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cdyssey · 2 years

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Summary: When both Peeta and Katniss's scores come back as perfect and punitive twelves, Haymitch finds himself in Effie Trinket's room with a bottle of gin.

A/N: I've been re-reading The Hunger Games trilogy and got all up in my Hayffie feels again. The grip that these two people had on me as a middle schooler, omg.

AO3 Link

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It’s a corridor on the twelfth floor that Haymitch knows a little too well. Over the long and unending years, he’s taken to calling it Capitol Row because it’s where people like the stylists and their prep teams have been given temporary residences during the Games. All fully furnished and luxurious, the kinds of suites that would comfortably house entire shacks from the Seam. His uneven footsteps mechanically carry him to the door at the very end of the hallway, where a faint sliver of golden light seeps through the cracks and fans across the mahogany floor. He slams his knuckles against the paneled wood rather harshly, not even bothering to stifle the violence.

It's the only way he knows how to carry himself in the world.

“Not now, Haymitch, please,” Effie Trinket calls out from somewhere within the room, her voice high, pitched with audible strain. “I’m a little… indisposed at the moment. Hardly suitable for company.”

He laughs roughly at this, leaning heavily against the nearest wall to support his tenuous equilibrium. His other fist is clenched around one of the cloudy bottles of District 11’s gin that Chaff managed to smuggle on to the train. Strong stuff. Could probably clean the rust off of an old threshing machine. Was probably originally distilled for that very purpose anyway.

“Is that a fancy word for drunk, sweetheart?”

“No!” He can hear her bristling indignation in just the one syllable. “Just… I don’t have my makeup on or my wig… or any of my other necessary accoutrements! Furthermore, it is well past midnight, and—“

“And I’ve seen you without all your fancy shit on before.” He says this a little more quietly—far more carefully—wriggling it through his chapped lips as though he’s negotiating a key in a lock. He glances behind him, craning his head, but the six or so doors beneath Effie’s room are undisturbed, the hallway silent and dark.

It’s just them awake after an exhausting day.

For the most part during the Games, it usually is.

“I’m… not in the mood tonight,” comes an even quieter reply—close to him, he thinks, just on the other side of the door, the sound pressed right against the grain. “Surely you’re not either, Haymitch—not after, you know…” She trails off awkwardly, but he has no trouble following her thoughts.

Dinner.

The kids’ tiny rebellions.

Their dual punishments of a perfect score.

The boy painted Rue in a bed of flowers.

The girl hung Seneca Crane.

Heavensbee is likely furious; they can hardly stage a proper mutiny if Katniss and Peeta are both immediately killed by jealous Careers at the Bloodbath.

“I’m not here to fuck you,” Haymitch agrees gruffly, taking a long drag of the gin, almost ecstatic that it burns his abused tongue. He swishes it around in his mouth a little and lets the pain erupt down the column of his throat before finally swallowing. “I just wanna talk.”

“So vulgar,” Effie whispers disapprovingly.

“Let me in,” he only returns, knowing that he’s won when her strongest counterargument boils down to manner—which both of them are well aware that he doesn't have. There’s an infinitesimal sigh and the telltale ker-clunk of a lock before the door suddenly sweeps inwards, and Effie Trinket is standing there in the triangle of light, bathed in golden fluorescence. As she had complained, she’s not wearing any makeup and that ridiculous orange wig is just behind her on a table, sitting neatly atop of a custom mannequin head. Her natural hair falls in soft waves across her shoulders, light and flaxen and not bleached to oblivion yet like her nonexistent brows. Beneath those very same brows, he can see that she’s been crying recently, the redness of her eyes unmistakable.

“I like you better without all that crap caked on your face,” he offers by way of greeting and waddles past her into the room, giving her the time she needs to collect herself. She closes the door with a quiet click, and he hears her sniff surreptitiously at the exact same time. With Effie Trinket, he’s come to learn that timing is never a coincidence with her.

They’re in her small living area where there’s a comfortable couch, a large television screen embedded into the wall, and a full mini-bar outfitted with all the precocious wines that District 12’s bubbly escort likes to drink. He heads there first and scoops up two crystalline glasses from the display cabinet, studying them with a knowing smirk. They’re far too elegant and expensive for the bootleg hooch that District 11 herbalists brew in their back rooms, but still, he pours himself a generous finger from his bottle anyway. And he reaches upwards towards the shelf, instinctively grabbing the Prosecco he knows to be Effie’s favorite, and fixes her a glass too, filling it to the rim.

