
Liona waves again smiling, and a flash of Silka’s smiles comes trough my mind. Exactly like her.
—Crap, they already maximized her. It’s a shame —bringing me back to reality, Chaff mutters beside me, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
And just like that, I’m back in the prep room hours earlier, sitting in front of the mirror while Vitus curls my hair, steam rising around my face like smoke.
“She’s barely scratched.” he says as if it’s a compliment. “Lucky one.”
“Well”Proserpina leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to confess a crime “they did operate her eyes.”
That gets my attention.
“Her eyes?”
Vitus’s eyes light up like it’s the juiciest gossip he’s heard all week.
“Yeah, changed their color and everything! So cool! Apparently, the red arena lighting messed with her vision. Temporary retinal distortion. They had to do some kind of optical reconstruction overnight.”
“Oh, but I bet she looks perfect with her new friends as well!” Proserpina grins as she tightens my corset. Too tight as always. “You’re so lucky to already have a big chest on your plate.” She winks, and my cheeks go red. “Some of us aren’t that lucky. I got mine already late, just when I was fifteen!”
When the ceremony ends and the crowd begins to shift like glittering waves. That’s when a voice cuts through the noise:
—Maysilee Donner! —A woman in purple feathers and diamonds floats toward me, dragging a cameraperson and two champagne flutes.—Looking divine as ever!
I flash the same fake smile I always use here. —Thank you!
—Tell us, darling —she beams, eyes gleaming for the recording —what does it feel like to pass the crown to a new victor? Are we sensing… a hint of jealousy?
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and tilt my head slightly, a gesture I’ve perfected. I look like I care. I sound like I care. But all I want is to go home.
— Oh, not at all, —I say sweetly. — No victor will ever be me.
The woman claps, delighted, and floats away with her entourage, already scanning the room for her next soundbite.
We’re not needed anymore —not like last year, when all eyes were on us. This time, we’re background noise. Decoration. Outdated toys on a newer shelf.
They pour us more champagne, laugh at jokes we didn’t tell, and finally send us off toward the apartments like guests overstaying their welcome.
By the time we reach the elevators, my heels are digging into my skin and my corset might as well be made of wire.
I was so exhausted I didn’t even wait for the elevator to stop.
— Good night, —I muttered to Haymitch without looking him in the eye.
I didn’t see if he answered.
I just walked straight into my room, peeled off the dress like it was on fire, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.
But…
It’s past two in the morning and I’m still awake.
The Capitol glows outside, the moonlight flickering in the black sky. My room is dark, but not calm. My body aches in all the wrong ways — corset bruises, heels blisters, jaw sore from too much smiling.
Eventually, I give up on sleep.
I walk down the hall barefoot, trailing fingers against the wall like it’ll ground me somehow. Haymitch’s door is slightly open.
I knock once.
—It’s open —he says, voice low and gravelly from the dark.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, the lamplight behind him casting long shadows across his back. There’s a sealed bottle of liquor on the nightstand. Unopened.
I blink.
—You didn’t drink.
He glances at it like he only just remembered it’s there.
—Couldn’t start without you.
I step in, arms crossed over my chest, silk nightgown hanging loose at the shoulders.
—Yeah right.
He shrugs.
—Want some?
I shake my head and sit beside him on the bed. The air between us isn’t charged. It’s heavy. Familiar.
For a while, neither of us says anything. Then I speak.
—Maybe… maybe it’s over now. Maybe now that they have her, they’ll finally leave us alone. No more interviews, magazines or talents, it’s over, until next year reaping.
He doesn’t respond immediately.
I look at him, his jaw’s tight, his hands clenched over his knees.
—Maybe —he says at last. —She looks like she enjoys it.
I let out a dry breath.
—They always do. The Careers.
He glances at me.
—Let’s get some sleep. Wanna join me?
I nod and we both lie back on the bed without another word. I feel his arms wrapped around me and then I finally sleep.
——————
In the morning we are discharged from our capitol duties, and sent straight to the station. Not prep team in sight.
The train smells like citrus polish and fresh linen and is full with our suitcases; new clothes Nygel sent us to try on, new skin products given by Effie, a food basket from Proserpina and Vitus, gifts for our family and gifts given to us by some capitol people.
Thankfully, not a single one from Snow.
Haymitch vanished as soon as we boarded, muttering something about feeling tired. A little strange but I didn’t want to think much of it, so instead I went to the dining car.
I was in the middle of a portion of pie when I heard footsteps.
Plutarch Heavensbee appears in the doorway, wrapped in a thick navy coat with silver trim. Always dressed like a man in control of things.
He looks around, notices Haymitch isn’t here, and exhales through his nose.
—Still hiding, I see.
He walks over, slower now. There’s a weight in his hands—something wrapped in deep brown paper with a little red bow on it.
—Well then —he says with a small sigh, offering it to me— since I missed your actual birthday, this will have to do.
I blink at the package.
—You got me something?
He smiles faintly.
I take the bundle in both hands. It’s heavier than I expect, and definitely book-shaped. The corners are worn under the paper.
—Why don’t you give one to Haymitch too? —I ask, more curious than anything.
Plutarch lifts a brow. His voice stays soft, but there’s a twist in it, something tired.
—Because I have a feeling you’ll appreciate it more. Haymitch seems to despise everything I offer him these days.
I frown slightly, tracing a line over the wrapping.
—I wonder why.
Plutarch’s eyes narrow and he doesn’t care in argument more.
—I hope you enjoy it. —he says.—Safe travels, Maysilee.
And just like that, he turns and walks toward the corridor.
The book feels heavy in my lap— heavier than it should. My fingers are still wrapped around the worn spine when I call after him.
—Wait.
Plutarch pauses, already halfway down the corridor.
—Wait, I need to know something.
He turns, brows lifting ever so slightly, a polite smile returning to his face.
—Tell me, dear.
I stand up, holding the book close to my chest, because I need something solid to hold on to. Something that isn’t going to vanish the second I ask the wrong question.
Plutarch is thirty-five. Not young, but not exactly old either. In the blur of Capitol faces that lie and manipulate, he stands out as… almost human. Maybe not someone I’d ever tell all my secrets to, but someone who seems like he could care. Someone I can almost trust.
But Haymitch doesn’t trust him. At all.
And that has to mean something, right?
—What’s the deal with the claimants?
I say it fast. Like ripping off a bandage.
Plutarch stills. It’s not dramatic, just… controlled. Too controlled.He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me then look around.
A few peacekeepers passed by, with their own suitcases, apparently we were going with a few new ones for the district. He waits until they are gone in their own wagon before answering again.
—What exactly do you want to know?
—Everything —I say, stepping closer— What they mean? What they do?Why at every single gala event all of them are talking about some damn list. —I say almost too fast—Everyone here keeps whispering around me like I’m too dumb to understand. I’m a Victor too. I’ve earned the right to know. What difference does it make if I hear it now or in a year?
He exhales through his nose, a long, weary sound. There’s something in his eyes I don’t recognize, something like pity.
—So much can change in a year, Maysilee.
—Please.
It comes out quieter than I expect. And I hate that.
He sighs again then lowers his voice.
—The reason you’re not told until you’re a properly adult is… well, mostly because what happens next is a crime. But again what is not in the world we live right?
He glances around, though we’re still alone.
—Once you turn eighteen, if some rich, powerful Capitol citizen wants to purchase you… President Snow will sell you to them and they’ll do whatever they want with you.
I freeze.
The bile rises instantly in my throat. It’s hard to breathe.
—What? —I manage to say.
—It’s called The Civic Gratitude Program —he says, his tone grim— Where clamaints are the people you are supposed to show gratitude to, by using sexual favors. And with your beauty… it’s no surprise that some people may already be expressing interest. Men and women.
My stomach turns.
—I could never-
—If you refuse, your loved ones will suffer the consequences —he says softly, but without flinching.
—That’s disgusting —I hiss.
Plutarch nods.
—It is. But that’s how the Games continue outside of the arena, you can either suffer o take something out of them. Sacrifices don’t end with the cannon fire.
—But I’ve never even— I cut myself off.
He lifts a brow, understanding.
—Oh. That’s… even better for them. You might consider losing it before you come back next year. The price goes up otherwise.
I don’t know whether to scream or be sick. Probably both.
I press my hand to my mouth.
—But if Haymitch and I look like a couple here… doesn’t that protect us? Doesn’t that mean we’re off-limits?
—No. Not even a little —Plutarch says. His voice is gentle, but firm— At best, it might make some of them back off for a while. Worst case… they buy you as a pair. Or pit you against each other among other victors. Either way, pretending won’t protect you.
—What would?
—Marriage —he says simply— It’s the only thing that makes you legally off-limits. That or death.
I blink.
—We’re seventeen. We can’t even legally marry yet.
He leans forward slightly.
—Rule one: stop thinking of yourself as a child. The Capitol stopped seeing you that way the moment you won.
The train shudders slightly beneath our feet. The whistle sounds in the distance, time to go.
Plutarch steps back, giving me one last, long look.
—Well. Enjoy the ride —he says, his voice lighter again, he leans in and gives me a hug, brief but not cold.
I smirk faintly, bitterness creeping in through my exhaustion.
—Where did the sudden confidence come from, Plutarch?
He chuckles.
—You can always call me, you know. Use your phone at the village. And I’ll be there if you want more answers. Or just someone to talk.
He walks off without waiting for my reply.
I watch him go, the book still clutched to my chest.
I sit back down, still holding the package.
The paper peels away slowly. Beneath it is a leather-bound volume, cracked at the edges but beautifully preserved. I run my fingertips over the title embossed in gold, faded but still legible:
“ The Thief Who Stole Fire:
A Tragedy of Revolt ”
Why would Plutarch give me a book?
I blink at it for a moment. Real books are rare in the districts. Most of the ones in school were brittle things from before the war, rewritten and censored so many times that the ink bled over itself.
We had learn so little about stories, a few tales here and there are only shared by the covey and I only know about them from sneaking out to a few shows with my friends a few years ago. At first we only went to mock them but we ended up liking them, that stop last winter though.
At home, the only ones my mother keeps are cookbooks and ledgers for the shop.
But this doesn’t look like any book I’ve seen.
My eyes trail to a line beneath the title.
“Translated from the Old Tongue. Preserved in the Heavensbee Collection.”
The what collection?
I flip the page.
The story begins with a city in the sky. A land ruled by beings called “gods,” cruel and bright and all-powerful. Mortals, it says, lived beneath them in hunger and shadow until one being— The Thief, Prometheus —stole fire from the gods and gave it to the people.
I don’t understand half of what I’m reading, but I can’t stop. It’s like being handed a map in a language I don’t speak but know I need.
Prometheus isn’t just defiant—he’s strategic. He walks among mortals disguised as one of them, sowing whispers of rebellion, teaching the starving how to create flame from stone, how to grow food in poisoned soil, how to craft weapons from scrap.
The gods, furious, send down “the Eagle,” a monstrous metal beast with razor wings and a mechanical screech, to punish him. It doesn’t just devour his liver—it broadcasts his screams across the heavens as a warning.
“And so Prometheus, though bound by chains unbreakable, smiled still. For the fire he gave to mortals could not be stolen back. It had already passed from hand to hand, from breath to breath.
Even in the shadow of the tyrant’s sky, the fire whispered: Rise again. ”
Mortals once heard Prometheus scream from his chains. The sound crossed mountains, valleys, even oceans. At first, they wept. Then they feared. But in time… they listened differently.
They started to hum his cries in the fields. Mothers turned them into lullabies. Elders shaped them into stories, and somehow, the agony became something else. Something more.
Because his suffering wasn’t meaningless. It was the price of the fire — the spark that let them cook, create, imagine. The spark that meant they didn’t have to stay on their knees forever.
By the time I close the book, my throat is dry and tight. I sit there for a while, blinking at nothing.
In the book world there are no districts. No Capitol. No Hunger Games.
But something in this story feels familiar. The way the people whisper in secret. The way the rulers punish defiance with spectacle and pain. The way the fire is treated like the greatest threat imaginable.
I clutch the book to my chest and find Haymitch in the narrow hallway between compartments, leaning against the wall with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. His eyes glance at me, lazy and tired. And it’s in that moment I realized the moon through the window, I must spend hours reading.
—What are you doing here?
I glance down at the book.
—Just reading something Plutarch gave me.
He exhales and tips his head back against the wall.
—What’s it about?
—It’s… weird. I don’t even know where it comes from. It’s about a man, well, a god, or kind of a god, who where these Skyborn Creatures of immense power who ruled over others, well this God, steals fire from the others like him to give it to the normal people. And then gets punished forever.
—Lovely bedtime reading, then.—he mutters.
—I think Plutarch wanted me to read it for a reason.
Haymitch snorts. I hold the book tighter.
—You don’t trust him.
—Plutarch? No. And neither should you.
—But he was nice, he gave me this as a birthday gift.
—Exactly. He gave me a cake last year remember? I didn’t recall you being so naive about it.
I want to argue. But Haymitch turns away before I can find the words.
—Nice story, Maysilee. —he says, voice softer now. —But stories don’t stop monsters. People do. And usually they die trying.
— Wait! I’ve never read anything like this. I don’t even know where this book comes from . It says “Heavensbee Collection.” That’s not a schoolbook, Haymitch. That’s—
He returns, with a furious look this time.
—Exactly. It’s from his family’s private shelf of secrets. So maybe ask yourself why he picked you to share it with.
I’m still holding the book when Haymitch mutters,
— I know about the collection, Maysilee, I’ve been in the library remember?
I glance at him, startled as I tried to remember what he is talking about. He’s not even looking at me, just at the floor.
— What do you mean?
His jaw tightens.
— I never told you the whole story of how I found out about Lou Lou.
That makes me sit up straighter.
— Spill then.
He huffs, then he leans back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
— It was the first day of training, right ? —he says quietly. — After it ended, Snow had Plutarch take me somewhere. Said the president wanted a word.
— Yes I remember you said a bit of that…
— I meet Snow In the Heavensbee Mansion. But before Snow even showed up, Plutarch and I… talked. He was kind too, offered me something to drink talking to me nicely like I was dumb. —he pauses. — He even recite Lenore’s Dove poem, bastard.
I blink.
— Then what?
He shifts a little.
— Then he showed me his stupid winter garden.
— His garden?
He nods.
— Yeah, right before Snow arrived.
Haymitch’s voice turns cold.
— He was so sick. And not the way he pretends to be now with his little coughing fits. Blood in his mouth, and then he puked right into a fountain.
I grimace.
— Ew.
— So we went back to the library. Snow wanted milk and Plutarch told me to grab it, so without any of them notice I drink it.
I stare.
— You what?
He gives me a crooked smile.
— Said the jug was empty. Plutarch knew I was lying but I don’t know why, he didn’t say a word. Just went to yell at the staff and came back with more.
Haymitch leans forward now, elbows on his knees.
— Snow made a comment. About how the Heavensbee library was untouched during the war. Said they didn’t need to burn their books for warmth like everyone else. Said it with pride, like that was proof they were superior. But it means something else too.
I look at him.
— It means that place has books that go back way before the Dark Days.
He nods.
—The president actually knew well too much about district 12, he knew about how the covey name their children, and he even toke my token-
I interrupt him. —You didn’t let me touch your token!
—When you asked me that you were still a brat May. —he laughs.— Well long story short right there he sentence me, said I was dead the moment I got reaped and was lucky even, cause there was no future with me and Lenore Dove. In hindsight he ended up being right. —It’s been so long since he mentioned her. He pauses a little then.—Before he left he brought Lou Lou as a birthday gift for me.
I take his hand, and intertwined our fingers.
—Haymitch…
— Plutarch said he didn’t know about Lou Lou, that the president just wanted to talk to me. Claimed she was a daughter of traitors, drugged and reprogrammed for the games. That he didn’t approve of the plan.
Haymitch looks haunted. And suddenly I’m back into last year’s games. I remember the way Lou Lou hold the bread, how kindly Wyatt adopted her as our own, and eating supper with Mags and Wiress.
—Why didn’t you ever tell me about that conversation, Haymitch? Why are you still hiding things from me?
—What are you talking about?
—I mean it’s been a full year since that happened, and not once did it occur to you to fucking tell me ?
—I was afraid okay? And I couldn’t exactly find the time to bring it up—
—Oh, is that right ? You’re saying in all the months we’ve spent together, through trains, the tour, hell even at dinners with my family or nights in the same goddamn bed! You couldn’t find a single moment ? There was plenty of time , Haymitch. You just didn’t want to.
He steps closer suddenly, lifts the book out of my hands and clasps them in his, pressing a kiss against my cheek.
—Come on, May… why don’t you forget about it and just come to sleep with me, huh? Please. I’m exhausted.
That makes something snap inside me.
—You know what? No. That’s enough.
I pull my hands away, heart pounding.
—You couldn’t find the time because every single time I asked too much, every time I pushed for more, you just shut me up with a kiss. And I let you . I let you do it over and over again. But I’m done. I’m not your fucking toy, Haymitch.
—What are you talking about?
—You use me. Just enough to forget her. Just enough to sleep at night. And maybe you think I don’t notice it, but I do. I notice it every time you look at me and wish I was someone else.
His eyes widen. His mouth opens like he’s going to deny it—but he doesn’t.
So I go on.
—She’s not here. So I’m what? The consolation prize? The replacement? Did I earn this version of you just because she isn’t around to take it?
—Maysilee—
— Don’t . Don’t even try.
I turn and storm out of the room, my steps echoing through the corridor. When I reach my compartment, I slam the door shut and lock it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fists clenched against my knees, trembling. And that’s when the knocking starts.
BANG.
— Maysilee!
BANG BANG BANG.
—I didn’t tell you all before because I was truly afraid and I didn’t think it mattered. Open the door, please!
I shut my eyes. No.
— And about using you… it wasn’t like that! It’s not about Lenore, it’s not— fuck, May, just open the door!
I press my hand over my mouth, not to cry, because I already am, but to keep any sound from coming out. My throat burns, my whole chest aches, and I hate that I still want to believe him.
—You matter, May. You’re not just…you’re not a placeholder. You’re not.
Another slam, sharper. He sounds out of breath.
—You keep me grounded. You see me. There’s no one else who understands me like you do, no one. After everything, I only have you.
His voice cracks on that last word.
—What do you think will happen when we get back to the District, huh? When we have to stand in front of Roy and Hatya’s families and tell them their kids are gone? You gonna ignore me then too?
That does it.
I shoot up from the bed, rage blooming in my chest like a wildfire.
How dare he.
