Chapter Text
Everyone should have been asleep in the Victor's Apartments when Haymitch stumbled to the door of his room. Of course, that was seldom the case. All victors had their own ways of warding off the terrors that lurked in the night.
The thud outside had been too loud to ignore, even in his drunken giddiness. He wasn't sure of the time. Midnight? Three? Four? What remained of the clock on his wall had been smashed ages ago. Chaff forced him to get the fragments of glass dug out by a doctor. Some scars from the wickedly sharp hands ran across his palms.
Haymitch inhaled sharply through his teeth as he opened the door. Panting slightly, and sparkling as though he'd been dipped in frost, there he stood. Finnick Odair, his strange nocturnal gull. Haunting the deserted hallways of Twelve's apartments.
Never, not since he'd left his arena five years ago, was he so unkempt. Though most Capitolites liked to forget his blood-spattered face and how easily his hands could snap them in half for the terrible wound a mutt had gifted him: so terrible he stripped off his underclothes to sop up the blood, and was promptly rewarded bandages and a pot of medicine.
It wasn't hard to connect him to the aloof—terrified—killer in the arena. His hair cast a dark shadow over red-rimmed eyes, lips bitten and bleeding. Dark eye-gel was smeared across his cheeks and sleeve. A client, then. Several, if the glitter was anything to go off of. Some kind of party? It sobered Haymitch up enough to catch Finnick's arm as his knees gave out and haul him inside.
At some point, his surprise at the boy seeking him of all people had quelled. Replaced with a strange, sea-green unfurling in his chest. He didn't want to know what was beneath all the layers when they opened wholly.
Haymitch unceremoniously dumped him on the coal-black sofa. Only space in the whole apartment which—while not clean—was messy in a Finnick way, not a Haymitch way. His old toys were strewn about. Little narwhals and starfish and octopi, blankets and comic books with their dashing heroes.
It was probably better to soak in a shiny fantasy world rather than drowning grief in drink in the long run. Well, it was a little late for him.
Automatically, he started on the clementine and grapefruit tea he always kept in supply. Finnick's beverage of choice. Ignored how small he looked, slumped over like an injured hatchling. His bronze hair made a halo around his bowed head. Even in the low light, it gleamed.
Haymitch wasn't cut out for the role of tender nurturer, not really. He wasn't Seeder. Caring for himself, if it could be called that, scarcely brought him to the next day. And when he wasn't sure he'd live to see one of his kids taken home—much less the Capitol flipped on its head—that tether thinned ever thinner.
But he didn't win the Games without a stubbornness to live bordering on lunacy.
Also, Ma wouldn't forgive him if he shunned Finnick when he stumbled into his room. Not that she'd approve of him living at the bottom of a bottle, either.
And maybe...maybe there was something else, too, when it came to his gull. Haymitch wouldn't dare reach inside that writhing thing.
He added two squirts of lime juice to the steaming tea and set it on the table. Finnick gratefully accepted the mug. With shaking hands, he brought it to his lips.
"Thanks," he said hoarsely. Cleared his throat. "Don't worry. I only...reacted in the elevator." Haymitch's eyes fell to his forearms, marked with red scrapes and flaky skin. A few beads of red dotted the curve of his wrist.
Oh, Finnick. I would kill every person in this city and then you. But we aren't allowed to die, the words rested on his tongue, sloshing and not yet fermented. You can't damage the property of the Capitol.
"I'd expect nothing more from you," Haymitch said. His lips pressed into a thin line.
Finnick gave a weak smile. It wobbled, up and down, before shattering. Tears poured down, black tunnels carving his golden face in ribbons. Haymitch trained his eyes onto the floor. While the croaking chorus of hiccups and gaps filled his ears, his nails bit white crescents into his palms.
How was he supposed to help him? Haymitch swallowed down the bile crawling up. What would Seeder do? Or Pa?
Not for the first time, Haymitch cursed at paying so little attention on being soft for someone else. He was never an overly affectionate kid. Unlike like his brother.
Why did Finnick even bother with him? He could only bring biting remarks and scuffed knuckles.
When Finnick lunged into his arms, knocking over the mug of tea, his body went rigid. Shattering ceramic was drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. Wildly, his heart pounded. His hands felt stupidly stiff. Haymitch flexed them, once, twice. Did he wrench him away or pull him closer?
Finnick's forehead found the crook of his neck to rest, body perched firmly in his lap. Like a roosting bird. Haymitch's hands unsteadily made their way to the small of his back.