“You only say that because you have no taste,” she accuses, and he hears her dainty footfalls as she comes up behind him. His entire body tenses, primal instinct, muscle reflex. Ever since his own Quarter Quell—almost twenty-five years ago to the day now—he doesn’t like when people approach him from behind, where he can’t see their faces and what they’re holding in their murderous hands. But then she’s right beside him, nearly a foot shorter than he is without her heels, examining the gin skeptically, and the moment passes. He lets out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

“Case in point,” she frowns obliviously, tapping the bottle with one of her long fingernails, “this simply looks abominable, Haymitch. When is the last time this bottle was washed?”

“It’s gin, Princess,” he snorts, nudging her glass towards her. “It’s doing all the cleaning itself.”

“That seems like a dubious fact,” Effie shakes her head, capturing her glass in a delicate tangle of fingers. But she’s decidedly anything but delicate as she knocks back a long swill, nearly getting a quarter of it in one go. He almost laughs at her, almost calls her out on the impropriety of it all, but then he sees that her fingers are quivering.

“Hey, what do I know?” He shrugs gently, absently swirling his own drink around. “I’m just an alcoholic fuck up from District 12.”

She stops short and stares at him with wide, impossibly blue eyes. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost wager that they're surgically altered.

But no, she's Effie, and she's frankly vain about having all of her natural parts.

("Boobs 'n ass too?" He'd teased her less than a year ago, when they'd been sweating in the sheets in her room on the Victory Tour train. It was a damned better way to deal with the night than succumbing to the nightmares.)

("Crass," she had just rolled those vivid eyes, lithe and luminous in the faint light emitting from the overhead vents. "I despise that in a man.")

(And they promptly went at it for another hour.)

“You’re a victor.” She briefly touches his wrist, right on the jagged scar he’d gotten from one of those wretched birds that had skewered Maysilee. Its swordlike beak had nearly gone through bone before he’d hacked off its head with his axe, scaring the flock away. But it’d been too late for his once ally—his almost friend—the girl whose blonde hair cascaded down her back like water. He still nightmares her blood, how it bloomed across her sliced open skin, how his calloused hands were covered with it, long after he left the arena.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Haymitch says flatly before taking a long drink himself. “In fact, one caused the other.”

Effie doesn’t look like she knows what to say to this, gaping silently, and a ripple of familiar disgust shudders through him as he is reminded of the escort’s utter Capitolness, how the stench of it rolling off of her is even stronger than her trademark floral perfume. She’s never known true suffering, never been driven to the bottle or a morphling drip ‘cause she’s seen the life leave someone eyes and maybe even caused it. Her hands, her mind, her sheltered life are perfectly manicured, and not for the first time since their informal bedtime arrangements began a few years ago, he wonders how he can lay in her bed and kiss that very same perfectly manicured body and be inside of her and—

But then, just as he’s thinking about leaving, she is carefully bending down and pressing her pink lips to the leathery skin of his scarred arm with all the tenderness of a lover. And when she straightens up again, he can see the fresh tears clinging to her pale lashes.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, almost inaudibly. He has to lean forward to really hear her. “I am.”

He freezes, unsure of what to do with an unguarded Effie Trinket, how to navigate this unexpected moment. He doesn’t want to say it’s okay because it damn well isn’t—none of this is. They’re all pieces in a chess game that ends in the deaths of twenty-three goddamn kids nearly every year. They are bodies shuffled around by the hands of a malevolent god. Reap. Kill. Rinse. Repeat. And sorry is insufficient in the cruel reality of that fact; tears are more than useless when the gong rings and the Bloodbath begins, whether for the tributes of the new year or in his nightmares every night, Maysilee just to the left of him, the candy-colored sky stretching like taffy above them both.

So Effie’s sorry isn’t sufficient because it just damn well isn’t okay, but still—both the fight and the need for flight gutters through Haymitch’s tired body, like a drain unplugged, replaced with an unpleasant epiphany that he has about the District Twelve escort every now and then.

She actually cares.

He can’t say that about many other Capitol lackeys.

“So many broken people goin’ into the arena this year, sweetheart,” he smiles at her sadly, “two of them my—our—kids.”

Of course they’re both of their kids. He remembers that last year, it was Effie by his side in the Donor’s Lounge, charming potentially sponsors and directing them back to Haymitch with a winning smile. She’d stayed up in the monitor room on many a night too, helping him keep an eye on Katniss and Peeta even if they were just sleeping in that cave, trying to stave off various infections. He and the escort were the first in the clinic after the star-crossed lovers had been pulled from the arena, bloodied and half-mad, the boy on the brink of death, and Effie had snarled at one of the doctors for daring to suggest that they might do some cosmetic alterations on them while they were both under the knife: breast augmentation, jaw sculpting, lip fillers.