He dares to say that, to throw our dead tributes in my face, to try and twist my grief into guilt, into something that makes him the victim?
I march to the door, heart pounding, hands shaking—but I don’t open it. I press my palms flat against the metal, like I need the cold to remind me not to cave.
—You think that’s fair, Haymitch? —I whisper. —You think manipulating me with their deaths is gonna make me forget how you’ve been treating me?—I pause, chest rising and falling. —You’re so scared of being alone that you’ll even use them. You don’t get to do that.
There’s silence for a beat. Then:
— May, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean—
—You did, Haymitch. You meant it. Maybe not all of it, maybe not like that, but you said it. And it worked before. All year, I let you get away with everything just because you said some nice things or kissed me after. Not anymore.
I pull back from the door, voice low and firm.
— May…
— I need a time out.
It comes out steady, final. And I mean it.
I stare at the floor, eyes stinging. I hate that he always does this—makes himself so small, so pitiful, just when I start to stand up. But I know his right, I know he suffered more than me and I hate it. I hate even more that part of me wants to open the door anyway. To forgive him. To curl into his chest and pretend none of this matters.
But it does matter. It matters that he hides things from me. That he uses affection to silence me. That even after all we’ve been through, he still doesn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth when it counts.
— Please, May. I don’t want to be alone tonight.
I close my eyes. My breath catches in my throat.
— You’re not the only one hurting, —he says. — But you’re the only one who can help me feel like I’m still human.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Quietly, more to myself than to him, I murmur:
—Then maybe it’s time you learn how to feel human on your own.
He doesn’t speak again.
And I don’t answer.
————
When the first rays of sunlight creep over the horizon, the familiar outline of District 12’s train station appears in the distance—faded, quiet, small.
Home.
The train slows with a low, mechanical groan. I don’t know if it’s the sound or the anticipation that makes my chest tighten.
As we pull into the platform, I spot my family immediately.
My father is at the front, tall and sturdy. My mother stands beside him, impeccable as ever. And Merrilee smiles grows bigger the moment she sees me.
I step down. My boots hit the platform, and for a moment I just stand there, frozen.
Then my father sweeps me into his arms.
— There she is, —he says, his voice gentle and hoarse. — My beautiful girl. Even prettier than the last time I saw you.
I close my eyes, pressing my face into his shirt. His scent is so sweet from the shop.
When we pull apart, he turns to Haymitch.
— Son, —he says, pulling him into a firm, brief hug. — Welcome home.
Haymitch nods, his shoulders rigid, like he’s not sure how to take the kindness. He says nothing.
Merrilee steps in front of me and hugs me so hard.
— I’m so happy you are here! I’ve got a lot to tell you.
My mother approaches next, carefully surveying us both. Her eyes scan Haymitch like she’s trying to find fault, then she turns to me, adjusting a strand of hair behind my ear and hugging me.
— You’re too thin my child, —she murmurs. — We’ve prepared lunch. We should head home before it gets cold.
I nod.
Haymitch shakes his head, already pulling slightly away.
— Haymitch, —she says. — You’re coming with us.
He hesitates.
— No, I think I’ll pass, Mrs Donner — His jaw is tight, and his gaze flickers to me now and then, but I don’t say anything either, as much as I can’t tolerate him right now I wouldn’t let him stay alone, not when my family is here offering love for him.
— Don’t be ridiculous, —she cuts him off. — You’re not going to your house before eating some nice food!
And before Haymitch can answer again it happened.
From the last car of the train, a sharp hiss of steam precedes the appearance of two Peacekeepers. They descend the steps in silence, rigid, gloved hands gripping the edges of two long, dark boxes.
Caskets.
Roy.
Hatya.
The moment I see them, the breath in my lungs collapses like a punctured lung. A terrible, wet sound leaves my mouth before I even know I’m crying.
My stomach drops. My vision blurs.
— No— I gasp, my knees buckle before I even realize I’m falling. And then Haymitch is at my side, his arms around me, anchoring me against him.
— May.— he murmurs into my hair. — It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you
But it’s not. None of it is.
I clutch at his shirt as the sobs come, loud and shuddering, until even the weight of my own grief is too much.
I don’t remember falling, but I must have, because suddenly everything tips—
And then—
Nothing.
—————
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
I blink slowly. The linen sheets are crisp against my skin, too clean. Too cold, despite the heat outside. There’s a breeze coming through the open window, carrying the scent of dry grass and heat.
My room.
In victor’s village.
I turn my head. The curtains are swaying gently. The light has shifted, I look at the clock on the wall, 16:30.
I sit up too quickly and everything spins. My hands are trembling.
Memories come in fragments—Haymitch, Merrilee, my father’s hug, my mother’s voice.
The coffins.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bring my knees to my chest.
I made a promise.
I get dressed—plain clothes, nothing colored—and pull my hair back tightly. I don’t want to look like a victor. I don’t want to look like anything.
I stop by the kitchen. Thankfully, my mother must’ve stocked the pantry. I pack a basket with care—bread, cheese, fruit, a jar of jam, some meat. I add a small glass bottle of pain medicine from the cabinet. Then I grab a backpack, where I put some money and walk to the Seam.
Hatya’s house looks smaller than I imagined. The porch boards creak under my boots as I step up and knock.
No answer.
I knock again. Harder.
The door opens a crack—just enough for me to see her father’s eyes, bloodshot and sunken, glaring at me.
— Get off my porch.
— Mr. Rilla, please. I just wanted to bring you something—
— I said get off. What are you playing here?!
— I’m not playing anything . —I say, holding my ground. — I promised Hatya. I promised I wouldn’t let you waste away alone.
He opens the door a little wider now, rage and grief contorting his face.
— You think I need anything from you? From a Capitol puppet?
I shake my head, softly.
— I have a friend. She runs an apothecary in town. She’ll refill your medication if you let her. I’ll pay for it. You don’t even have to speak to me. Just take the basket.
He’s silent for a long moment. Then his voice cracks.
— I only had her.
— It was a pleasure meeting your daughter, she was beautiful. — I whisper back.
He abruptly takes the basket from my hands and closed the door with so much force it brush my hair.
I don’t cry. Not yet.
I adjust the backpack on my shoulders as I walk a few blocks more.
I’ve never seen a house so little before, I knock, Roy’s little brother peeks out the window and vanishes. A moment later, the door opens.
Roy’s mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed. Her eyes land on the envelope in my hand, and something flashes across her face. Disgust, maybe. Or just pure hate.
— Shouldn’t you be hiding in your mansion? —she says coldly.
— I came to give you this —I say, holding out the envelope. — It’s for the kids. For food.
She doesn’t take it.
— You should be ashamed to show your face here.
— I am.
She lets out a bitter laugh.
— Don’t come here pretending to feel something. You didn’t even try to save my son. Don’t stand there with your sorry face and your pretty words acting like this is charity.
I swallow.
— It’s not charity. It’s a promise. I told Roy I’d look after his family. That you wouldn’t go hungry.
Her lip trembles, but she clenches her jaw.
— You merchant people never cared about us. My boy died for a district that didn’t give a damn about him.
— That’s not true . —I whisper.— I do care and your son was-
—Stop it! Don’t you dare acted like you knew him! —she shouts— As far as I’m concerned, —she says, voice trembling— you’re as dead as he is.
She snatches the envelope from my hands, and her eyes burn holes into me, then she slams the door.
I don’t try to knock again.
I just stand there, alone in the heat, letting her words sink like stones in my stomach.
Because maybe I am dead anyway.
Maybe every single time this happens I’ll always be a little more dead.
So I don’t go home right away.
My feet move on their own, through the dusty streets until I find myself standing in front of The Hob.
Inside, the air is hotter and thicker than outside, filled with sweat, smoke, and judgment. The moment I step in, I feel it—eyes cutting toward me. Whispers. Maybe even recognition. A few men go quiet. I hear someone mutter “Bitch.” Another one says nothing but spits on the floor.
I ignore them.
Piccolo -a man in his forty who runs business with Hattie-, is behind the counter, polishing a bottle with a filthy rag, squinting through the steam rising from a nearby kettle.
— Got any liquor? —I ask quietly.
He eyes me for a second too long, then reaches under the table and places a cloudy bottle on the counter.
— Two coins.
I open my backpack pocket and give him ten.
He raises an eyebrow.
— You drunk already or just feeling generous?
— Neither . —I say flatly.— Keep it.
I tuck the bottle into my bag, deep between the folds of fabric, careful not to let it clink, and I step out quickly before the stares turn into direct words.
The walk back to Victor’s Village feels longer than usual. The sun has dropped lower in the sky. The shadows are stretched thin across the road, like they’re trying to catch me before I get home.
When I open the door, my mother is already in the hallway.
— Where have you been? —she asks, her voice worried, but sharp around the edges. — We’ve been looking for you, Merrilee and your father just went to notify the mayor!
I drop my bag by the door and slide off my shoes.
— What does it matter? You weren’t here when I woke up.
Her mouth parts slightly in surprise.
— Maysilee… we’ve been with you all day. You fainted. Haymitch carried you from the station to your bed. Then he stood by your said until you father told him to go rest too. We only left for a short time to get clothes so we could stay the night with you. When we came back, you were gone.
I say nothing. Shame creeps up my throat, heavy and metallic.
She steps forward, her tone softening.
— I was just about to set the table. If you’re hungry, there’s food—
— I’m sorry —I blurt suddenly, looking down. — I’m… tired. I just want to take a bath and go to bed.
She nods slowly.
— Alright, my love. It’s all there if you change your mind.
I grab my bag again, carefully, and head toward the bathroom.
The bottle rattles once inside.
I pray she didn’t hear it as I fill the tub and sink into it like I’ve been carrying the whole weight of Panem on my shoulders.
My muscles ache. My head throbs. My heart feels splintered in places I didn’t know existed. I dip my fingers beneath the surface and trace little circles across my thigh. The warmth isn’t enough to soothe the cold sitting in my chest.
The moment I close my eyes, images flood in—
Hatya screaming.
Roy begging me send him food.
Their caskets being dragged down from the train like sacks of grain.
My breath catches. I open my eyes again.
I glance toward the bathroom door. Locked. Good.
I lean to the side and unzip my bag, reaching inside until my fingers brush the glass. I lift the bottle out slowly, letting it glint for a moment under the yellow bathroom light.
The liquid sloshes when I uncap it. I bring it to my lips.
The first sip burns. The second is worse. But I keep drinking, until the edges start to blur and my limbs feel like they’ve untied from whatever was holding them together. The heat of the alcohol crawls down my throat, settling heavily in my stomach. It doesn’t help much. Not really. But it quiets the noise.
For a while, I just stare at the wall, water lapping around me, the bottle balanced between my knees.
I think about Hatya’s father refusing to look at me.
About Roy’s mother calling me dead.
Because deep down I know the girl who came home isn’t the one who left. She’ll never be.
I tilt the bottle again, swallowing the thought whole.
Suddenly, I remember something—something small, something stupid. The way Haymitch used to joke that I made him feel real. That I kept him grounded. The way he begged outside my door just last night, voice raw, desperate.
Please, May. You’re all I have left.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No. Not now. Not tonight.
I curl deeper into the tub, arms wrapped around my knees, the bottle half-empty and still clutched in my hand.
I don’t cry. I don’t scream.
I just sit there. Until the water goes cold.
——————
Autor’s note: sorry I realized I didn’t put Plutarch Cast before so here it is:
Ruben Martinez as Plutarch Heavensbee.
Notes:
Well, I just wanted to say how much I really appreciate all your comments! They mean a lot to me, seriously, thank you so much! 🥹❤️
Chapter 12: Here comes the mess.
Notes:
Yeah probably listening to red while writing influence this a little bit…
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
HAYMITCH.
I decided to let Maysilee free from my presence since the moment I left her in her house. Valerian insisted I stay to dinner and all but I just couldn't. So I just kept walking, first to The Hob to get some booze.
And then...
My feet just knew the path, i went to the meadow to think, to the place where I last saw her. I just sat there, thinking and drinking till my conscience was long gone, like it was at the beginning of this all.
Oh lenore dove what would I do to have you here with me, to tell me what I should or shouldn't do?
It's the first thing that comes through my mind, then I remembered her letter, and that she didn't want me, that she didn't need me as much as I needed her. I've spent months angry with her, angry at life, angry at her uncles, at the covey, at the capitol, at everything. I've spent months trying to understand why she would leave me like that in such an evil way. Like she didn't love me at all.
"My love:
Writing this may be the hardest thing I've ever done, and leaving you, the worst. But is a need.
I can tolerate the fact that you would never be entirely mine, you were, once, but since the moment you won you were not. You'll start to be hers, and I do not want to be around when that happens.
I know I said to you that I wasn't scared, that I was ready for everything as long as I stayed by your side, but oh my dear, I'm not.
Some day I'll explain to you why I left, and I pray that day to be sooner than later, there's this thing — a pray, it's like a plea, a hope for some force out there who still listens to people like me to make it happen, sooner or later but eventually happen, it's a covey thing. Also I pray for your safety, and that you'll always remember your truly self, and our love.
I am no perfect person, but Maysilee Donner is for sure neither. I don't trust her.
Please don't go to my uncles for answers, they'll give you none, and this is not their fault.
And you can call me a coward all you want for doing this in a letter but if I saw you again I may never done this or recover at all. Either way I'll carry our last night together forever engraved in my soul.
I will always love you like all fire.
Lenore Dove."
After everything we been through, after every single promise we made together, she just left one morning, and send me that letter two weeks later.
Why did she left?
How?
What make her go away without telling me first about it?
Why I was so stupid to didn't notice any sign, any gesture that would indicate her soon to be absence?
At first I spent days in that same circle for months going there just to think of her ghost again.
But one day I just stopped.
The first time Burdock found me passed out drunk at the hob he asked me why.
Why I let myself loose that way?
But the answer was the same, I didn't have any reasons to keep living.
He said that Maysilee was still around and what about her? Wasn't she worth fighting for?
And she wasn't at the time.
But now? Now is another fucking time.
I am definitely liking Maysilee Donner.
And screw me that was driving me insane.
Maysilee never left my side once, not when we arrive the first time from our coronation, not when I tried to push her away and definitely not when I used her.
And her family? They were everything I could ever dream of.
Angus really took care of me —since he found me passed out on the square—and he even made up a job at their sweet shop for me to work. I truly learned so much.
And there was that time when we stayed overnight working and Valerian made a pumpkin soup with a taste almost as good as my mom and I cried when she hug me so tenderly.
Merrillee was the opposite of her twin sister. She was so into gossip and at dinner she would make us laugh so hard by stuff she heard around town or in school, it felt refreshing, having a taste of normalcy around.
And the way the Donners show me they cared for me was enough to start wanting to live again to stoped losing myself again.
And Maysilee...
It hit me one afternoon like a punch I didn't see coming. I was halfway through fixing the wiring in one of the machines at the shop, hands covered in rust, sweat burning my eyes, and all I could think about was her laugh. That laugh she does when she's holding it back, trying not to encourage something dumb I've said. Like it snuck out of her anyway, against her will. And I fucking missed it like it was oxygen.
I started thinking: maybe it's time. Maybe I could say it. Tell her. That I want her.
That all I could think about was how she was making me feel like living again, after so many months of suffering on my own.
But I didn't.
Because the Reaping was close.
Because everything that matters eventually stops mattering the moment we step back into the Capitol. And I told myself: not now. Wait until the Games are over. Wait until it's safe.
But there's never a safe time. Not for people like us.
Once we were there, I couldn't bear it. Not once. Not for a fucking second.
The moment we stepped off that train and I saw the skyline, those same glimmering towers that first welcomed me like a graveyard in disguise, I felt the itch in my throat. The same one that whispers: drink something, hit something, run.
Everything's loud and fake there. The people talk like they're auditioning for a show that never ends, and everything smells like artificial fruit and broken promises. And the Capitol lights, how they blind you!
And her?
She fits in like she was born for all the gold and glitter.
Maysilee walks through these halls like they were built for her. Always with her back straight, always the right words, always a half-smile waiting for whoever's in front of her. Stylists, reporters, escorts, other mentors, even Snow's little spies dressed in silk.
They all melt when she talks.
Like she's sunlight and they're tired of the cold.
It's not like she tries. That's the worst part. She's not putting on a show. She's just... being Maysilee. She's naturally snarky, naturally smart, naturally beautiful, and people drink that shit up like it's the last champagne glass at a feast.
And me?
I'm the drunk one in the corner.
It's not her fault.
She's just playing the part she's supposed to play to keep her family alive.
But damn, it makes me feel so small, like I'm five again, being bullied by her, knowing full well that someone like her would never look twice at someone like me. Not really.
Except she did.
And she does.
And that makes it worse.
Because every time she looks at me in the Capitol, it's like she's begging me to hold on, to not lose myself in the shadows of the place. Like she's still trying to protect me.
But I don't want her protection. Not when I can't protect her in return.
And it's infuriating, because this last year made me realize how I know her better than they do. I've seen her when she's not wearing the polite smile, when her hands shake under the table after a broadcast, when she drinks in the apartment room and says nothing for hours.
She's not okay. I know she's not. But godsdammit, she still gets up and charms the bastards anyway.
I watch her some nights, while we're getting ready for interviews or meetings or banquets.
She lets Effie or Proserpina pin her hair back, dust her eyelids with some shimmer, lace her into one of those cruelly tight dresses, that fucking Nygel keeps making. She lets them do it all. And then she stands there in front of the mirror, perfectly Capitol-ready, and I wonder if she can even see herself anymore.
I can't pretend like she can. I can't flirt with the camera or sip wine with sponsors or smile through another dinner day after day. Because pretending brought me nothing. I play the part the first time around a where that led me? To my family being gone and the love of my life leaving me forever.
So at the capitol I just sit, tight-lipped, biting the inside of my cheek until it bleeds, waiting for someone to say something wrong so I can snap.
And she covers for me.
Every time.
She makes excuses to our team when I don't want to talk. She lies for me on air with Caesar when I look hungover or pissed. She jokes, smooths things over, distracts the audience.
She's saving me. Again and again. And I hate her for it.
Because I'm supposed to be saving her.
So I lash out. I pick fights. I say stupid shit in front of the stylists. I act like I don't care.
But I do.
More than I should.
Probably Maysilee is so good at all of this because she was a pretty perfect merchant her whole life.
Until she wasn't, until our tributes died and we both were alone that she could not handle anymore.
That day, after everything, I was by the entrance, trying to make up something to say to Mags, when Maysilee came out of her room like a wave crashing through silence. Hair a mess. Eyes red. Barefoot.