"Hey, kid. You'll be okay, yeah?" Haymitch mumbled into the crown of his head. Sobs morphed into screaming.
At least the rooms are soundproof, Haymitch thought grimly and began to knead circles into his back. He had a memory of Ma doing that to his brother a thousand years ago in a place called Twelve.
If possible, Finnick curled closer. Their chests were flush against eachother, noses mushed like vegtables in a sack. It was painful, how little space there was between them. Haymitch worried he'd be sick. For his boy's sake, he restrained himself.
His ears were ringing when Finnick stopped, voice tapering into rough gasps.
"You can punch me if you want," Haymitch suggested. At least then he'd be of some use. He could handle that easily. Even enjoy it.
"No way," Finnick whispered, vowels cracking. But his grip did tighten. Polished nails left sore prints on his forearms. A little bit of the tension leeched out of him as he freely bruised Haymitch's flesh.
That gave him an idea. Where else could a teenager take out all that anger and hurt? It took some coaxing and half-hearted threats to tear Finnick off so he could locate the machine. Strong lad, even in such a devastated fit.
Minutes later, the sleek video game console was set up. Frequent visits from his gull made him embarassingly quick at it. Finnick's shaking hands wrapped around the controller pushed into them. At least in a virtual world, he couldn't hurt himself.
Finnick set it down on the littered coffee table. That was new. Usually he lost himself in the levels and bosses, or whatever.
"Can you read me a story instead?" His voice was impossibly quiet.
Haymitch's brows shot up. When was the last time he'd been asked that? Not since his...
Shaking off memories of his brother, he considered the request. He could hardly deny Finnick anything while he was in one of those states. And if it was his wretched company he asked for, well. He'd judge the boy, but give him what he wanted.
He let Finnick rest his head on his lap while he rummaged for the stacks of comic books nestled in the piled blankets. Finnick held his wrist and their fingers tangled. He surprised himself by not jerking away. Featherlight touches spread over his scars, tracing the raised skin.
On his second night home, his brother crawled beside him on the bed, curling into his side. Only this time, Haymitch snapped awake and punched him square on the nose. With a dripping face, he fled the room. Haymitch's eyes didn't leave his stained knuckles. Sleep brought crystal-clear images of hunting down his brother in the arena.
Ma stopped giving him hugs after that. He wasn't sure if he was glad.
He'd forgotten being held, even loosely, had the ability to unclench taut muscles and spread gentle light through his veins. Seeder used to do it sometimes, in his early years of mentoring. Chaff, too.
It was almost easy to convince himself it was only for Finnick's benefit he didn't let go.
"Your comics are all pictures," Haymitch pointed out. "Not much to read."
"Aw, not challenging enough for an advanced mind such as your own?" Finnick prodded him. Haymitch snorted. "Okay, okay, if you don't want to then say so," he said with a huff, and snatched the strips away.
"Nah, give 'em here."
Haymitch had torn through a dozen before he had to stop because his voice was choppy with sleeplessness. He hadn't read aloud to an audience since his Victory Tour. Constantly stumbling over words as Finnick listened raptly brought a flush to his face.
"I like your voice," he complained. "You have a good flow."
Haymitch's lips quirked up in a corner. "Don't hear that a lot, fishboy."
"Huh, wonder why," Finnick said with a wicked glint in his bright eyes. "Your baritone is most pleasant and polite. Don't stop, though, seriously. I'm getting sleepy."
"If it gets you out of my hair," Haymitch shot back. Finnick grinned wolfishly. It didn't take much longer for him to drift off and begin drooling all over him.
Leaving Haymitch in a rather tough spot. Anyone who entered the arena and lived to tell the tale slept light. With Finnick draped across him, slobbering on his clothes, there was no hope of getting up without rousing him.
No way he could fall asleep, either. He was drowsy when he'd opened the door, but the weight of Finnick against him lit every cell on fire. An aching thirst he'd never entertained began to crack open, a yawning chasm that needed more, more, more.
Longing was something Haymitch was well acquainted with. But this was a kind he never could've prepared for. How could he, when he was so sure his desire had gone cold with his girl's corpse?
What was one more sleepless night? With liquor just out of reach, he'd truly lose his mind. It almost made him stand up and grab a bottle. Almost.
Instead, Haymitch lolled his head back and tried to hang on to his sanity.
Oh, boy. He really was a sucker.