“They’re children,” she had shrieked, getting into his face, feral and ferocious, a lioness standing between a surgeon and her cubs. “Save them. Save Peeta’s leg, but don’t you dare, don’t you even think about—!“

It’s this visceral memory that prompts Haymitch to suddenly breach the space between them, gently lifting her chin so that she’s not staring at the ground—so that she’s looking at him—and he can see her that her lower lip is trembling from a concerted effort not to cry.

“Our stupid kids,” he laughs hoarsely, drawing his thumb across the soft plane of her cheek, over and over again, until he soothes the sadness from her. “Gettin’ perfect training scores because they wanted to stick it to the man. They’ve got balls, I’ll give ‘em that, but they’re not making it any easier for us to help them.”

To save them, really, if Heavensbee’s batshit insane plan works perfectly—not that the woman across him can know anything about that. Not yet, at least, until Haymitch is sure that he can secure her a spot on a rebel hovercraft. Because if the hijacking succeeds, and they can get the Katniss and Peeta out, then one of the first things that happens is that their teams will pay for it—arrested, tortured, interrogated, maybe even killed to prove some sick point to the people of Panem. He can’t save them all, and he’s so fucking sorry that he can’t, but maybe, just maybe, he can save one person.

It’s the responsibility of the mentor.

He always has to choose just one.

“No,” Effie sighs, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. “But they never have, our darling children. So naughty… always stirring up trouble...”

These final words stir the dregs of his memory, and he remembers why he had lumbered here in the first place. Because Effie had said something curious at dinner—shocking even—after she'd learned what the kids had done. She had betrayed much more knowledge about the unrest in the districts than he could have ever expected from a career Capitol.

You’ll only bring down more trouble on yourself and Katniss, she had pointed out, directly indicating that she was well aware that the young victors were in trouble to begin with. He’d suspected as much when she spent her entire post-Games interview circuit last year tearing up over her star-crossed lovers as she sat across from an emotionally sympathetic Caesar Flickerman. Most escorts during their winning years tended to talk about themselves and their overstated roles in their victor’s success.

But not Effie.

If the entire team, from the stylists to Haymitch, was consciously united in trying to convince Snow that Katniss extending those berries was the desperation of a besotted lover, then Effie, without having ever been prompted, contributed her ample talents to the machine as well.

But what had surprised him most at dinner was that she’d known what had happened to Seneca Crane. Rumor has it that he was made to eat the nightlock berries that started this all: tumbling dominoes, a glass Capitol, and an even shakier nation of cards. From what he can tell, the citizens of the Capitol just think he’s retired to the Pax Romana Islands for a well-deserved retirement at the respectable age of thirty-six.

But not Effie.

Oh, Katniss…. How do you even know about that?

“So Seneca Crane,” he puts it out there bluntly, causing the escort to flinch so violently that she spills a little wine on the side of her hand. Letting go of her cheek, he swipes it off for her with the cuff of his very nice sleeve, earning a remonstrative glare.

“Don’t,” she says sharply, turning away from him. With graceful footsteps, she heads in the direction of the couch, where he can see that her brightly colored notebooks are piled. She sits down next to them, places her glass on an end table, and fusses over them, even though they’re already immaculately arranged. “We shouldn’t discuss such matters.”

“And why shouldn’t we?” He challenges a little recklessly, following her, sitting down on the couch right next to her. He doesn’t give up his gin, though, keeping it close to his chest. “You’re a Capitol darling. Your room isn’t bugged.”

He’s already ascertained that at least ten times over the course of his nighttime visits, scouring every inch of her suite for a spying device and satisfactorily coming up short every time. She's Effie Trinket. The last thing from a threat to the perilous standing of the government. A model citizen. Voted the most stylish escort for three years straight.

The fact that she's such a reliable goody two-shoes occasionally has its perks.

Like freedom of speech in her inner rooms.

“And you’ll be the very one to change that,” she hisses without looking at him, now seemingly trying to reorganize the notebooks by color, “if someone gets wind of the fact that we were talking about forbidden topics in here. What is it that you always stress to me? Circumspection and precaution? Safety?”

Haymitch knows she’s right, as she annoyingly tends to be—but maybe it’s because he’s furious with his impulsive tributes or maybe it’s because he’s secretly impressed by their resolve—that he continues to push her anyway, wanting to see how far he can take this night and all the madness it already contains.

They're all probably going to end up dead soon anyway, so what the hell?

He’s got nothing to lose that isn’t being taken from him already.

He turns up his glass again.

For liquid luck.