And then she kissed me.
There was no hesitation. Just heat. Need. Her lips crashing into mine like the world was ending. Her body folded into mine like we'd done it a hundred times, and I didn't stop her. Not at first.
Of course I didn't.
Damn, I wanted her. I wanted her so badly it scared me.
The weight of her in my arms, her legs around my waist, her mouth desperate against mine, it was everything I'd dreamed about and never dared admit. She felt like life. Like breathing after drowning.
And still, I stopped.
Just before I lost myself completely, I pulled away.
I remember her mouth chasing mine again, like she was afraid I'd vanish. And then I said it.
"Wait. No... Maysilee, wait. You're drunk. Stop. Hell, I'm drunk."
She didn't listen. Or maybe she did, but didn't care.
"And so what? Let's call it even."
Her voice broke something in me.
But I knew that if we went through with it—like that, drunk, broken, drowning in grief—we would regret it. Maybe not that night, maybe not even the next morning. But eventually. And I couldn't let that be our beginning. I couldn't take her like that, not when I wanted it to mean something.
So I said no.
"It's a mistake, Maysilee. No."
The way her face froze. The way she shut down. I've seen her like that before—in the arena, the second after she killed the game maker—. Her eyes going still like shutters. Cold. Locked.
She turned away from me and whispered the worst fucking thing I've ever heard from her.
"I should've been the one to die in that arena. It makes no sense that I'm still here anyway."
I felt my lungs collapse. The idea of her not being here, of never hearing her voice again, it paralyzed me. I wanted to reach out. Hold her. Scream at her that she was wrong.
But I didn't know how. Not in that moment.
So I just said, "That's not what I said, Mays."
And she looked at me like she didn't believe me.
Then she said, "Fine. Prove it."
And leaned in again.
I had to pull away. Again.
"I said no, Maysilee. Respect that."
And then I left to my room.
Because if I had stayed one more second, I would've ruined everything.
I left her sitting there. Alone. With a bottle.
I could hear the bath running as I walked out the door.
And I've thought about that moment every night since. Wondered if she still hears it too, the echo of my no, the way it slammed into her chest like a door locking shut.
She thinks I rejected her.
But I didn't.
I was trying to protect something fragile. Something real.
But maybe I broke it instead.
On the train, when she was Telling me that I used her hurt so much, but she was right, it was the truth and I did used her for a while, I did poured my whole heart into her to fix, when she had her own parts to amend. That was selfish and cruel.
And she was right too when she said we needed a break, a break from all that madness that we had to endure while being away from the district.
And I didn't stop her.
Because for once, I understood.
We were both drowning, and holding on to each other wasn't saving either of us. It was dragging us deeper.
So I let her go.
That was three weeks ago, anyway.
Three weeks without her voice, without her scent in my clothes, without the most sarcastic comments I was starting to get use to on a daily basis, and without general communication with people too.
And I've been a fucking disaster ever since.
Burdock says I'm a wreck when he comes visit me once. And he says that Asterid told him that Maysilee is too. That took her three days to eat something again and to get up from bed on her own.
So yeah, we're both hurting. We're just doing it separately now. Quietly. Stubbornly.
And I keep wondering: if I'd told her how I felt before... would it have changed anything?
Would we have been enough for each other?
Maybe not.
————-
The Covey neighborhood was alive tonight, glowing with light and laughter that spilled into the streets like a wave. From outside the old repurposed storage barn, now echoing with music and starlight bulbs dangling above, I could already hear the rhythmic thrum of string and percussion vibrating against the walls. It was Dance night—something they did once every few weeks to blow off steam and forget where we lived.
Inside, the place had been transformed. High rafters swayed gently with the lights, a raised platform held the band, and there was barely room to walk between all the dancing bodies and barrels of homemade liquor.
—Come on, man, we brought you here to cheer you up!—Burdock yelled over the music, punching my shoulder hard enough to rattle bone.
—Hell yes, Haymitch!—Blair added, smirking. —You should be kissing and banging a new girl tonight. Forget the others.—Another punch, other shoulder.
—Oh, fuck you, man.—I muttered, shoving his hand off me.
They called it a boys' night out, but I knew better. It was an intervention. Get Haymitch out of his haunted house, stop him from drinking himself into oblivion alone, and maybe, if they were lucky, he'd even dance a little.
But the second I stepped inside that shed, something twisted in my chest. The color lights flickered across people's faces like ghosts. The lead singer's voice drifted up into a song I knew all too well.
A memory sliced through my brain—Lenore Dove in a similar place, her laugh and her voice singing alongside the tune.
—I don't think coming here was a good idea, guys.—I said, backing toward the exit. —I think I should leave. I don't wanna ruin the night for you.
—Hay, come on, man.—Burdock said, grabbing my arm. —Stay. The night just started. Let's get a drink.
We made our way to the makeshift bar on the left side of the barn. The bartender—a wiry Covey guy with silver rings stacked on each finger—poured us three cold beers. One hour and two more drinks passed before it happened.
A flicker of blonde caught my eye near the barn's entrance. My stomach turned instantly. That couldn't be—
But it was.
Maysilee Donner. In that dress. Tight, black, and paired with matching heels that clicked against the wooden floor. Red lips. Hair down. Her walk like she owned the place. I stared, stunned.
—There's no way! that's both Donner sisters and her whole damn pack.— Blair said beside me, stunned.
She was stunning. Unreal. And so out of place in a night like this. My eyes scanned the group. Merrilee on one arm, Asterid on the other, and behind them, Burton Undersee and of course, Otho fucking Mellark
And suddenly, I felt it. That twist in my gut. Like I'd walked into someone else's memory, not mine.
I couldn't help the wave of disgust rising in my throat. Just looking at them made me feel... wrong. Like I was from a different species. They looked so good together. Polished, clean, shiny in all the ways I wasn't. The way they fit with each other amazed me—like puzzle pieces shaped by the merchant class and privilege. So right. So merchant. It fucking hurt. And Maysilee—hell—she and Otho looked like the perfect pair.
She spotted me. Her eyes held mine across the crowded room. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make my heart stop. And then, like she had rehearsed it, she let go of Merrilee's arm and took Otho's hand instead. A playful smile lit up her face as he whispered something in her ear, and they slipped into the crowd to dance.
Fucking bastard. I hate him.
—Their stuck-up merchant asses have the nerve to come here. Impressive. Who knew?—Hazelle, Blair's new fling of the month, muttered on his other side, her tone sharp with judgment, but I barely heard her.
—Oh shit.—Burdock groaned, slapping his hand to his forehead. —I totally forgot, I invited Asterid last minute. Didn't think she'd bring them all. I'm sorry, Haymitch. Really.
—It's okay, man.—I said without looking at him. —She's your girlfriend.
And as if on cue, Asterid dropped Maysilee's arm and started waving enthusiastically at us from across the room. I could feel her friends' eyes following.
—Excuse me.—Burdock said awkwardly and left our side.
I stared down at my drink, but it didn't help. Maysilee was dancing now, laughing as Otho spun her around, her dress shimmering under the lights. She moved like she didn't know I was watching. Like none of it ever mattered.
—I think she already forgot you, Hay.—Blair said beside me. —You should do the same.
I took a long sip from my beer, then slammed it back on the bar. —You know what? Yeah. Maybe I should.
A brunette across the barn caught my eye. Her gaze lingered longer than it should have. I nodded, and she made her way toward me. We didn't talk. We just started dancing.
And still, all I could feel was how far away Maysilee looked..
—That's what I'm talking about man! She might even outdo your sweet Maysilee.—Blair had whispered with a stupid grin.
I didn't answer. I just, gave the girl my hand, and walked into the crowd. Her hips moved with ease, but my head was still in another part of the room, watching Maysilee's silhouette pressed against Otho's chest.
Her laugh rang out once, and my spine straightened. That was the same laugh she gave me.
The brunette, named Tulla —I learned after a few minutes— tried to kiss me. I let her. But it tasted like nothing.
—————
I wasn't sure how much time had passed—two songs? three?—when the tempo shifted. I clenched my jaw as I saw her hand graze Otho's arm, then settle on his chest for a second too long. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again—delicate, like wind chimes. But then her eyes slid past his shoulder.
Straight to me.
The smile didn't fade. If anything, it widened. Like she was daring me to do something.
So I did.
I grabbed Tulla's waist and pulled her closer, spinning her into a fast-paced turn that made her squeal and wrap her arms around my neck. Her mouth brushed my cheek, and I leaned in like I was going to kiss her. I didn't. Not really. But it was close enough for the whole damn place to wonder.
And when I looked up again, Maysilee was staring.
Not at us. At me.
She didn't look away. Didn't even blink.
Her hand reached up, fingers curling behind Otho's neck, and then—slowly, calculated like everything she did—she leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't messy. It was poised, practiced, perfect. Her lips brushed his like she'd done it a thousand times before. Like it meant something.
Except she never stopped looking at me.
I froze.
Tulla kept dancing, oblivious, laughing at something Hazelle shouted. But I couldn't move. My fists clenched. My throat burned. And across the floor, Maysilee pulled away from Otho with a pleased little smile. He grinned, said something, and she laughed again—that high-pitched, deliberate laugh she always used when she was trying to piss me off.
I looked down, pretending to be distracted, but my stomach twisted into knots. I felt like I was being peeled open.
Tulla turned to me with a smirk. —You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.
I forced a grin. —Just a bad memory.
—Wanna go somewhere quieter?—she asked, sliding her hand into mine.
I didn't answer. Not because I didn't want to. But because just then, The lead singer from the Covey band, barefoot and sweating under the lights, announced the next dance with a mischievous grin.
—Switch partners, people! Let's mix it up tonight!
There was shuffling all around, laughter, whistles. Before I could turn to see who I'd end up with, someone tugged my hand. I turned, and there she was.
Her hand was warm. Familiar in a way I hadn't felt in weeks.
I didn't even see her coming—just felt her fingers wrap around mine as if we were back on the train, back in those quiet nights where it was just us, pretending the world wasn't watching.
I looked up.
Maysilee.
Tight black dress. Red lipstick. Heels like weapons. And that smile—not the soft one I remembered—but a competitive, half-mocking one.
—I'll bet your friend told you she's better than me, huh?—she said as she slid her hand into mine.
Her perfume hit me like a shot to the gut. She smelled like candy and lavender. I swallowed, trying not to let my grip on her hand tighten.
—He said some bullshit.—I muttered. —But you know Blair.
—Oh, I do, and actually thought we started to get along. —she said, raising an eyebrow as we began to move. —Still. You didn't say no.
—I didn't think it mattered.
Maysilee gave a low, humorless laugh.
—Of course not. Nothing matters with us anymore, right?
We kept moving—step, turn, sway. But it felt like we were circling a fire.
I looked down at her.
—Is that why you kissed Mellark?
Her eyes flicked up. —I kissed him because I wanted to.—she said, and then tilted her head, biting back a smirk. —And maybe because you looked like you needed to see it.
I stopped moving for half a second. Just half. But it was enough for her to notice.
—Don't worry.—she whispered. —I enjoy it.
I snapped. —You are a damn liar. Thanks for laughing at my face when he kissed you like he owned you.
—He doesn't own me.—she shot back. —No one does.
Maysilee's grip on my hand tightened. Her nails pressed just enough to feel like a threat.
—You're jealous.—she said, tilting her face toward mine. —That's rich, considering you just did the same thing the moment I arrived here.
My breath caught. She was close now. Too close. Every step we took made her dress brush against me, her hand burn against my neck.
—It's different with Otho he treats me like how people used to treat me before all this madness, he treats me like apart from everything I still Matter...
I froze. —So I don't?
—You treat me like I'm convenient.—she hissed. —Like I was just what was left when she walked out.
My blood boiled. —Are you fucking serious?
—Dead serious.
—You got weeks to forget that and you are still thinking I've been with you all this time because Lenore Dove wasn't around?
She didn't answer.
I could feel her eyes on me. Not just on my face—on my mouth, on my throat, on the scar barely hidden under my collar. She was analyzing. Measuring. Maybe even mourning something she already thought she'd lost.
—I don't get you.—I muttered, barely moving my lips. Her jaw tensed. She didn't look up.
—I was there when you couldn't breathe without shaking.—I said. —I held you through every nightmare, Maysilee. Every single one since we came out of the arena. But yeah, you're right. I was just bored.
Her eyes glistened, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall.
—Oh, I'm so sorry, Haymitch.—I hissed, voice low and tight. —Did I hurt your pride? Poor you. All this time playing the martyr. Were you expecting a medal for staying with the broken girl? You're mad I needed time? I needed air, Haymitch. We've been glued together since the arena. I couldn't breathe.
—Are you serious right now?—I snapped. —You think I stuck around for praise?
She crossed her arms, chin raised like she was ready to go to war.
—You stuck around because there was no one else. Admit it.
—Maysilee stop fucking saying that. I just watched him put his hands on you and I couldn't do a damn thing! Because apparently I don't even know if I'm allowed to want you anymore!
Her jaw tightened.
—So you wanted me, but only when I was miserable. When I was yours to fix. When I couldn't stand on my own. Guess what? I'm never going to get fixed so stop trying.
I stepped forward, chest heaving. —I never wanted to fix you, Maysilee. I just wanted to be there so I'm fucking sorry if now after all of that I'm pissed and couldn't understand what do you want.—I snapped. —I get cut out and he gets to kiss you in front of the whole damn District? Guess it didn't take long for you to find a new boyfriend.
Her hand flew before I could dodge it.
A sharp crack echoed as her palm hit my cheek. People turned. The music didn't stop, but the dancers near us stilled.
She was shaking. —Don't you ever disrespect me like that have you heard me?
The world blurred for a second. My face stung, but I didn't move. I looked her dead in the eye, and before she could turn away I grabbed her wrist.
She gasped.
—Haymitch.
—Come with me.
She resisted for a split second, but I didn't let go. We stormed off the floor, weaving through startled guests and out into the humid night.
We didn't speak until we were behind the barn, down a side path overgrown with wild vines and weeds. No lights. Just stars.
Then I backed her into the wall and kissed her like I'd been starving for months.
Her hands were on my chest in an instant, gripping the fabric, dragging me closer, fingers trembling with fury or need, I couldn't tell. Didn't care.
She bit my lip. I kissed her harder.
But then she shoved at my chest,not enough to break away, just enough to remind me she could.
—What the hell are we doing?—she snapped, breathing hard.
—Isn't it obvious?
—This doesn't fix anything, Haymitch!
I didn't move. My hands were still on her waist, hers curled at my shirt like she couldn't decide if she wanted to rip it off or push me off the edge of the barn.
—This is the exact reason why I decided we needed space in the first place.—she spat, voice trembling. —Not everything gets fixed with a fucking kiss.
—Maybe not.—I muttered, jaw clenched. She let out a bitter laugh. —But I know I don't want to stop.
—Of course you don't. It's easier, right? Just kissing me instead of talking to me. Instead of saying what you really feel.
—You want honesty? —I snapped. —Fine. Maysilee Donner, I care about you, I fucking desire you, and each day I'm not with or near you I'm a fucking mess.
She stared at me, shaking, like she couldn't decide if she wanted to slap me again or kiss me.
—I hate you sometimes,—she whispered, voice cracking. —I hate how you always know exactly what to say to pull me back in. Like you're holding some part of me hostage.
I didn't look away. —Yeah. I hate you too.
Our breaths were uneven. We stood there in the dark, face to face, hurting and helpless and still so tangled up in each other we couldn't pull free.
Then her voice broke, barely audible:
—I hate even more that I still want you.
I swallowed hard.
—I never stopped.
She looked at me then—really looked—and something cracked open in both of us.
Her fingers twisted in the collar of my shirt. —Fuck our time off.
I blinked.
She pulled me down to her, her mouth at my ear. —just kiss me.
And I did.
Notes:
Okay new sotr cast just dropped how are we feeling? I actually can’t believe it I know that movie is going to wreck me 😭
AAAAAAANDDD this is a double chapter, I’ll post Maysilee’s pov in a second, consider it a gift because I’m entering finals season again and probably won’t be able to update in a while 🥲
Anyways let me know what you think about this one!!
Chapter 13: Pieces We Share.
Notes:
Mess and drama cause I’m dramatic!
Back to the usual programming, this is from Maysilee’s pov, xoxo
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I didn't get out of bed for days.
My mother tried everything, soft-voiced pleas, leaving my favorite cup of coffee filled with it by the door, cracking open the window to let in the scent of new flowers she planted at my garden. Merrilee stopped asking questions after the third morning I didn't answer her knock. I think even she understood something had broken inside me. Something I couldn't name, much less fix.
I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep either, not really. I drifted in and out of feverish half-dreams, my sheets damp with sweat, my skin feeling too tight over my bones. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw everything. Roy. Hatya.
Haymitch.
The weight of what we were and what we weren't and what we could never be.
I hated myself for wanting more than he could give.
I hated him for giving me just enough to hope.
By the fifth day, I managed to shower. Just standing under the water made me cry—deep, silent sobs I couldn't explain, couldn't stop. I scrubbed my skin until it burned, like maybe I could wash off whatever it was I'd done wrong.
Plutarch called once. Sent flowers even. When I picked up he said that new clothes and necklaces would make me feel better, so he sent some too, I think he was trying to be kind, but I resented him too. For suggesting that marriage was some kind of shield. For making me feel like I had to choose between dignity and survival.
And then there was Otho.
He came to bring fresh bread he said, but of course he stayed longer once he saw me.
He lingered in the kitchen, offered to help mother bring in firewood, asked if we needed anything from the market. Always polite. Always kind. Always just close enough to remind me he was there, but never far enough to give me the space I needed.
I didn't have the strength to push him away, not really.
I didn't want anything from him, but I also didn't want to be alone. And he was... simple. Solid. Quiet in ways that didn't demand anything from me. I didn't know if it was comfort or cowardice, but I let him stay.
Some afternoons, I'd sit at the table wrapped in a wool shawl while he talked about the bakery. New ovens. His brother's clumsy mistakes with sugar. How early he had to wake up to prepare the first batch of rye bread. I barely spoke. He didn't seem to mind. My silence didn't unsettle him. If anything, I think he welcomed it. Like he understood that presence could be its own kind of offering.
One morning, he showed up with flour on his sleeves and the smell of yeast clinging to his jacket.
—Come with me.—he said gently. —Just for a little while. I want to show you something.
I hesitated, one hand still on the doorknob. My hair was a mess, my face pale, and I hadn't worn real shoes in over a week. But he didn't flinch. He just waited.
So I went.