“There’s no safety in being anywhere near District Twelve these days,” he smiles at her mockingly as she now stacks her notebooks based on size, slamming one against the other with perfect and violent precision. “Surely you must know that by now, huh?”

Effie doesn’t say anything after this for a long time—hands carefully poised around the edges of what he knows to be her agenda—and he’s nearly decided that she isn’t going to say anything at all, too cowardly, too Capitol, but… then finally—

“Do you want me to say yes?” She asks in a cool, measured tone. “Will you go away if I acknowledge the unspeakable precariousness of our current situation? I fear for my own life, yours, and certainly Katniss and Peeta’s—though I can hardly do anything where the children are concerned. None of us can because this Quarter Quell, and it is... it's—" But before she can say anything that could potentially be construed as rebellious, Haymitch watches, in real time, as the escort, ever a perfect self-disciplinarian, cuts herself off, subjugating her feelings into a word that springs awkwardly from her accented tongue. "... unprecedented. Are you happy now, Mr. Abernathy?”

“No,” he says plainly, any maliciousness sagging away from his face at her outburst. He had hardly estimated the depths of her feelings and the lengths she'd go to ensure that they never surfaced. “I’m never happy and definitely not about that.”

“Then why make me say it?” She barely whispers, her eyes glazed and her voice constrained. He has a feeling that if she lets go of her planner, there’d be nothing left to tether her to any sort of dignified display of composure. So she grips it far too tightly, her chest visibly fluttering beneath the silky fabric of her nightshirt. “Why do you insist upon hearing it aloud?”

It’s a pointed examination of what she believes to be his cruelty, and perhaps she’s right. Maybe he is just being a dick, pressing her to admit what she can’t possibly control, but Haymitch slowly shakes his head at the implicit accusation, his free hand tightly holding his knee.

“Saying it makes it real, Effie,” he tells her and doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to see this particular realization register in her porcelain features like a blow. “We’re all in danger, and if we’re going to have a chance of makin' it out… it’s gotta be real. To you. To me. To those two unlucky bastards right down the hallway."

He hears but doesn’t see her shuddered breath, how a sob audibly hitches in the back of her throat. But to her credit, she pieces herself together remarkably fast, a rebuttal soft on her lips.

“I don’t want it to be real,” she says, almost whimpering it, like a child in the throes of a nightmare. He pities her, suddenly reminded that she’s young and terribly naïve—not unlike a child—and he is simultaneously disappointed in her for not realizing the ultimate truth of the Hunger Games.

All of it is real.

The brutality and the carnage.

The bodies and the bodies and the bodies and the—

“But it is, sweetheart,” he says. Almost kindly. “Seneca Crane's not sipping’ piña coladas at a beachside resort.”

Effie closes her eyes at this, the faint lines beneath them stark in the warm light that floods the room, and finally lowers her agenda to her lap, even as she continues to sit primly—with perfect discipline.

A single tear slips down the pointed architecture of her face, falling in such a straight line that he imagines that she arranged for it to do so.

“He was two years above me in grade school,” she murmurs, lacing her shaking fingers together just below her stomach. “Seneca. Our fathers were both product importation overseers, and Seneca would come over sometimes when they were working and talk to me about aesthetic game design.”

“So you were friends,” Haymitch surmises, watching a uniquely painful expression twist her pale features into unsalvageable convolutions. “More than that?”

His gut inexplicably lurches at the added supposition, but to his surprise, Effie laughs humorlessly at this, finally opening her eyes again.

“Less than that,” she smiles faintly, as though she had heard what his stomach had done in the timbre of his voice. “Acquaintances, really. I partially despised his arrogance, even when we were children… but even still, I knew him, Haymitch. I played tag with him in our gardens. I danced with him at balls. We congratulated each other with bouquets and champagne bottles when we both assumed our respective positions. He didn’t retire. He would have never retired—Head Gamemaker was his dream job—so I searched until I chanced upon an answer that I had to live with.”

“He was dead,” Haymitch doesn’t sugar coat it, doesn't see the point in doing so.

“He was executed,” Effie amends, with unmistakable bitterness in her quiet voice, before she suddenly realizes what she has said. All of the color leaches from her face, and she presses a hand over her mouth.

“He was a friend,” he repeats himself, reaching over again—a little awkwardly this time—and curling a hand over the one she’s still resting on top of her stomach. The spines of her knuckles peak sharply beneath his palm. “You're grieving for him.”

She nods but doesn’t take her hand from her mouth, looking faintly green. He’s starting to think that he’s taking this too far, pushing this Capitol sycophant towards and off the edge of no return, where he and so many other thousands citizens of Panem already are. But he can’t stop himself, the words spewing from him like the vomit he’s well-acquainted with from all the collective years of killing his liver.