The bakery was warm, almost too warm. It smelled like cinnamon and ash and melted butter. He led me behind the counter, into the back room, where trays of cooling bread lined the wooden shelves. I remembered this room from when we were younger. We used to steal muffins when his mother wasn't looking.
Now it felt smaller. Quieter.
—I've been working on something.—he said, and gestured to the counter.
There was a tray of little biscuits—some cracked, some slightly burned, but most of them puffed and soft and still steaming. "Cheese buns," he explained, lifting one to show me. —Been trying to convince my dad to sell them. He says no one in Twelve wants anything new, but I figured... maybe if you liked them...
He trailed off and shrugged.
I took one, mostly out of politeness. It was warm in my hands. When I bit into it, it was soft and rich, the cheese still slightly molten inside. It tasted like something that came from care. Like something that wasn't rushed.
—They're really good, Otho.—I said, smiling.
His face lit up. Not in a triumphant way. In a gentle, earnest kind of way. —Yeah?
I nodded.
—You should sell them. People will like them.
He grinned and leaned back against the counter, wiping his hands on his apron.
—I keep thinking if I bake enough, maybe I'll get out of my head a bit. You know? Start over or something.
I didn't answer.
Start over. The words settled in my chest like dust.
—You've always been good at starting over.—he added, quieter this time. —Even when everything's burning. You come out the other side somehow.
I turned my gaze to the tray. I didn't know what to do with his kindness. It didn't feel fake. But it felt misplaced. Like he was offering a softness I hadn't earned.
Then he chuckled softly to himself.
—Do you remember when we were eleven? That time we built a treehouse in the ashwood grove behind my house?
I blinked. I hadn't thought of that in years.
—You fell halfway through the roof.—he said, the smile in his voice faint. —Got the wind knocked out of you. Scared the hell out of me. I thought you were dead.
I gave the smallest of smiles. —You cried.
—I sobbed.—he admitted, not embarrassed in the slightest. —And when you finally sat up, you said—what was it?—He paused, as if searching for the memory. —You said, 'Well. Now we know pine branches can't hold a revolution.'
A laugh escaped me, hoarse and unexpected.
—That treehouse was a death trap.
—Yeah, but you made us rebuild it.—he said. —You showed up the next day with a hammer and your mom's sewing scissors, like that was all we needed to fix everything. And we did. We spent the whole summer in that crooked little box with a leaky roof.
My throat tightened. That summer had felt like freedom, back then. Before the Reaping. Before everything that came after.
—You've always done that.—he said again. —Tried to fix the broken things.
I didn't answer.
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But back then I wasn't broken, not like this. Back then the worst thing that could happen was a fall from a tree and a bruised rib. Now I carried ghosts in my chest. I carried names I couldn't forget and blood that wouldn't wash off.
I turned back to the tray and picked up another biscuit, mostly so I wouldn't have to speak.
—I'm not sure I'm still that person.—I said after a long moment.
—Well, I believe that's a good thing. —I look at him in surprise—People change. They break in places you can't see. But that doesn't mean they're gone.
I didn't respond.
—I know you don't feel like yourself.—he continued, voice calm. —Maybe you're not. Maybe you never will be again, not exactly. But the parts of you that matter to the people who love you? They're still here.
He hesitated, then added, —Even now, sitting across from me with your armor on.
I glanced up at him, meeting his eyes.
—You're not easy.—he said, a slight smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. —But you never were, and thats one of the things I like about you.
I didn't know what to do with that. With the quiet way he still saw me. Still offered something when I wasn't sure I had anything left to give.
So I just nodded once and went back to the biscuit in my hand, as if that small motion could shield me from everything his words had cracked open.
After a pause, my voice came out softer than I expected.
—Thank you.— I said.
—Always.— He handed me another scone with that quiet, patient presence that never asked too much.
When he walked me home, he didn't try to hold my hand. He didn't ask to come inside. He just said, "I'm glad you came," and waited until I was safely inside.
I didn't know what he wanted from me.
By the second week, I was functioning again—at least on the outside. I could braid Merrilee's hair and help fold the laundry. I took long walks with Asterid through the outer edge of town, even though my chest still felt too tight. I started reading again. I even wrote a letter to Mags I never sent.
But I still hadn't seen him.
Not even once.
And maybe that's why I agreed to go to the dance.
I needed something to look forward to. Something stupid and loud and human. Asterid insisted we dress up, so we did. She said that finally the time had come—Burdock had invited her to something that didn't involve hiding from her parents, not in the daylight at least. And she was afraid to go alone and be the only merchant there. So Merrilee and I agreed to join her, it wasn't like we weren't there before so.
We got ready at my house in the Victor's Village, where everything was too clean and too quiet most of the time. But that afternoon, it was filled with the sound of girls talking over each other, laughter echoing down the hallway, and the warm scent of hot curlers and powder. It almost felt like before. Before everything started to rot inside of me.
We were us again.
I opened the chest at the foot of my bed, the one with all the Capitol clothes I swore I'd never touch again. I went through the hangers, looking for anything remotely wearable that didn't scream property of Snow, and found a sleek black dress. Tight, but not vulgar. Short, but not indecent. It actually fit me well—perhaps because Effie had insisted on measuring me every day I was at the Capitol, and even when I told her to stop, she did it anyway. Maybe she wanted me to be perfectly dressed for all the wrong occasions.
I tossed two more dresses on the bed for the others—one blush pink with embroidered stars for Merrilee, and one deep green with a sheer neckline for Asterid. Both Capitol-made. Both too pretty for District 12.
—Are you sure?—Merrilee asked as she held the pink one up to her chest.
—They were collecting dust.—I said, shrugging. —Might as well put them to use.
While they changed and took turns with the mirror, I sat on the floor, lining my eyes in gold. Asterid braided part of her hair and twisted it into a crown, while Merrilee tried on three different pairs of shoes before settling on a pair of black heels she claimed made her look like a real Capitol girl. I slipped into my dress, the fabric whispering against my skin like water. I looked at myself in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the girl staring back. She looked lighter. Someone unscarred.
—I don't really feel like going.—I admitted while brushing a piece of glitter off my collarbone. —I still feel... off.
—Oh, come on—Asterid whined, fluffing her hair. —You'll have fun. We all need a night to have fun.
—Yeah—Merrilee added. —One night won't kill us. And anyway, we promised we'd all go together.
I sighed, fixing a clasp on my dress.
—Okay, fine. But don't forget we're supposed to be back early. We have to be home in time for breakfast with Mom and Dad.
Merrilee rolled her eyes.
—Ugh, you and your breakfast schedule.
—I'm serious—I said, pointing at her. —They've been helping me get through this. It's... it's been hard. And they've been forcing me to sit at the table and eat like a person every morning, no matter how late I stayed up or how much I wanted to disappear.
Truth was, that breakfast ritual had become a lifeline. Something grounding. Something that didn't let me slip through the cracks entirely. My parents knew I wasn't okay. They didn't ask for explanations, but they made room for me, gently and without condition. And they made sure Merrilee and I sat down at that table every single morning, either I'll go to the shop or they'll come her at my house.
—Oh my! don't be such a buzzkill.—Merrilee groaned. —It's one night. We'll be back before the sun rises. Promise.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
—That must be the boys!—Asterid squealed, running to check her reflection one last time.
I turned sharply. —What?
Asterid gave me a grin that was far too innocent to be real. —I invited someone you might like...
—And I invited Burton—Merrilee added, slipping on her earrings. —Neither of us is letting you be miserable tonight. Not on our watch.
I blinked at both of them. —You what?
—None of us are leaving that party without a dance and at least a little bit of fun,—Asterid declared, tossing me my jacket. —Now smile and let Otho compliment your eyeliner or whatever it is boys from the bakery do when they're in love.
—He's not in love. —I said but she didn't hear me.
Asterid was already halfway down the hall, greeting them with a singsong —Come in!
like this wasn't the most bizarre setup I'd ever agreed to.
Otho stepped inside first. He was wearing a clean, dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up and some kind of cologne that tried a little too hard. Burton followed behind, flashing his perfect smile and holding a tiny paper-wrapped bouquet that I was sure had come from his family's garden. Merrilee's eyes lit up at the sight of him.
I stayed at the edge of the room, arms crossed, trying not to visibly flinch.
—Hi, Maysie.—Otho said.
I gave a quick nod. —Hi.
He was trying to look casual, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn't slightly overdressed and clearly rehearsed. Like he hadn't practiced this exact moment in his head. I could tell he was nervous, maybe even hopeful. And that only made me more tired.
—Wow.—Burton said, turning to Merrilee. —You look amazing.
Merrilee giggled, brushing her hair over her shoulder as if she hadn't spent the last hour perfecting it. —Thanks. So do you.
Asterid gave Otho a little push toward me. —She even let me do her makeup—she said, like I was a art piece she'd restored.
Otho smiled. —You look great.
—Thanks—I muttered, already regretting every decision that led to this.
But we were all dressed now. Painted and polished and paired. There was no turning back.
—————
The heat inside hit me first. A wave of perfume, sweat, and sugar—sweet cider and frosted buns and too many bodies pressed into too small a space. And I was starting to think that maybe coming here was a good idea that it would help me to get distract.
Until I saw him.
Haymitch.
Near the bar, surrounded by his usual crowd—Burdock, Blair, someone I didn't know. A bottle in his hand. His posture relaxed, casual. But the moment our eyes locked across the barn, I felt it. That invisible thread between us, stretched tight and trembling.
He looked exactly the same. And nothing like I remembered.
My fingers clenched tighter around Asterid's arm, but only for a second, because she went to meet Burdock. I slipped my hand into Otho's instead. He glanced down, surprised, but smiled. Whispered something about the lighting making my eyes look brighter.
I didn't hear him.
I saw Haymitch.
And the way he stared at our joined hands like they'd betrayed him.
So I laughed. Loud enough to carry. Let Otho guide me onto the floor, where the lights were warmer and the music louder. I let him spin me. Let the air lift the hem of my dress. Let myself smile like nothing was wrong.
Even though I could feel his gaze like a burn on my skin.
—He's watching you.—Merrilee murmured behind me as she passed.
I knew. That was the point.
I leaned into Otho's chest, let my hand settle against his sternum. I felt him exhale against my temple. Heard him say something soft I didn't quite catch. And still, I glanced past his shoulder.
Haymitch was dancing. With someone else. A girl in green, brunette, tall, pretty. Her laugh too bright. Her hand on his chest.
It felt like being slapped.
I didn't blink. I smiled instead.
And then I did something I hadn't planned.
I kissed Otho.
Just once. Just soft. Just long enough for Haymitch to see. For the air between us to snap.
Otho shifted slightly beside me, voice low.
—Oh. I see… Haymitch is here.
—Good,—I murmured, my tone too light, my smile too easy.
—Let him.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. And I could feel the quiet tighten around us.
Then he spoke, gaze fixed ahead.
—What’s the deal between the two of you anyway?
I blinked.
—What?
He turned to me now, voice still quiet. Not angry. Just honest.
—I mean… how come you’re Capitol sweethearts up there, but the second you’re back in the District, it’s like you don’t even know each other?
My lips parted, but I didn’t have an answer.
He tilted his head slightly.
—Is that what this is?
My eyes flicked back to him. His jaw was tight. Voice calm, too calm.
—What do you mean?
—Do you even like me like that, Maysie? Or am I just convenient for the moment?
I looked up at him. There was no accusation in his tone. No bitterness. Just disappointment. Like he already knew the answer and was asking anyway.
I sighed.
—You’re one of my best friends, Otho.
He nodded once, slow. Like that hurt more than if I’d said no.
I leaned in. Needed something—anything. Because I was angry. And tired. And confused. And jealous. And hurt.
And Haymitch had no right to look at me like he was the wounded one.
I kissed Otho harder this time. When we finally pulled apart, I murmured—And you’re a good kisser.
He gave a short laugh, but it didn’t carry far.
—That’s not what I asked.
I looked back toward Haymitch again. His body was moving, dancing, but his eyes hadn't left me. And then I met Otho’s eyes.
—What’s going on with Haymitch is… complicated. I’m still trying to figure it out.—My voice cracked slightly, and I hated that.—That’s all I have to offer right now.
Otho exhaled slowly.
—Wasn’t the life of a Victor supposed to be easy?
I let out a bitter little laugh.
—You have no idea.
Otho tilted his head, as if weighing whether to tell me what he was thinking—I hope he's worth it.
I looked at him again, and completely ignoring what he said.—Like I said… it’s all I can offer. Take it or leave it.
But he didn’t get a chance to answer.
The singer laughed into the mic, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
—Switch partners, people! Let’s mix it up tonight!
The music shifted. The crowd moved. Laughing, spinning, scattering.
In the shuffle, I lost sight of Otho.
And then—
We were like magnets.
I just felt Haymitch’s hand grab mine—hot, certain, familiar.
Like we hadn’t spent weeks pretending we didn’t miss this.
I looked up, smiled like it didn't matter. Like my heart hadn't already launched itself against my ribs.
—I'll bet your friend told you she's better than me, huh?—I said, sliding my fingers into his just to remind him how good we used to fit.
He muttered something bitter. Blair's name. I didn't care.
I just danced.
I wanted to make him feel it. All of it. The jealousy. The doubt. The ache. Because he'd made me feel small too many times lately, like an afterthought. Like I was just what was left after Lenore Dove.
—You didn't say no.—I snapped.
He flinched. Then asked about Otho.
I didn't lie.
—I kissed him because I wanted to.—I said. —And maybe because you needed to see it.
That shut him up. For a second.
We kept dancing, but our words didn't. Every step was a strike, every glance another wound. He said I was convenient. I said he was punishing me for needing space. We threw everything at each other—all the things we'd held back.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I slapped him.
Not out of spite. Out of desperation.
—Don't you ever disrespect me like that.—I hissed, voice shaking.
He didn't flinch. Just grabbed my wrist, steady, like he still knew how to handle me.
—Come with me.—he said.
I pulled back, but his grip was steady. Not rough. Not cruel. Just... urgent. Like if he let go, something bigger would break.
We stormed off the dance floor, slipping past already drunk people and ducking out the side door into the thick night air. We didn't stop until we were behind the barn, where the music was muffled and the stars blazed overhead like they might fall at any second.
Then his hands were on me.
His lips crashed into mine like punishment and apology all at once. I gasped, but I didn't pull away. I couldn't.
Because I wanted this. I needed it. Even if it was stupid. Even if it hurt later. Even if I was just proving him right.
My fingers curled in his shirt, tugging him closer. I felt his breath on my cheek, tasted whiskey and regret. His hands found my face, then my hips, then my back. We kissed like we hadn't touched in forever. Maybe because we hadn't. Not like this. Not real.
His mouth was hot, demanding. My hands went to his chest, fists gripping his shirt. Part of me wanted to shove him. Part of me wanted to collapse into him and never come up for air.
I bit his lip.
He kissed me harder.
When we broke apart, I was gasping. My heart thundered in my ears.
He kissed me back like it was the only truth left.
But when I pushed him—just enough to breathe again—I knew it wasn't over.
—This doesn't fix anything, Haymitch.
His hands didn't move. Mine curled in his shirt, half-torn between pulling him closer and shoving him off me.
—This is why we needed space.—I said. —You think a kiss erases everything.
His reply was a growl. A confession. A plea.
And somehow, in the mess of it, I broke.
—I hate how you always pull me back in.—I whispered. —Like you're holding something inside me hostage.
—I hate you too.—he said. Quiet. Honest.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't stop trembling.
—I hate even more that I still want you.
He swallowed.
—I never stopped.
And that was it.
I looked at him, really looked. The sweat on his brow. The ache in his eyes. The fear.
We were angry. We were reckless.
I didn't care.
I leaned in, close enough that my lips brushed his again.
—Fuck our time off. — I brought him closer and then my mouth was at his ear. —Just kiss me.
We kissed like we were trying to erase the past year. As if our mouths could undo the hurt and the silence and every word we never said.
His hands moved roughly, sliding under the fabric of my backless dress, pressing against bare skin like he was desperate to feel something real. Something true.
I arched into him, not out of romance, not because I believed in some fairytale ending—
but because I missed him.
Because I hated him.
Because I wanted him.
Because I cared for him, and it was tearing me apart.
He pulled away just long enough to breathe, to look at me. His eyes were glassy, wild, unreadable in the half-light.
—You drive me insane—he said.
—Good—I whispered, tugging his face back to mine.
We stumbled against the alley wall, cold brick digging into my spine. His hands were at my hips, then sliding down, then lifting me slightly as my legs wrapped around him. I felt the weight of his body press into mine, anchoring me to something solid in a world that spun too fast.
His kisses moved from my lips to my jaw, down my neck. I held on like I was afraid he'd disappear. Or maybe like I was afraid I would.
—Tell me this isn't just anger—he said into my skin, voice breaking. —Tell me this is real.
I looked at him, barely able to see through the blur of everything we were.
—If it wasn't real—I said, —it wouldn't hurt this much.
He kissed me again. Slower this time. Less fury, more ache. His lips moved over mine with something that felt closer to grief than desire, but it still made my knees weaken and my hands reach for the back of his neck, drawing him closer, anchoring myself to him like I always did in the worst moments.
His hand cupped my jaw, thumb stroking the corner of my mouth as he breathed me in. There was something trembling in the way he held me, like if he let go, the night would take me away.
—Can I?—he asked, voice low and almost reverent, as he let one hand slide down the curve of my waist, resting gently against my lower belly. He didn't move further, just waited, looking into me like he was asking something far bigger than just permission.
I nodded.
But before he moved, I whispered —I've never done anything before... not like this.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, low and shaky, barely louder than the wind rustling the leaves around us. I hated how small I sounded. How young. How exposed.
But it was true.
His eyes softened, his fingers stilled.
And then he leaned in, his voice warm against the shell of my ear.
—Then we don't have to—he said, brushing a kiss to my temple. —We can stop here.
It wasn't pity in his tone. It wasn't dismissal. It was... gentle. Honest. A kind of softness I didn't know he still had in him after all these months, all this grief. And hearing it made something inside me break open.
—I want to,—I murmured, with my hands still clinging to his jacket. and the truth of it surprised even me. —I just... don't know how.
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. He wasn't grinning. He wasn't mocking me. He looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. Like I wasn't some girl making a mistake behind the bakery alley, but someone he saw.
—There are other ways to feel close. Other ways to let go of the noise. Let me take care of you, that's all.
I nodded, more sure this time. —Okay, you can, then.
My throat was tight, but not from fear. From something else, something warm and aching and ready.
His hand dipped lower, under the waistband of my skirt. I felt my breath hitch, but he moved with patience, his fingertips ghosting across my skin in a way that made me shiver. He was gentle, impossibly so, like I was something he didn't want to break. He kissed me again, and while his mouth was on mine, his fingers moved , slow at first, exploratory, coaxing. I didn't know my body could respond that way, not from so little. But with him, even the smallest touch felt electric, like it lit something in me I hadn't known was waiting.
He murmured against my lips, —That's it. Just breathe.
I let out a soft gasp as he found the spot that made my legs tremble. He held me steady with one arm around my waist, keeping me close, giving me something solid to fall against while everything else inside me loosened. My hands flew to his shoulders, holding on.
I didn't know it could feel like this.
Like falling and being caught all at once.
My hips moved on instinct, like my body had just been waiting for permission. Haymitch kissed my neck, murmuring soft things I couldn't quite hear but didn't need to. They weren't for understanding. They were for feeling. And I felt all of it—the pulse building low in my belly, the tremble in my thighs, the way I was unraveling piece by piece.
He pressed his forehead to mine as his fingers circled, coaxing the kind of pleasure that made me dizzy. —You're okay—he said, voice rough. —I've got you.
And he did. Completely.
His mouth stayed close, brushing against my cheek, my jaw, my ear. He didn't rush. He didn't demand. He just gave —and for the first time in so long, I let myself take.
I wanted to say something. Tell him that I'd hated him just hours ago. That I still wasn't sure if he loved me or just needed to feel again.
But then the wave crested—sharp, consuming, devastating—and I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. I came apart in his arms, mouth open in a gasp I couldn't silence. My body trembled against his, and for a terrifying, beautiful moment, I let go of everything.
And he never looked away.
When it was over, I buried my face in his shoulder, too overwhelmed to move, too dazed to care about anything but the way his hand stroked my back in slow, grounding circles.
—I've got you.—he whispered again.
And I believed him.
But that scared me more than anything.
Because I didn't want to need anyone.
Not him.
Not anymore.
I didn't even realize I was crying until he kissed the tears off my cheeks.
—Hey,—he said softly. —You're not just anyone to me. You know that, right?
I nodded, my breath catching again, not from his touch now, but from the way he was looking at me. Like I mattered. Like I'd never been just anyone.
—Thanks for... that—I whispered, smoothing the skirt of my dress down, trying to regain a sense of gravity while my heart still floated somewhere above us.—But let's just… talk another time please. It's getting late and I have to find Merrilee. We promised Mom and Dad we'd have breakfast with them.—I forced a small laugh. —We weren't supposed to be out this long anyway... and here I am.
He didn't say anything at first, just nodded slowly, his lips pressing together. I could tell he wanted to say more, maybe ask what it meant, maybe tell me what it meant to him. But instead, he just gave me a kiss on my forehead then helped me up, brushing the dust from my back in silence.
We walked back toward the music. The sky was lightening behind the ridge, faint pink bleeding into the edges of the dark horizon. The barn—or rather the massive tin-roofed shed—was still thumping with the final beats of celebration, the crowd smaller now, but still moving like waves in the sea of leftover moonlight and lanterns.
Inside, Merrilee was wrapped up in Burton's arms, their lips locked, swaying slowly even though the music had picked up again. I reached out and touched her shoulder gently.
—Merry—I said softly, —we have to go.
She blinked at me in surprise, then remembered, nodding and whispering something to Burton before leaning into my side.
Asterid was a few feet away, giggling against Burdock's chest as he whispered something in her ear. I tapped her arm.
—Come on—I said.—Time to go.
She sighed but smiled and gave Burdock a kiss goodbye before grabbing her coat.
I was about to look around for Haymitch—just for a second, just to see if he was still behind me—when I felt a hand curl around my waist.
—Where were you?—Otho's voice was low, close to my ear. —I looked everywhere for you. I was worried.
I stiffened slightly, composing my voice before I turned.
—I'm fine,—I said. —Just... tired. I wasn't feeling well, so I went to the bathroom to breathe a little. I wanted to go home.
—The bathroom?—he repeated, his brow furrowing. —I went there. I didn't see you.
—Otho...—I said gently, but firmly. —I really just want to go home.
There was a pause. His hand didn't move. Then it tightened just slightly around my waist, not enough to hurt, but enough to say he noticed my tone.
—Alright,—he murmured, and then placed a kiss on my temple. —Let's go.
We stepped outside, the five of us, walking into the dawn toward the merchant side of town. Our heels echoed against the street as the sky slowly turned golden.
I felt it before I saw it—Haymitch's eyes on me. I turned just enough to catch him watching us from the barn door, half-shadowed, arms crossed, unreadable.
Our eyes met. Mine tried to say nothing. His said too much.
And then, just before I looked away, I saw his lips move.
A single word I could only imagine.
Why?
——————
The walk home was quiet.
Our heels tapped against the still-sleeping streets of Twelve, the rhythm broken only by the distant chirp of birds waking with the dawn. The sky was all purple and gold. The air too cold for august. No one spoke much.
I stayed a step behind them all, my thoughts loud enough to fill the silence. Otho walked beside me. He didn’t try to touch me again. Not until we reached the gates.
Merrilee and Asterid were the first to slip inside. Burton mumbled something about getting back to town before his father noticed he was gone. They waved goodnight—or good morning, maybe—and disappeared through the front doors of my house, where they’d crash for a few hours before going to the town again, part of our newly formed girls night.
I was about to follow them when I felt it—Otho’s hand, warm and certain, wrap around mine.
—Wait.
I turned.
He looked different in the morning light. More real. Less sure.
—I wanted to say something—he said.
I nodded, unsure what to brace for.
—I thought about what you said—he continued, eyes searching mine. —About this. About offering whatever it is you have left. And I just…—He hesitated.—I want to take it. Whatever it is. Whatever version of you that still exists after all this…I want it.
Fuck me.
He stepped closer, voice quiet now, almost hesitant. —I know it’s not everything. I know you’re not whole. But neither am I.
And then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed me.
I didn’t respond. Not at first.
His lips were gentle, patient. He didn’t try to pull me in or deepen it. Just waited. Like he was offering something without asking for anything back.
So I kissed him.
Softly.
Carefully.
A thank you. A maybe.
He pulled back first, just enough to speak.
—Think about it—he whispered. —You don’t have to give me an answer. I already accepted.
Then he turned, walking back down the path alone.
And I stood there a moment longer, the sky growing lighter above me, wondering how something could feel both honest and wrong at the same time.
I heard the door opened, and my twin sister called me to get inside.—It’s cold Maysie, what are you doing, come in!
So I went in, and head to the living room. Where Asterid was already sitting in the couch with a cup of coffee.
—About earlier… you were gone forever,—Asterid said, side-eying me with a grin. —Bathroom, my ass.
—Do I get involved with your business like that Miss I’m not going to sleep at all? —I said.
—Hey it’s cold, I just wanted something warm! —she defended herself. —Where were you?
—Outside.
—With who?
—Alone! I was getting some air! —I said crossing my arms and sitting on the couch next to her.
—Bullshit! —she said, throwing a pillow at me— That girl Haymitch was with got so pissed because she couldn’t find him, and Burdock whispered to me that he saw you both leaving!
Merrilee, who just came back from the kitchen with a glass of wather, didn't even pretend to hide her smirk. —Please tell me you didn't sneak off with Haymitch Abernathy behind the barn. Tell me that did not just happen.
I groaned, pulling my coat tighter around me. —Can we not do this?
But they weren't having it.
—Maysilee Donner!—Merrilee gasped, mock-offended. —You little liar!
—I didn't lie,—I muttered. —I just... needed air. And he was there. That's all.
—Oh, I bet he was,—Asterid said under her breath, and they both burst out laughing.
—Okay, fine. It wasn't just air. But can you both just be serious for one second?
That shut them up.
—Alright,—Merrilee said gently. —What happened?
I took a breath, cheeks already flushing.
—I've never... I mean... we didn't do everything. Just... enough. His hands and mine and...
—I knew it,—Asterid whispered, eyes wide. —You're glowing. Like literally glowing. It's disgusting.
I rolled my eyes. —Shut up. I'm serious. I don't know anything about... any of it. And you two are the only people I can ask. Anyways, and I was thinking in telling you, but not so quickly and in an intervention!
They both went quiet, surprised, I think, at how nervous I sounded.
—I thought we were going to have sex. Like... all the way. I thought that was where it was heading.—I said quietly, playing with a thread on my sleeve.
Asterid stopped mid-sip of coffee. Merrilee blinked. There was no judgment in their faces. Just a silence that encouraged me to go on.
—I told him... that I'd never done anything. And he just... looked at me, really looked. And then he said— I paused, the words still echoing in my chest. —He said there are other ways to be together without being together.—I paused trying to find the words.— I didn't know what he meant but then... he touched me. With… fuck this I really embarrassing… — I stopped myself, flushed, looking down.— with his fingers. Carefully. Like he wanted to teach me how to breathe again. And I…
—And you liked it,—Asterid finished for me, with a softness I didn't expect.
I nodded. —I did. I really did. It was... overwhelming. And good. And kind. And it made me feel like maybe he... sees me. But…
I paused again, fidgeting.
—I kept thinking... what if he's done all this before? What if he already had all his first times with Lenore Dove? What if she already knows every part of him, and I'm just... late?
—Maysilee,—Merrilee said gently, sitting next to me and grabbing my hand. —You're not late. You're just you.
—But what if I'm not enough?—I whispered, the question coming out before I could catch it. —What if I'm just a temporary distraction from whatever he really wants?
They both looked at me like I'd just said the saddest thing they'd heard.
—I've never done anything like that before,—I went on. —And he has. I could tell. He was... confident. Gentle, but like he knew exactly how far to go. Like he'd done it before. Maybe with her. Probably with her. Obviously with her.
I blinked hard, trying to keep my voice steady.
—I guess I just thought your first time with someone should be... shared. Like a step you take together. Not something he already crossed without you.
—That's a real fear,—Asterid said softly. —But listen. It's not about who did what first. It's about who you choose to do it with now. And it sounds like he chose to be gentle with you. To wait. That means something.
Merrilee added, —And maybe he does have more experience. So what? That doesn't make him more valuable. It doesn't make you less. The only thing that matters is how he treats you, not who he's been with before.
I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my coat.
—I just don't want to be a placeholder.
—You're not,—Asterid said firmly. —Haymitch Abernathy may be many things, but blind isn't one of them. If he's with you, it's because he wants to be. Not because you're second to someone else.
—And honestly,—Merrilee said, leaning back on her elbows, —if the guy didn't get hard from you touching him, then I'd worry.
I blinked, startled. —Wait, what does that even mean?
Both of them stared at me for a second, then Merrilee let out a small laugh. —Oh, sweetheart. You really are new at this.
—Seriously, I don't get it,—I insisted, now more curious than embarrassed. —How am I supposed to know what's... normal?
Merrilee straight up, brushing hair behind her ear. —Okay. So. When a guy's into it—like, really into it—his body reacts. He gets, you know, hard.
—Like... his?
—Yes,—Merrilee cut in, grinning. —His thing, Maysilee. His dick. You can say it.
I flushed. —Okay! Okay. His... dick. Got it.
—So when you were kissing or touching or whatever, did you feel that? Like, through his pants maybe?
I pressed my lips together, thinking back. —I... think so? I mean, yeah. He shifted a little, kind of pressed into me. I didn't know if it was on purpose.
Asterid laughed. —Trust me, it was on purpose.
—It's a good sign,—Merrilee said, softer now. —It means he wants you. That he's attracted to you. That he's not just saying nice things or being polite.
—I guess I thought maybe he was holding back. Because of me.
—He probably was holding back,—Asterid said. —Out of respect. Because he knows it's new for you. That's not a bad thing, Maysie. That's rare. Treasure that.
—I just don't want to be clueless,—I muttered.
—You are clueless,—Merrilee said without cruelty. —But that's fine. That's normal. You're learning.
Asterid nudged my knee. —And you've got us. We'll tell you everything. Even the weird stuff.
—Especially the weird stuff,—Merrilee added with a smirk.
I smiled a little, still biting at my thumbnail.
—And there’s Otho.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Both Merrilee and Asterid turned to look at me, their expressions shifting immediately.
—Oh boy,—Asterid muttered. —What now?
I sighed, dragging my hands down my face. —It’s just… complicated.
—Everything is complicated with you lately,—Merrilee said, but not unkindly. —Start from the top.
I hesitated, then sat back against the couch cushions, pulling my knees up to my chest.
—I kissed him. Before Haymitch. During the dance. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. I just… saw Haymitch with that girl and I was so mad and hurt and I…
—Otho was right there,—Asterid finished.
I nodded. —Yeah. And then we talked. Sort of. He figured it out right away. That I was trying to get Haymitch’s attention. He asked me if I even liked him like that. I didn’t lie. I told him he was one of my best friends.
Merrilee winced slightly. —Ouch.
—It wasn’t meant to hurt. But then I kissed him again. Harder. Because I was spiraling and Haymitch had no right to be looking at me like I was the one who’d betrayed him.
Asterid raised an eyebrow. —Okay, well, that’s a mess, but continue.
—And then outside, after everything… after Haymitch… Otho found me. He walked me home. He told me he wanted to take what I offered. That even if it’s not perfect, he wants it. Me.
There was a pause.
—I didn’t know what to say. He kissed me. I didn’t kiss back at first. But then I did. Just… enough. I don’t even know why.
Merrilee tilted her head. —Do you think you like him?
—I do. But not like that. I think. I mean, I care about him. But not in the way he probably wants me to. Not in the way I feel when I look at Haymitch.
—So why kiss him back?—Asterid asked, not accusing, just trying to understand.
—I don’t know. Because I didn’t want to hurt him. Because I didn’t want to be alone. Because he was there, and I was tired, and maybe some selfish part of me liked the idea that someone wanted me, even if it wasn’t the right person.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Merrilee leaned forward. —Okay, here’s the thing. You’re allowed to not know. You’re allowed to be confused. You’re allowed to kiss the wrong boy and regret it a little. That doesn’t make you a bad person.
—But it’s not fair to him,—I whispered. —He said he’s already accepted. Whatever I have to give, he wants it. And I… I don’t know if I can give him anything real.
—Then don’t pretend you can,—Asterid said, soft but steady. —You don’t owe anyone a relationship just because they were kind to you. If he really cares about you, he’ll understand when you tell him the truth.
—And if he doesn’t?—I asked.
—Then maybe he wasn’t really listening when you said you’re still figuring things out,—Merrilee said. —Which means he wasn’t ready either.
—I just don’t want to lose him. As a friend.
—Then talk to him like one,—Asterid said. —But be honest. Before this gets more tangled.
I nodded slowly, heart thudding.
—You have a lot of things to figure out, Maysilee,—Merrilee added. —But there’s time. And you don’t have to have all the answers today.
—Yeah, and anyway,—Asterid said with a yawn, —this whole emotional honesty thing is exhausting. I vote we sleep now.
—Especially since we need energy before Mr. and Mrs. Donner show up to drown us in breakfast casseroles and “you girls need to eat more” speeches,—Merrilee added, already getting up.
I let out a quiet laugh. It didn’t solve anything, but it helped, just a little.
Later, when we got to my room, Asterid didn’t even hesitate to snatch the blanket off Merrilee’s lap.
—Alright, no more talking. Silence pact?
—Definitely,—I whispered, settling between them.
As I closed my eyes, surrounded by their quiet presence, for the first time that night, the weight inside me felt just a little lighter.
Notes:
If it got a little over sharing at the end I’m sorry! That’s exactly how me and my girls work trough things together lol
Chapter 14: Unofficially an issue
Chapter Text
—Uh no, nop, I'm not doing this!- I hissed as we ducked into the narrow alley behind Mrs. Valvet's fabric shop.
—Come on, Maysie, you are close!- he grinned, already crouching near the back wall. -It's not even her good wall. It's the service side. She probably doesn't even look at it.
-She's seventy-three and hears like a bat-I muttered. -She definitely looks at it.
Otho ignored me, holding out the coal like it was a quill. -Your turn. You promised.
-I didn't promise, I said maybe.
He gave me a look. The kind that said you're not fooling me. And he wasn't.
We used to do this when we were kids. Leave dumb drawings or our names on random walls with soot or chalk, nothing permanent. Nothing meaningful. That was the point. Once, Otho wrote "MERRILEE MARRIED A RAT" in crooked, slanted letters on the butcher's shop wall, and I laughed so hard I nearly fell.
I took the coal.
He'd already written a crooked "M + O" with a little lightning bolt under it.
—You're a dork—I muttered, taking a step forward anyway.
Otho beamed. -Takes one to know one.
I added a shaky heart next to it, then crossed it out dramatically. —Better.
But just as I stood back to admire our ridiculous masterpiece, the back door creaked open.
-HEY!- came the familiar screech of Mrs. Valvet. –I see you two little graffiti goblins!
Otho's eyes went wide. -Run.
We bolted like we were thirteen again, legs pounding over cobblestone, breathless with laughter and panic. I could hear her muttering curses behind us, hear the door slam, hear the world feel small again in a good way.
When we finally stopped, a few streets over, we leaned against a fence, panting, flushed, and laughing so hard my ribs hurt. The morning smelled like coal dust and dry grass. It always did this time of year, when the wind shifted and carried the scent from the mines straight into town. I hated it.
—You're insane,—I managed to say, between gasps.
—And you like it—he said, catching his breath. Then he leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the lips.
We were still laughing when we crossed into the edges of the Victor's Village past lunch time. Otho nudged my arm with his shoulder, and I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself.
The world felt lighter.
Until it didn't.
I saw him before he saw me.
Haymitch.
He was outside his house. Balancing a crate of something—bottles, probably—with one arm while trying to get the front door open with his elbow. One of the bottles clinked loudly, and he muttered something under his breath, stumbling a little as the crate tilted.
Same slouch. Same unbothered scowl. Same damn ache in my chest.
He didn't see me. I don't think he even looked up.
But I stopped dead in my tracks.
Otho slowed beside me. Didn't say anything, but I felt the question in the glance he gave me. I just shook my head.
-I'll see you later- I murmured, already backing away.
He nodded once, like he understood. And maybe he did.
I took a long breath and let my eyes settle on Haymitch's figure. The way he finally kicked the door open with his foot and disappeared inside, the bottles rattling.
It had been a month.
A month since that night. Since his hands on my skin and my name in his mouth like it meant something. Since I let myself believe—just for a second—that maybe the worst was behind us, that maybe we could begin again.
We didn't.
The next day, he didn't come looking for me. And I didn't go looking for him either.
Whatever fragile thing we'd tried to name that night—whatever softness passed between us—died with the sunrise. We didn't talk about it. We didn't talk at all.
He kept working with my father. I'd hear his voice in the backroom sometimes, low and half-alive, when he came by for deliveries or to fix something in the storage unit. I always made sure I wasn't around when he did. I'd disappear to the kitchen or run upstairs like a coward. Sometimes I watched him from my bedroom window. Sometimes I didn't.
He looked thinner. Tired. I couldn't tell if it was from drinking or just life.
Then one evening, maybe ten days after, he showed up.
Drunk.
I knew it the second I saw his silhouette swaying on the porch. He knocked once, then again. I opened the door halfway, heart pounding with something between hope and dread.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stared at me with that maddening, unreadable face.
Then, hoarsely:
"Did it mean nothing to you?"
I froze.
He didn't wait for an answer. "Because to me it did. I didn't say it right. I didn't... fuck, I don't know what I said. But I meant it."
I crossed my arms. "You were drunk. We both were. It was a mistake."
His mouth twitched. "A mistake?"
I nodded. Cold. Detached.
Or pretending to be.
He took a step forward. "You're doing that thing again. Acting like it didn't touch you."
I didn't move.
"You know what I think?" he said, voice rising. "You're still that stuck-up girl I met last year. The one who thought she was better than everyone else. Even now. Even after everything."
That hit harder than it should've.
He didn't stop. "You act like you're the only one who gets hurts. Like you're made of glass and I'm just a wrecking ball crashing through your perfect little world."
"I was trying to protect myself," I snapped. "From you. From whatever this is."
"Bullshit."
I didn't answer.
"You push me away," he said, quieter now. "Even when you don't want to."
I could feel my hands shaking on the door.
"Don't come back," I said.
His eyes narrowed. "What?"
"If that's really what you think of me... then don't come back. Ever."
And I shut the door.
Hard.
He stood out there for a while. I could hear his footsteps not moving. Just standing. Like maybe he thought I'd open it again.
But I didn't.
I slid down to the floor and sat there in the hallway until I couldn't hear him anymore.
A sound from inside my house pulled me back into reality. My whole family was inside, and two men—dressed as Peacekeepers, though their uniforms were black instead of white—stood quietly at the end of the hallway, outside the study.
—Hey, what happened?—I asked, taking off my coat and hanging it by the door.
—We just came over for lunch, that's what we agreed on last night, right, Maysie?—said my mother quickly, a little too quickly.
—Right, but I was just with-
—You have a visitor.—my father interrupted, his tone unreadable.
—Come now, Miss Donner, let me lead you.—one of the men said.
—I'll be just a moment —I told my family, and managed a small smile.—Go ahead and get things ready, I'll be right there.
I let the man lead me out of the corridor, casting a calm smile back toward my family. Something was wrong—deeply wrong—but the only thing that mattered in that moment was making sure they felt safe. That they thought everything was fine. That there was nothing to worry about.
As I stepped into the study, the first thing I noticed was the smell.
Roses and blood.
The two didn't belong together, and yet somehow they filled the room as if they were one and the same. And then I saw him.
President Snow.
The last person I could've imagined standing in my home.
He was at the piano, brushing his fingers along the keys with no regard for melody, plinking out mismatched notes that echoed dissonantly through the space. He moved with an eerie quietness, fluid and deliberate, like a snake taking its time before striking.
—Do you play?—he asked without turning.
—Sometimes.—I replied, summoning my voice. —When I feel like it. I have more time to practice now.
He glanced at me, his eyes scanning my face for a second too long.
—I've always been an advocate for music. Perhaps someday you'll get to demonstrate your skill.
—Perhaps, sir.
—Let's sit, shall we?—he said, already walking toward the large polished desk in the center of the room.
He took the seat behind it like he owned the place. I sat across from him in one of the stiff, high-backed wooden chairs. It wasn't built for someone my size—my feet didn't quite reach the floor.
—Let us not waste each other's time, Miss Donner —he said, folding his hands over one another—. I think this will be much easier if we agree not to lie to each other. It would make things considerably more efficient, don't you think?
I straightened in my seat, mimicking the calm poise of someone far more composed than I felt. I folded my hands in my lap and tilted my chin.
—Yes, sir. I believe that would be... most productive.
He gave a thin smile and the way he looked at me was so unsettling, his eyes were two tired slits beneath smoothed skin. I wondered if someone had tried lifting them, then abandoned the attempt halfway through.
—I do appreciate honesty. It is such a rare trait these days, particularly among your peers,—he said.—I trust by now you've been made aware of the Civic Gratitude Programme?
The program, the thing I was having nightmares about since I found out about it.
—Only vaguely, sir. Mr Heavensbee mentioned it.
—Ah, yes. Plutarch is enthusiastic but often skips the fine print. But the time for full disclosure will come soon enough.
—And when exactly might that be?
—Soon, dear. Quite soon.
Before I could say something else, the door opened behind me. Merrilee entered carrying a tray with a teapot, two delicate cups, and a plate of Otho's new almond biscuits.
—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.—she said, looking directly at President Snow. —I was wondering if the President might like some tea, or perhaps a little something to eat?—she said politely.
He looked genuinely delighted. —How very thoughtful. Please, do come in. People often forget a President needs to eat, too.
I watched them interact, detached.
Merrilee placed the tray on the low table with a practiced grace.
—And these are really good biscuits.-she said.
Snow took one of them, closing his eyes as he tasted them. —They certainly are —Snow said—. Did your mother bake them?
—Oh no, my mom doesn't get along with pastry.—Merrilee laughed—. Otho made them. He's a friend of ours, and the best baker around town, right Maysie?
I blinked back into the moment.
—Yes.—I said, forcing a smile. —It's a new recipe of his.
Snow looked between us, his gaze sliding slowly from one twin to the other.
—Fascinating. The resemblance is rather uncanny. A beauty most impressive indeed.
—Thank you, sir —Merrilee replied cheerfully— I will no longer bother I'll leave you both alone. Shall I bring anything else?
—No, dear. You've done quite enough. It was a pleasure meeting you. You may go now.
—Thanks, Merrie —I said quietly.
Once the door clicked shut behind her, the atmosphere shifted again. The weight of it returned like a pressure on my spine.
Snow sipped his tea slowly.
—It must have been a challenge, growing up with such a perfect mirror. Ever confused the two of you?
—More often than not.
He smiled faintly.
—Yet it can be a... useful arrangement. Should something ever happen, one twin could, in theory, step in. Fill the gap the other left behind.
My body went rigid.
—I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir.
He ignored me, placing his cup back on its saucer with a delicate clink.
—I have heard, Miss Donner, quite the charming tales about you and your friend from the bakery. District 12 is still as relentlessly gossipy as I remember.
Remember from where? I thought.
—I imagine so, sir. But as you said, they are merely tales, gossip, nothing more.
—Are they? Wasn't he spending an increasing amount of time here at your house rather than his, these past weeks?
—He brings baked goods. That's all. He is a... a friend.
Snow chuckled under his breath.
—You choose to lie, I see.
He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small, smooth device that he put on the desk. He pressed a button, and the device hummed softly, and suddenly the air between us lit up, floating, flickering images projected above the desk like ghosts.
The first thing I saw was the back of my house, in the early weeks of autumn. Otho and I sitting on a picnic blanket. He reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and leaned in to kiss me.
Then, a Saturday morning in the square, walking beside him between merchant stalls as we picked out seed packets for a new recipe he was trying.
Then behind my parents' shop, the old alleyway where we used to play as kids. This time, we weren't playing. He had me pinned gently against the bricks, and my arms were around his neck.
And finally, audio.
His voice: "I really like you."
Mine, barely above a whisper: "I like you back."
The words echoed inside me. I forgot Snow was in the room. I forgot where I was.
All I could hear was that memory.
And all I could feel was guilt.
The truth is... I didn't plan for any of it.
After that night with Haymitch—after everything we said, and everything we didn't—I started disappearing inside myself again. I stayed indoors, barely eating, barely speaking. The world blurred into a routine of silence and pretending. My skin hung loose on my bones. My eyes looked too big in the mirror. Even Merrilee stopped teasing me about the way my jeans sagged around the waist.
Summer ended the moment we ended things for good.
Then Otho started showing up.
Every morning, like clockwork, he knocked on the door of my house in Victor's village, not always with a reason, but always with a purpose. Some days he brought bread. Other days, excuses.
"Thought you might want to see the pear trees. They're blooming early."
"Come with me to the square, I need someone to hold the basket."
"My brother says I look less annoying when you're standing next to me. Come fix that."
And "My dad would want to have you for dinner."
At first I resisted. Told him I was tired, or busy, or not in the mood. But Otho never pushed. He just waited.
And eventually, I started saying yes.
He took me on long walks around the District, sometimes through places we used to play when we were kids. He talked. I listened. He never asked questions I didn't want to answer. He never treated me like glass. He didn't look at me like I was broken.
He looked at me like I was still Maysilee Donner.
Not THE Maysilee Donner. Just... me.
And slowly, things began to shift. I laughed more. I stood a little taller. My clothes started fitting again, not because I forced them to, but because I was eating like a person, not a punishment. Not always. Not perfectly. But enough.
Otho noticed. Quietly, gently. He never mentioned the food outright, but he'd hand me things without making a big deal of it—half a sandwich, a bowl of pumpkin soup, a sugared apple or creating a full new recipe just for me to like—and just keep talking while I picked at it until I forgot I wasn't supposed to.
He made it easy to forget all the rules I'd built around myself.
We weren't anything, not officially. But slowly, we became something.
He lost the hesitation he used to have around me. He started kissing me in broad daylight—at my doorstep, in the square—He understood I had nothing whole left to give.
And he didn't seem to mind.
He picked up the pieces I could offer and handled them with the kind of care no one else had ever given me. He didn't try to fix me. He just... made space for me.
We became a rhythm.
After school, he, Merrilee, and Burton would come out together, and I'd be waiting for them near the gate. We'd grab something to eat from the market or sit by the train tracks, talking about nothing. Playing cards. Laughing at jokes only us would understand.
Sometimes, in those rare moments when the world went quiet, I almost believed it. That that was how life was supposed to look like. That I didn't win last year's Games, that they didn't exist, and we were just normal teenagers.
I came back to myself in the study, the flickering projection still glowing between us. My face stared back at me—tilted slightly, flushed with the kind of pink that only comes from someone saying something kind. Someone meaning it.
Snow turned off the device.
—Only a friend, you say?—he asked softly.
I swallowed. —He's not my boyfriend.
—So you just like to play around, is that it? Sometimes Mr. Abernathy, sometimes Mr. Mellark? —he let out a laugh—So it seems you've already mastered the art of pleasing more than one man at a time. That will serve you well in the Programme.
I want to fucking throw up in his face.
—I'm not playing anything. Haymitch and I... aren't working right now.
—That's exactly the problem, Miss Donner. You two need to be working.
—Why?—My voice cracked. —Why does it matter?
—You remember why you won, don't you?
—Because Haymitch... loved me.
—Exactly. That love is supposed to continue. It's a story now. A legacy. The people in the districts need to see it. Feel it. You two are the symbol of it.
—But I don't want—
—It's not about what you want.—
He reached for his tea.—It's about what you need to do.—he took a sip, and then—After everything the Capitol let you do, live a happily-ever-after life with your lover, would you want to look ungrateful?
—No, sir, of course not.
—That's what I thought—he says.—I didn't come here to chitchat—he added.
—I actually found our chat quite enjoyable, sir,—I managed, trying to look firm while my voice was trembling with forced politeness.
He smiled. That same thin-lipped smile that looked more like a warning than an expression.
—Well, I've enjoyed it too. But let me be clear, from now on, you do as you're told.
—And if I don't?
—Then the lovely little life you've created here might turn to ashes overnight.
I felt like the room had shrunk, like I couldn't breathe.
—Like Haymitch's family...—I muttered.
—Did you think that stunt you pulled in the arena would go unnoticed? That there wouldn't be consequences?
—It's not fair,—I said, choking on the words.—I didn't ask to live. I didn't manipulate anything. I didn't want to survive.
—But you did. And if I recall, you did kill an innocent Gamemaker, did you not?
I lowered my gaze, and he continued.
—And now, you're in high demand. Some of my oldest friends are quite eager to meet you, Miss Donner. And I think you'll enjoy meeting them too.
He stood, brushed crumbs from his coat, and adjusted his tie like the conversation was done.
—Please,—I whispered, my voice quieter, almost pleading.—Leave Otho out of this.
—I can leave anyone out, as long as you don't mess things up.
—I won't,—I said.—I swear. I'll fix things with Haymitch. I'll stay away from Otho. I'll do what you ask.
He nodded.
—Then it looks like we have a deal, Miss Donner.
He turned toward the door, but then paused, almost as if an afterthought had crossed his mind.
—Oh, before I go,—he said smoothly, voice calm and deliberate.—Would you happen to know anything about the Dove?
I blinked.
—I beg your pardon, sir?
—The Dove,—he repeated, drawing the word out as if tasting it.—Miss Lenore Dove. Mr. Abernathy's, how shall we put it?... Lady friend.
I stood frozen for a beat too long. Why would I know anything about her?
—I'm afraid I don't, sir,—I said, carefully enunciating.—No one seems to know. That... is precisely one of the reasons why things between him and I are rather strained as of late.
—Ah.—He gave a soft nod.—How unfortunate.
His eyes stayed on me for a second longer than necessary, reading me. Then, with a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes, he turned.
—Well then,—he said, already stepping out of the room.—we must both hope she resurfaces soon. For everyone's sake.
What?
The study door closed behind him with a quiet click.
He left just as quietly as he'd arrived. A murmur of voices outside, then nothing. I walked to the window just in time to see a sleek black car start with a soft, catlike purr. It slipped away down the street and disappeared into the distance.
The room spun slowly around me. My knees nearly gave out.
I leaned forward, one hand gripping the desk, the other still holding one of Otho's cheese buns. My fingers crushed it without meaning to. Little pieces fell to the floor like I'd forgotten how to hold anything properly.
Footsteps.
My family.
They couldn't know. They couldn't.
I scrambled to clean the tray, brushing the crumbs off my palm. Then I picked up the tea and took a trembling sip just as the door flew open.
—Is everything alright, pumpkin?—my dad asked first.
—Oh yes,—I said quickly, smiling as naturally as I could.—They don't show this on television, but once every few months the President likes to meet privately with victors. It's just part of post-Victory protocol. A formality. Nothing more.
—A year later?—Merrilee asked.
—Yes, silly!—I laughed, waving my hands around lightly.—Last year was a busy one—with the Quarter Quell and Haymitch and I both winning, and the Victory Tour... there was too much going on. Double the trouble you know? Since he was already traveling to visit Liona, he figured he'd come here too.
—Well, we must thank his kindness, then,—said my mother.
—He seemed like a kind man,—Merrilee added.—And I'm so sure he was hot in his youth.
Gross.
—That's the president —my mom said.—For stars above, Merrilee, have some respect!
—Sorry!
—I'm starving,—I said quickly, rising to my feet.—Can we eat already, please?
They nodded and turned toward the kitchen. I followed, letting them go a step ahead.
———-
The dishes had been cleared. The chairs pushed in. My parents were putting on their coats by the door, murmuring about the cold. Merrilee lingered near the hallway, checking her hair in the mirror like she always did before stepping outside.
—Merrie,— I said softly, moving toward her. —Before you go, I need a favor.
She turned to me, surprised by my tone. I waited until our parents were distracted, then pulled the small folded note from my pocket and pressed it into her hand.
Inside read:
"Otho,
I don't want you to come to my house again.
But can you meet me at the Hanging Tree this Sunday, at 3PM?
I need to see you.
I'll explain everything then. I promise.
—M."
—Can you give this to Otho? Please. Make sure no one sees you.
Her fingers closed around the paper.
She didn't ask questions.
Her eyes searched mine for a long second, but she didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She could feel the plea in my voice, in my posture, in the quiet desperation I was trying to smother.
She knew. Of course she knew.
We've always been like this —sewn from the same thread. I can fake my way through a conversation with my parents. I can hide behind smiles and manners and half-lies. But Merrilee? She reads the truth anyway.
She nodded, once.
—Sure, Maysie.
And just like that, it was done. No questions. No judgments.
She slipped the note into her coat pocket like it was nothing more than a spare ribbon.
I watched her walk away with our parents, her figure disappearing into the streetlamps and shadows. And for the first time since Snow left, I let myself hope —not for peace, or safety— just that he'd show up.
That Otho would come.
——-
Sunday comes, finally.
I'd barely slept the night before. The nerves wouldn't let me. Every creak of the house, every flicker of shadow outside my window made my heart hammer. I kept imagining black Peacekeepers behind the trees. Or worse, Snow himself, watching through the walls. But when the clock struck two-fifty and no one had come to drag me away, I slipped out the back gate.
He was already there when I arrived.
Leaning against the tree with that same familiar slouch, hands tucked into his coat pockets, waiting like this was just another regular afternoon. He looked up when he saw me, and his face softened in that way only he could do, like he was genuinely happy to see me.
—Hey.—he said.
—Hey.
He had a pie tin in one hand —strawberry, by the smell of it— and I held up a dark green glass bottle from the Capitol, the label still pristine and shimmering slightly in the afternoon light.
—Grape juice,— I offered.
—Strawberry pie. Looks like we're having a picnic.
We sat under the tree, our backs resting against the bark. He unwrapped the pie carefully, like it was fragile, and passed me a fork. I unscrewed the bottle and poured the juice into two little tin cups I'd brought. It tasted expensive. Artificial. But not bad.
He took a bite of pie and sighed.
—I was nervous,— he admitted. —Something sweet helps with that.
I raised an eyebrow. —You? Nervous?
—Hey you inviting me into the woods out of nowhere? How not to be? What's with the spot anyways?
—I did some guessing. At 3PM, the Peacekeepers usually have their meal break before switching posts. If we're lucky, we've got an hour without surveillance. Maybe less. That's all I could find and it's a good place for what I have to tell you.
He nodded slowly, and I could see the thoughts forming in his eyes. Calculating risk. Wondering what he'd just stepped into. But he didn't pull away.
—Then we'll make the most of every minute. However many we get.
My eyes burned. I turned toward him and touched his cheek gently with my fingers —You are so sweet, Otho Mellark. You know that?— then leaned over to give him a small kiss, short and quiet, but warm. His lips were still sweet from the pie.
—What a beautiful compliment,— he grinned, —coming from the owner of the sweetshop herself.
—I'm not the owner,— I said, laughing again.
—But you will be one day.
—Hopefully not. Merrilee will probably take it over. If she still wants to, after marrying Burton.
—What?
I shrugged. —That's kind of the only good thing about being a victor. I get to choose what I want now. Career path, at least. Or that's what they told me. Who knows how long that freedom will last?
He looked at me a moment longer, then said:
—How long have you been feeling that way?
—Since I realized it's all I get. Don't get me wrong, I like cooking. Releasing that recipe book in the spring? That was amazing. But making sweets for the rest of my life? Ugh. Boring.
I huffed, and he chuckled.
—I honestly think if it came down to that, you'd still make the most of it. You'd turn the business into something way bigger and creating the best product ever.
I remember having almost the same talk with Haymitch before, back in the arena, the parallel now is just so different.
—You really think that?
—I do. That's how I think about myself, too. My dad barely lets us change anything at the bakery. If it were up to him, we'd sell nothing but plain bread forever. But when the time comes, Christopher and I want to make it more. Something better.
Christopher —Otho's older brother by a little over a year. They used to fight about it when they were kids. Otho would always complain that being "the younger one" meant getting blamed for everything.
—How is he?
—After the reaping? He and his girl are getting married.
—Really?
—What better way to celebrate being out of the death bowl forever, right?
—Obviously.
We sipped our juice and ate the pie slowly, like stretching the moment would somehow make it safer. Then I looked down at my hands, wiped them on my skirt, and said the thing I didn't want to say.
—We can't be together.
He didn't move.
—I'm serious. —I said.— Something happened last week. The President... came to my house. Just walked in like he belonged there.
Otho didn't speak. Just listened.
—And... he's been watching us. He showed me. Footage. Pictures. Recordings. He knew everything. Every place we went. Every touch. Every word.
Otho's fork froze halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked up to mine.
—I don't know how long it's been going on. Weeks, maybe. Longer. But he was clear. I have to stay away from you. Or he'll hurt you. Or worse. I'm not just being paranoid.
—I know you're not.
—I didn't choose this. I didn't want it. But it's real. And now every second I spend with you is a risk.
He looked away for a moment, chewing his lip, nodding slowly.
—I figured something was wrong when I got your note. I knew it had to be serious. But still... It's a lot.
I leaned my head on his shoulder. For just a second.
—We'll figure something out,— he whispered. —I don't know how, but we will. These past few weeks... seeing you more, even just talking... it made everything else feel less heavy. I'd go home in a good mood for once. Forget the pressure from school, or the bakery, or my dad. It was just you. And it helped.
My chest tightened.
—I want to see you again,— he said. —Even if it's just once a week. Even if we can't say much. Even if we can't touch.
I didn't knew what to say so I kissed him instead.
—As much as I'm enjoying this I think we should go.
Our meetings had become a quiet ritual, a sliver of normalcy carved out of chaos. Every Sunday, he would bring something to eat and I would bring something from the Capitol he never tried before.
We never pushed beyond soft touches or kisses. Once, while sitting beneath the hanging tree, Otho looked me in the eyes and said,
— I respect you too much to cross any lines before marriage. I'm that kind of boy.
I had smiled then, touched by the honesty. In a world where so many things were twisted by fear and survival, his words were a rare kind of sweetness, like a promise I wasn't sure I deserved.
But even as I cherished these moments, the truth settled over me like a shadow. I was falling for him, deeply and unexpectedly. What terrified me wasn't just the feelings, but what they represented, how much I longed for something simple, how much the pressure of my role as a Victor, a symbol, was closing every other door.
December came with its gray skies and sharper winds, a month after President Snow's visit. I had hoped, foolishly, that things would settle. That the Capitol might leave me alone, let me catch my breath. But that hope was shattered one Sunday under the Hanging Tree.
Otho's face was tight with worry as he sat down beside me, he didn't brought something that time.
— They arrested my father, on Monday. For tax fraud. That's what they're saying. They just released him yesterday.
I could see the panic flickering in his eyes. My stomach twisted. President Snow was making good on his threats. This wasn't just intimidation, it was punishment.
I failed. I thought I would have more time before having to actually be with Haymitch but- I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice.
— Otho, maybe... maybe we should stop meeting. At least for a while. It's too dangerous.
He shook his head firmly, reaching for my hand.
— I don't want to stop. I need this, I need you.
— But what if they already found about us? — I whispered — For fuck sake your father would never do that! He's one of the few honest people I know here. What if they come for you next?
His jaw clenched, but he squeezed my hand.
— Then we'll be careful. We'll meet less often. I need to see you.
I nodded, torn between fear and relief.
We began to see each other less, stealing moments when we could, every two weeks or so. Our sacred meetings became rarer, quieter, tinged with fear, but also a stubborn hope, a belief that maybe, somehow, we could hold on.
Because how do you let go of something that keeps you alive?
It was a new feeling—one I had never experienced before. Everything with Otho was calm and easy, like a gentle current pulling me along without resistance. With him, I could breathe, even if only for a little while. But everything with Haymitch was the opposite—tense, anxious, complicated. A storm I never quite knew how to navigate.
I was confused. More than confused, really. And then, just ten days into the new year, I woke up with a hollow ache deep in my chest. Something was wrong. Unease settled over me like a shadow I couldn't shake.
I found a letter taped to my front door. Mayor Leedwodge had invited me to dinner at her house that evening.
As I approached the Justice Building that afternoon, my steps slowed.
There were banners. Banners everywhere.
Large, gaudy things hanging from the second floor, swaying slightly in the wind—bright colors and golden letters proclaiming "50th games The year of Triumph." They'd lined the front steps too, and the giant glass door had a new decal pressed onto it: a photoshot of Haymitch and me from last year's Victory Tour, smiling like idiots. Smiling like all of it had meant something beautiful.
But it wasn't just our faces that told me what time of year it was.
It was the cold in the air, and the weight in my chest, and the knowing look the Peacekeeper at the door gave me when he opened it.
The Games were near again.
And we were expected to play our roles.
I stepped into the marble-floored lobby and froze.
Haymitch was already there.
He was standing by the staircase, slouched against the railing like the structure was the only thing keeping him upright. His jacket was too big, or maybe he was too thin. The collar hung uneven around his neck, his hair looked like he'd slept on it for a week straight, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. The kind you don't get from just being tired.
He looked awful. But not the kind of awful you can fix with a shower and sleep.
He looked hurt.
Like something inside him had caved in and no one had noticed.
I took a step closer.
—Hi,— I said, gently, almost afraid to break the air between us.
He turned his head slowly, eyes landing on me like he wasn't sure I was real. And then, something flickered in them—recognition, maybe, or resentment. I couldn't tell.
His lips curled into a half smile that didn't reach his eyes.
—That's what a break looks like,— he said, voice dry and sharp like splintered glass. —When only one of us gives a damn about saving what's left.
I flinched.
—I didn't want to hurt you,— I said, already hating how small my voice sounded.
—No?— he asked, and for a second there was genuine curiosity in the way he looked at me. —Because from where I'm standing, it really seems like you did.
—I had to protect someone.
—Right,— he scoffed. —Must be nice, always having someone to protect. Yourself, Otho, whoever's next on the list.
That stung more than I wanted it to. But I didn't know how to say what I needed without saying too much. I couldn't. Not here.
—I didn't stop caring,— I said instead.
Haymitch looked away, jaw tightening. —You stopped acting like it.
I opened my mouth to speak again—but the door beside us opened with a loud click, and suddenly we weren't alone.
—Oh, wonderful, you're both here!— said Mayor Leedwodge, stepping into the hallway with the breezy enthusiasm of someone who had no idea what she'd just interrupted. —Come on in, darlings, I've been waiting for you.
As we walked down the hallway behind the mayor, I could still feel Haymitch's words burning on my skin.
"When only one of us gives a damn."
How dare he.
How dare he act like this was just about some lovers' spat, like I hadn't been trying to keep him safe. Like I hadn't been threatened in my own home. Like I wasn't waking up every single day wondering if my family, or Otho, or even he would be punished just because I existed in the wrong way.
He had no idea.
No idea that President Snow had sat in my study. No idea how my body had gone cold when he said, "Then the lovely little life you've created here might turn to ashes overnight."
No idea that I'd stood in the hallway after, clutching one of Otho's biscuits with trembling hands, trying not to collapse in front of my father.
How could President Snow only visited me? Haymitch was saying hurtful things without thinking because he clearly had no clue.
And maybe he didn't deserve to—not after the things he said But part of me wanted to scream at him anyway;
"I'm not choosing anyone. I'm surviving the only way I know how."
But of course, I couldn't say that.
I couldn't say anything.
Because the Capitol was watching. Always. And if they weren't watching here, they'd hear about it later. Nothing stayed secret in a place built on spectacle.
So instead, I kept walking.
I didn't look at him again, not even when we entered the mayor's dining room and were ushered toward the table like we were special guests and not state puppets being fattened for slaughter.
Her husband was already seated, napkin folded crisply in his lap, and two of her children—a little boy and a younger girl—sat across from us, swinging their legs beneath the table.
Haymitch and I were placed on the same side, of course. Side by side. A perfect image.
—You two still make such a lovely pair!— the mayor said brightly, gesturing toward the framed portrait of us behind her. It was from the end of the Games. Blood cleaned off our skin. Hands clasped like we meant it. —I swear, your faces are the pride of District Twelve.
I smiled politely, but it felt more like baring my teeth.
The mayor turned toward me with a conspiratorial tilt of her head.
—Please tell me the rumors I've been hearing these past few weeks aren't true, Maysilee. I'd be heartbroken if they were.
—What rumors, ma'am?—I asked cautiously, trying to keep my voice steady.
—That you two have broken up, and that you're now seeing one of the Mellark boys, what's his name again? The younger one. So much talk lately...
I blinked, caught off guard. You'd think that, being the wealthiest family in the district and born on the merchant side of town, she would've been rooting for me to be with Otho—the Mellark boy—rather than with Haymitch, the seam boy. But maybe the fact that I won alongside Haymitch had pushed his name higher in people's minds.
She said that so casually, as if we were at a tea party and not surrounded by potential informants. As if Otho's name in her mouth wasn't a potential death sentence.
I felt Haymitch shift slightly beside me.
The mayor smiled, still holding my gaze, waiting.
I straightened my shoulders.
—I'm afraid those are just rumors,— I said, forcing a smile. —There's nothing going on between me and Otho Mellark.— I added, looking briefly at Haymitch for the last part.
His gaze was unreadable, a flicker of something like relief—or maybe regret—passing through his eyes.
The mayor laughed lightly, pouring wine into our glasses.
—Well, I'm happy then. You two the honor of the district.
I nodded, swallowing hard. The pressure was heavier than ever now. Everyone wanted us to be a symbol, an unbreakable story of victory and love. But I wasn't sure if I could be what they wanted—or if I even wanted it anymore.
Far from being an honor, we had ended up responsible for more death among our people than anyone else in the district.
I was sick of it. Sick of the insinuations, sick of the glances, more so being sick of being the villain in Haymitch's mind when I was barely hanging on.
But I couldn't say that either. Not here. Not now.
So I picked up my glass of water and smiled at the mayor's children across the table, give Haymitch a kiss on his left cheek and smiled again, because I knew exactly how this story needed to look.
And I was tired—so, so tired—of disappointing the audience.
Notes:
Ok so… We’re officially entering the end of Act One now, just one more chapter to go! ❣️
Any thoughts or predictions on how it’s going to end?
I’ll be posting more this week! 🫶🏻
Just for now you’ll see how different Maysilee’s relationship with Snow is, how she respects him while Haymitch -rightfully so- absolutely hates him.
—
ALSOOO I’M SO HAPPYYYYY I did great on all my exams so now I’m on vacay for a whole month!! 🥰
Chapter 15: To Lose Him Anyway.
Notes:
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (in Sabrina’s voice) READ THE NOTES AT THE END <3333
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stuff like that begun to happen more often than not since that day. Dinner with the mayor, or both of us needed in town to do something together.
The morning after one of the first dinners in March, both Haymitch and I received a letter and a little device, handed straight to us by a Peacekeeper at our front doors. I figured as much because we both opened our doors at the same time, locking eyes as we did so.
The Peacekeeper stood by, saying something along the lines of needing to make sure we read the letter so he could report back to the office.
The letter was simple. It read:
“To our cherished Victors, Maysilee Donner and Haymitch Abernathy,
In honor of your continued service to Panem and the unbreakable bond you have displayed in the months following your triumph, the Capitol would like to provide you with a tool to further connect with the districts.
This device is equipped with a curated communication interface. Starting this week, and every week henceforth, you are expected to upload one photograph depicting your life together as a couple: baking, dining, walking, sharing special moments. We have attached a tentative calendar of suggested themes for your convenience.
The capitol, District 12, and all of Panem, continues to look up to you. Show them what gratitude looks like.
Sincerely,
Civic Gratitude Committee.”
Alongside the instructions on how to use the device—a little rectangular thing that fit in the palm of my hand— I followed the guide and started it. The screen flickered, showing an open schedule. From now on, every week, Haymitch and I had to ensure the whole country knew we were the happiest and most grateful couple by uploading pictures on the single blue-logo app displayed on the screen.
The schedule listed suggestions based on the day: if it was Wednesday, post a picture gardening together; Sunday, bake something as a couple; Monday, wear matching outfits together; Saturday, an autophoto with specific instructions in how to do it. Thursday: dinner with my parents. Friday: a kiss in our “favorite” district spot, which had to be different every time, to show the best parts of the district and how well the Capitol was treating us. It all looked like absolute bullshit to me.
Of course, we couldn’t say no. When I told the Peacekeeper I was done, he said:
—Now Miss Trinket is in charge of controlling the device and its function. She’ll call soon to explain further.
I nodded and the man left, when I look at Haymitch’s house he was gone too.
As if on cue, Effie called an hour later.
—Okay, so do you want to tell me which part you didn’t understand? —she said.
—Mmm, all of it, possibly? —I replied.
—Well, Haymitch caught on almost instantly, so I assume you will as well.
—Did you call him first? Rude, Effie. You always say ladies first.
—I wanted to check on him too —she admitted.—How’s everything between you two? Still the same?
There was this time, way back, right after I stopped talking to Haymitch post-party, when I really needed an older sister’s advice. Well not like that but Effie had called to tell me how well my cookbook was doing in Capitol stores, how people were actually trying the recipes. Even that some TV show had done a whole week recreating them. Part of me was completely delighted. She said she’d recorded them all so I could watch on the train next time we traveled. Then she started talking about measurements and new clothes I’d need to try before the 52nd Games started because I’d have to match outfits with Haymitch—and that’s where she lost me.
“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” she’d said that time.
And that was all it took for me to break down crying. Because I missed him.
I mean, I could trust her, right?
I told her everything, the jealousy, the hurt, my feelings for him. The only part I left out was Otho.
Besides being brainwashed by the Games, she was a good person. She really seemed to care about us, both individually and as a pair.
“I kind of sensed it the last time I saw you, you know? That you both weren’t as in love as you portrayed after your victory.”
“We were that obvious?” I asked, and she laughed.
“My best advice would be to give it time. Don’t rush things. And more importantly, don’t do things that send mixed signals. I get it, you’re horny teenagers, I’ve been there too, but try to think things through beforehand.”
“If you think taking a break would help clear the view, then do it. But remember, when the time comes, specifically, during the next Games, you’ll need to put on a united front. You need to look like the ideal couple for your district and the nation. Not reaching the top ten in your first year as mentors was… well, predictable. But if that continues, it’ll send the wrong message. President Snow won’t be happy. So work on that relationship of yours.”
Back then, I thanked her for the advice. I hadn’t realized just how accurate it would become, especially when, only a month later, President Snow himself would be sitting in the same spot where I’d taken that call.
Back to the present, Effie prompted again:
—So?
—Given that the last time you called was months ago… we’re in a much better place now —I lied, deciding I could no longer afford to fully trust her. Not with the current circumstances. I couldn’t let a single detail reach Snow’s ears.—About the device —I said, changing the subject.—I read the instructions, but do we really have to stick to that structure? Can we adjust it to seem more like us? I mean, we don’t hang out around the district that often, let alone to pose for tourist pictures.
—Well, in that case, find a decent location and send the photo to me after. I’ll tweak the background a little.
—Wait, you can do that?
—Technically no, but come on, your district really doesn’t have any aesthetic charm.
—Hey!
—I’m sorry! Anyway, the device is called a cellphone. You can call and text with it like you do with a regular phone or by letter. It’s a new thing we’re introducing in the Capitol. So chic! —That was the Effie I knew.—My number is already saved in it. Just click on the blue app and send everything directly to me. I’ll make sure it gets posted where needed.
—Oh, thank you, Effie. That’ll help a lot!
—Oh, and well done with your glam routine! I saw the photos from last week’s shoot—your hair looks divine! And your skin? You definitely won’t need surgery anytime soon.
—What? —I blinked.
—Nothing! I have to go now, but call me if anything happens!
And just like that, she hung up.
———
I was wandering around my house the whole day after that, cleaning things I had already cleaned, reading books I had already read. Then, when the clock struck five, I remembered we had a dinner planned with Asterid, Burdock, Blair and his girl, and Haymitch and I. Both Burdock and Asterid wanted to tell us something, and since her parents had forbidden her from dating Burdock, I had suggested last week that we should eat here at my house so they could share whatever they needed.
I started making some oven-roasted meat with vegetables, and as soon as I finished laying the tablecloth, I heard a knock on the door.
—Hey, you —Haymitch said, when I went to open it, he looked fine, arms resting behind his back.
—I must have lost track of time —I said, looking at the clock in the living room.—Wait, no, actually, we said dinner was at eight. It’s still seven.—I added, crossing my arms.
—Calm down. I thought about coming early and helping you out.
—Okay, come in then.
He walked in, and I realized he was carrying two bottles of red wine.
—I was just fixing the table. You can finish putting the plates and glasses if you want. I’ll bring more utensils from the pantry.
—Sure —he said.
I didn’t like this. Of course he came here early to talk about the letter, but did he really understand what it meant? I didn’t know if I should tell him everything I knew, or what Snow had said.
The past few months had been really weird between us. While I’ve been clearly talking to him more often than before I still didn’t want to be near him. Whenever a situation could mean being alone, I simply avoided it. Or play it cool so he wouldn’t know. We would have dinner with my family and I pretended nothing happened, too. Today would be the first time we were alone in the same place without the need to be something we weren’t.
But I was sure of one thing: Haymitch was, and would always be, someone I could trust with my life. And we had once agreed not to keep secrets between us anymore. I had to tell him.
The oven timer beeped, so I went to grab the meal and set it on the counter to cool. Then I returned to the dining room with the utensils. That’s when I noticed Haymitch frowning and making the same expression he always did when debating whether to say something or not.
—Just say it, Hay —I said, and he jolted.
—I just sensed you’d know more about this whole committee thing, so I figured I should come early to talk about it. And to help you too. I… I kind of miss you, May.
I ignored the “miss you” part and cleared my throat to start telling him more about the program instead.
—It’s actually called the Civic Gratitude Program. I don’t know the full details yet, only what Plutarch told me last year and basically it’s—
—Wait, hold on. Why did Plutarch tell you last year and not me? And why are you just now telling me about it?
—Haymitch, I truly don’t want to fight, please.
—I’m not fighting, I’m just asking —he said, starting to open one of the wine bottles.
I tried not to think about our fight last year, but it was inevitable.
—It was before returning home. Remember on the train we had that big fight? which led to me asking for a break…
His gaze flickered, and he drank his wine.
—Oh.
—Yeah. I didn’t find the time to tell you after that.
—Well, you can tell me now. I promise I won’t snap.
—Long story short, President Snow will sell us to whichever rich creep in the Capitol wants to have sex with us. Simple as that. If we refuse, he’ll kill the people we love the most.
—What the fuck!?
He stood up abruptly and broke his wine glass in the process, a whole wet mess forming on the carpet.
—Shit, Haymitch! You said you wouldn’t snap! Do you know how fucking much effort it takes to clean that carpet?
—Sorry, May, sorry —he said, going to the kitchen to find a cloth to clean it.—It’s just a lot. What the fuck?
—Plutarch warned me a little last year, and in October the president himself showed up here at my house to basically threaten me personally on the issue. But again, I guess we’ll know more once we go to the Capitol for this year’s Games.
He looked tense, as if questioning everything.
—Fuck, that is so fucked up.
—Yes. I really meant to talk to you about it before but I just couldn’t. The whole thing just makes me want to be sick.
—Of course it does.
I took a step closer to him to put both his hands in mine. He froze a little.
—Haymitch—I said. And his eyes left our hands to look at me.— I really need this to work. And I need your help. I don’t want to lose my family. I simply will not carry that guilt.
—Like me, you mean?
—No, fuck! —I dropped my hands and got away from him.— That’s not what I meant! I just… I don’t care what happens to me. If I’m going to die to save them, I will. Since October I’ve been doing everything the president told me to do, and I’m still going to.
—Maysilee, this isn’t about posing for a picture. This is about giving your body to somebody else. Do you know what the district calls people who do that around here? How the Peacekeepers abuse young girls for a little money?
—And do you think I fucking care what people are going to call me? Are you hearing what you’re saying? People don’t know shit about this, Haymitch. This is only between victors and important members of the Capitol. The nation knows nothing about it.
—I didn’t-
—Yes, of course you didn’t think about it! Probably smoking too much shit or drinking yourself into oblivion is killing your neurons so you can’t think properly anymore!
—Hey, no fighting!
—Sorry, it’s just… listen. I have people waiting on me already. That’s what he said. I have a list to complete and it’s just later punishment for killing that game maker. I am so fucking scared to do any of it but there’s no escaping I just have to.
I took off my apron and dropped into a chair, exhausted.
—What the President has been telling you to do now? —He said, in a voice so soft that I almost regret everything that I’ve been doing.
Every little time he thought I was being nice with him was a lie, every laugh I shared was false, any sympathy I been given to him was pretend.
I couldn’t say that to him, right?
Yes he hurt me, but wasn’t I hurting him too?
Wasn’t all the talk about Otho lately has been affecting him too?
I like Otho too much to break what we have, and I need him because I was alone. But Haymitch is alone too, who has been him relying to lately?
All those thoughts make me so emotional I didn’t realize I was crying so Haymitch came closer and, without asking, we were hugging. He gave me a soft kiss on the temple and I just stared at him, figuring that I missed him too.
—You’ll be fine, I promise you that —he said.
I hugged him tighter and looked into his eyes, an ocean of sorrow and pain, and I knew he was telling the truth.
He looked back at my eyes, then at my lips, and he was leaning in when—
—That’s new! —Asterid.
We both jolted and pulled away from each other.
—Hey! —I went to hug her.—I thought we said eight!
—It’s already eight, Maysilee! Haymitch, can you go help the guys with the bottles, please? —she said, and when Haymitch opened the door, a petite brunette entered.—This is Hazelle. I don’t know if you’ve met her before —said Asterid, introducing her.
Hazelle scanned me up and down and I shook my head before gesturing with my hand toward her. She took it.
—Maysilee Donner. A pleasure, Hazelle.
—Yeah, I know who you are. —She said it in a tone so poisonous I blinked.
What’s wrong with this girl?
—Welcome to my home then —I said, putting emphasis on my home. Let this girl know exactly where she’s standing.—Sit yourselves. Dinner is ready.
—Oh, thank you so much again, Maysie. You don’t know how much Burdock and I appreciate it —said Asterid.
—You’re my friend, Asterid. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.
———-
For the first fifteen minutes of dinner, I almost convinced myself this could pass for normal. Almost.
The plates were full, the vegetables steaming, the roast tender enough to slice with a glance. I’d cooked it all myself, down to the last damn sprig of rosemary. I’d even lit candles.
And for a moment, it had worked. People were eating. Talking. Kind of.
Until Blair put his fork down. Not just set it aside, he slammed it onto his plate with a sharp clatter that cut through the air like a knife.
—So this is the new Maysilee now?
I blinked. Everyone turned to look at me.
—Excuse me? —I asked, straightening a little in my chair.
He leaned back, folding his arms like he’d been waiting for the right moment to pounce.
—Just saying —he shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it.—It’s impressive. This whole “victor wife” act. You know. The cooking. The smiling. The gracious hosting. Like you’re the goddamn First Lady of District Twelve.
Haymitch shifts beside me with a quiet sigh.
—Blair, don’t.
But Blair’s already going.
—I mean, is this what the Capitol trained you for? To play house with Haymitch while the cameras are on and fooling around with Otho Mellark behind the scenes?
My face burns.
—What are you implying, Hawthorne?
—Don’t act surprised. It’s pathetic. You’re still just the same girl we knew at school. Everyone else might’ve been fooled, but I’m not. I see right through it.
I sit back, dropping my fork.
—I don’t remember asking for your opinion. Or your presence in my house.
—No? Because you were the one who invited us here. Like you been doing since the beginning with this need of fit in.
—First of all, I never invited you specifically. I was helping my friend. You just happen to be her boyfriend’s best friend. That’s all, Blair.
—How generous of you —he says with a mocking smile.
—You’ve clearly never been invited to anything decent in your life. And rightfully so I would never fit in. —I say coldly.—Must be a shock for you to eat real food without tesserae stamps on it for once.
His jaw tightens. I don’t stop.
—You think I care what you or anybody else thinks about my life? You know nothing, Blair. I’ve been nothing but good to you because you are Haymitch’s friends. But sure, go ahead and pretend this is about me “playing house” and not about your bruised ego.
—There she is —he says, eyes gleaming with something vicious.—That’s the Maysilee Donner I remember. The one who thought she was better than the rest of us just because her parents owned the sweetshop and she could afford silk ribbons and gold necklaces for school.
—Well, apparently I still am better —I snap.—At least I don’t pick fights with people whose lives I clearly don’t understand just to feel big at someone else’s table.
—Your table? This is the Capitol’s table. You just happen to live in it.
—I live in it because I won. You want it? Guess what? Reaping’s close. Go volunteer.
—Guys, stop it —Asterid says sharply.
But Blair ignores her.
—You want me to go volunteer so I end up dead like your last tributes? Thank you very much. —I gasp, genuinely stunned at the venom in his voice.— You know what? I don’t even get what any of the boys saw in you. You are some kind of evil witch that has put a spell on them so they feel whipped.
—Blair, what the hell? —Haymitch barks, slamming his fist against the table.
The glasses rattle. The room freezes.
—You don’t talk to her like that —Haymitch continues, his voice tight and trembling with fury.—What the hell, man? you’re just being cruel. Cruel and wrong.
Blair scoffs.
—Come on. Even you can’t believe she’s being honest with you. She’s using you. Both of you.
—You don’t know a thing about what’s going on —Haymitch starts walking to him and pushes him in the chest.
Blair stands up and pushes him too.
—You’re defending her? After everything? After how she dumped your ass so you went straight back to do drugs and drinking again? We were there for you, man, through everything. Every time you got stoned and imagined things. Or so drunk you couldn’t even walk properly from the town to your house, we were there to cure every single scratch you had. —He points to Haymitch’s chest. And I blink. I didn’t know how bad it was.—And you were fine until that fucking party where you saw her again, and I don’t know what happened, but you relapsed. And who was there? Us, man. Your friends. Not her. —Blair then looks at me.—You are a fucked up bitch, Maysilee Donner, and you deserve whatever the Games do to you.
Then Haymitch punches him in the face.
—For fuck’s sake, Haymitch?! —Hazelle says, and Blair has blood spurting from his mouth when he fall on the floor.
—What are you even saying, huh? You are my friend and that’s what friends are supposed to do, they take care of each other. Should I start counting and telling all the times I saved your ass? Or I can pay you money for staying with me through all of that if you’d like.
—That’s not what I meant, Haymitch. —he responded.
—Then I don’t fucking care. Whatever she’s done, whatever we’ve done, it’s none of your fucking business. You don’t know what we’ve had to sacrifice to be here.
Hazelle stands up to grab a napkin and starts cleaning Blair’s face. Then Haymitch comes near me to give me a side hug.
—Oh, please. I can’t stand it. Drop the act, Maysilee. You’re acting all in love with him when last week I literally saw you kissing Otho Mellark by the Hanging Tree. Blair is right, you are whoring around.
I stare at her, stunned.
—Oh so he got that idea from you? I would never go to the hanging tree, that’s where you poor people go, not me.
I was full of bullshit but fuck it ig she wanted me to be the villain let’s fucking be it.
Hazelle gives me a dead stare, like she was embarrassed. —You bitch! I literally just happened to walk nearby and saw you both.
I breathe in sharply. And thank above that she didn’t say which day she saw us. I didn’t trust talking about Otho here, not when I’m sure my house must be mic’d up.
—You are such a liar. I wasn’t there, and you literally have no proof.
Hazelle shrugs.
—No, but I know what I saw.
—Good for you —I say, standing now.—Write it in your little fantasy journal then, because that’s the only place it ever happened.
My hands were trembling now, but I didn’t let my voice crack. I wouldn’t.
Silence stretched, until Asterid pushed back her chair with unexpected force. Her voice, when it emerged, was tremulous but clear.
—Enough. Enough.
She grabbed Burdock’s hand like a lifeline.
—We were saving this for dessert, but… since dessert is ruined. We’re getting married. In secret. After the Reaping. Once Haymitch and Maysilee come home. We already booked a date at the Justice Building. And we want you all to be our couple witnesses.
Burdock nodded, eyes soft with relief.
—And we’re going to do the toasting at the house the lake.
Joy washed through me, swift, clean, startling. Something pure. I rose and wrapped my arms around Asterid, felt her shaking.
—Oh my! Asterid! I’m so happy for you —I say, genuinely.—For both of you. Wow. Thank you for letting us be part of it.
Haymitch clapped Burdock’s shoulder, muttered, —About time, man.
Blair, clutching a crimson napkin to his mouth, muttered a grudging, Congratulations. Hazelle’s stare flicked from me to the door.
—We should go, Blair —she said softly, guiding him out. He didn’t argue.
At the threshold, Blair paused, gave me a look half pity, half storm cloud.
—Let’s see if you make it back from the Capitol for that wedding.
—And I hope you choke on your bitterness, Blair —Asterid said, not even raising her voice.
—————
March came to a close, and the following months passed in a blur.
Haymitch and I followed the schedule. Rigidly. Perfectly. The weekly posts, the appearances, the “spontaneous” couple shots arranged by Effie. From the outside, we looked like we were healing. In sync. Carefully stitched back together by the hands of civic gratitude.
But behind closed doors, once the shot was done so was our little stunt.
Effie called every other week to check in. Each time, Haymitch came over, and we sat together in front of the screen, backs straight, smiles rehearsed. The moment the call ended, he would get up, sometimes with a sigh, sometimes with a nod, and leave.
After that dinner in March —the one with Blair, with Hazelle, with the yelling and the silence— we made a quiet deal. A pact. Before anything else, we were friends. And friends protected each other. Expected nothing in return.
He learned to smile when the cameras flashed. To stand just close enough for the public to keep believing. He even managed to look respectful —almost interested— when the mayor dragged us to the school one morning in May to “inspire” the older students before the Reaping. We stood there in the gymnasium, surrounded by chalk dust and half-bored teenagers, talking about surviving the Hunger Games.
Haymitch clenched his jaw through most of it, but never broke.
Neither did I.
My secret meetings with Otho became rare. Riskier. We started seeing each other only once a month, long enough to forget the sound of his laugh, short enough to make every second count. Sometimes we didn’t even speak. Sometimes we just sat, foreheads pressed together, stealing time.
And then, somehow, it was June.
My birthday fell on a Sunday. The timing felt like a gift from the universe, or from whatever was left of it.
We met on the hanging tree, like always. He was waiting with a small paper box in his hands and that hopeful tilt of a smile he always got when he was trying not to be nervous. Inside was a necklace. Delicate, simple, a golden chain with a tiny daisy pendant.
—It’s like a tradition now — he said, rubbing the back of his neck.—Every year, a different flower. And someday, when this is all over, I’ll give you the whole garden.
I didn’t mean to cry, but I did. Quietly, messily, as I threw my arms around him and kissed him so hard he stumbled back into the grass behind him, laughing against my mouth.
He smelled like bread and cinnamon and something unnameably safe.
That night, when my parents held a little party at our house in the Victor’s Village. Just like the year before. Merrilee and I blew out the candles together, just like always. And for once, I didn’t mind the cameras. I didn’t mind the Capitol’s broadcast team turning it into an “event,” or how Plutarch insisted on capturing footage of Haymitch and me dancing together under the porch lights, smiling like everything was fine.
Because for the first time in a long, long while… I was happy.
Not pretending. Not performing.
Just happy.
And I let myself believe, if only for a second, that maybe I could keep this. That maybe the worst had passed.
But then came July 4th.
That morning was exactly like last year. The only difference was that Proserpina and Vitus stayed in the Capitol, Nygel just sent us a yellow set to match, and Haymitch was forced to celebrate his birthday.
Like the perfect girlfriend I was, I baked him a cake, put some candles on it, and right on time, the cameras were on when I opened the door to his house.
Effie took a photo and posted it immediately.
While we were heading to the square, she mumbled something about how well it was being received.
—You guys got a million favs in an hour! How exciting! And on Reaping Day too!
I can’t believe how that works for her, how today is something to celebrate and not to mourn.
How in just a few minutes, two lives would be taken from our district, and what were the odds that one of them might be someone I know.
That was my nightmare last night. That Snow would punish me by choosing my sister as the female tribute, and Otho as the male one. I woke up screaming and sweating, all alone.
—Who cares, Effie —Haymitch said.
—Well, you must care, young man! Do you know how many people are busy with the festivities today? That’s a huge number of favs for just the two of you. —she paused to look at her cellphone— Oh, guess what? Half a million on the go!
Before we could process anything, it was time again.
Just like last year, Effie’s hand dipped into the bowl. She closed her fingers around one slip.
I looked at the crowd. Merrilee and Asterid were holding each other tightly, my sister’s light pink dress already wet with tears.
Like me, she was afraid too. And I looked at Effie, just to stop my tears from falling.
—Our female tribute from District Twelve is… —Please, please, please don’t be one of them.— Emeline Turah! Please come here!
As I let out a sigh, a brunette girl no older than sixteen rose from the crowd. She started crying the moment a Peacekeeper touched her arm. Thankfully -and I hate myself for even thinking that way- I didn’t knew this girl, she was from the seam for sure.
—Emeline, don’t! —a little girl screamed, running toward her. But before she could make it past the twelve year olds’ line, a Peacekeeper shoved her to the ground. There was a little revolt, and then Emeline was wiping her tears and climbing the steps to get on the stage standing next to Effie.
Bravery in its smallest, rawest form.
Effie straightened her dress, ever unfazed.
—Okay! How high are the emotions today, huh? —Effie said, chuckling.—Now for the boys. Let’s see who the lucky one is!
She started digging into the bowl when suddenly I felt Haymitch’s hand take mine and squeeze three times. I looked at him, but he didn’t meet my gaze.
I was distracted enough that I thought I had misheard.
—Come on now, Otho Mellark! Where are you?
My head’s spinning, my ears rang. My vision blurred. Everything stopped. I look at the boys line and I see him. Otho. The tears fall from my eyes without permission while he is slowly walking.
This was all my fault.
Snow had warned me. I’d ignored him. I’d kept seeing Otho. I’d dared to feel something like love. I’d broken the rules, and this was the consequence.
And now they were going to take him away forever. Not just from me but from his father, his brother, from his home, from his life.
In the arena there would be nothing I could do to save him, the President was going to kill him to prove a point.
I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen, my mouth dry and my legs shaking.
—Come on now, dear, we don’t have the whole day! —Effie called out cheerfully, waving at him.
But just as he was about to step up, Otho was pushed back, and Christopher swiftly stepped in.
—I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!
Otho tried to grab him, tried to say something, but Christopher just pushed him away and climbed the stairs.
His last eligible year. His last Reaping. A month away from freedom. A future, a wedding, a life waiting for him, and he gave it up in a heartbeat for his brother.
And just like that, Otho Mellark survived the Reaping.
Forever.
Notes:
Guys, firstly I want to thank u so much for the kudos the comments and support in general for this story, I’ve been enjoying writing it and reading all your opinions about it, it’s been one hell of a ride <3
And now on act II is when the worst happens in the story, like truly.
I already put the current hunger games tw on the first chapter and I been leaving several hints about what is going to happen next but I just wanted to make a note about it so everyone that did not see it, see it now you know what I mean?In case you don’t want to read anymore I completely understand and appreciate all your previous thoughts about the story and characters throughout all those first 15 chapters, like I said it’s been amazing!
With that being said on next chapter I welcome you to the next act of the book.
I’ll try to write all with such respect.
Love u guys, thank u again!! 💗💗
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