“I know what it’s like,” he shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I’m about to lose a lot of friends myself.”

Chaff. Seeder. Finnick. Johanna. Cecelia. Mags. Maybe even one of the kids if Plutarch can’t get them out. Maybe even both of them if his plan entirely fails. He’s not stupid enough to believe that the Head Gamemaker can make the impossible happen and save all of these victors from their imminent dooms, and he’s cynical enough to know that the cost of winning a war is going to involve losing a few battles. The other rebel victors intimately know this too, and they’ve calmly accepted their fates.

There will be no long and drawn out goodbyes over the next few days.

Just strategizing in the dark.

Exchanging notes.

Whispering secrets.

Hoping for rebellion and simultaneously understanding that they might never live to see it. Haymitch knows all of this—goddammit, he’s immersed and committed and so perfectly aware—but even still, his hand violently shakes around his glass of gin, and there’s blood on his palms again. Maysilee’s blood. He can’t stop the bleeding. He’s so sorry, Chaff. And he’s sorry, Finnick. Johanna. Seeder. Mags. Jesus, he’s sorry, Katniss, and he’s sorry, Peeta. They're both too young to be living through this shit. Wasn’t he once upon a time? Weren’t they all? There’s just too much of it, the blood. It’s bright red and sticky, and he can’t fucking do any—

Just as his gin falls away from his fumbling fingertips, he feels a pair of arms slide around his neck, slender and smooth. The glass hits the wooden floor harshly, exploding into innumerable shards—so much damage bisecting Maysilee's neck, the artery clearly nicked, and the eruption from the volcano, he's gotta find high ground quick, is that what flesh smells like when it's fucking burning?!—but there’s a chin resting against his shoulder preventing him from immediately assessing his immediate surroundings. The foul-smelling alcohol seeps unpleasantly into his shoes—all the water sources in the arena are poisonous, everything except the rain, tributes twitching on the ground, their skin an unnatural shade of blue. He's so thirsty. Just one sip wouldn't hurt...? District 12 tributes aren't supposed to live this long anyway...

The mouth pressed into the skin beneath his ear is unbothered.

“I’m so sorry,” Effie whispers against his jaw, her manicured fingertips curling into the nape of his neck, and the gesture grounds him in the same way booze makes it all sort of float of way.

“You’re bleeding,” he says numbly, his quivering fingertips finding purchase in her nightshirt. He’s looking down at her white leg, where shrapnel grazed the side of it, leaving pops of bright blood.

“That’s something I can handle,” she returns gently, but surely she must be crying again. He can feel a telltale wetness against the column of his throat.

“And me?” He rasps, burying his own face into Effie’s bony shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at the blood anymore.

Her blood. Maysilee’s blood. Katniss’s. Peeta's. Chaff's. Seeder's. Johanna's. Finnick's. He held his own guts in his stomach—waiting for District 1 to come and find him—and felt his intestines slide against the crumbling wall of his abdomen.

“How do I handle it?”

“It’s merely a simple scrape, Haymitch,” she says it dubiously, like she already knows that’s not what he’s talking about.

“It never fucking is,” he growls, so relieved that he can’t see her face, already itching for another bottle, something to burn all these feelings away, to scald himself alive. But even in the midst of his sick cravings, he’s aware of a strangely gentle sensation along his scalp: Effie running her fingers through his hair—slowly, rhythmically, and smoothly. “Don’t pretend otherwise. This is just the pre-show for everything to come.”

He’s not sure if it’s fatalism or a subtle warning.

Maybe even both.

Probably both.

“Scrapes don’t have to become open wounds, Haymitch,” she insists fiercely, still clearly holding on to the delusional hope that none of this is actually happening: the danger, the Quarter Quell, the blood.

“And seventeen-year olds don’t have to become mockingjays,” he snarls into the sleek silk of her shirt and feels the desired effect course through Effie’s entire body almost instantaneously. She freezes in his arms, all ceramic and glass and an inhalation of utter shock.

A squeak and then absolutely nothing. She stops carding her fingers through his wiry, unwashed hair but but doesn’t let him go—even though she could—and he inhales the scent of her, all flowers and other lovely things that have no place in this godawful world.

Effie Trinket.

She scarcely knows that the world is godawful to begin with.

“Don’t say that,” she breathes, her heartbeat thrumming against his chest, quick and erratic, like the flapping of a bird’s wings.

“Why?” He tests and he provokes her. He resists the wild urge to press a kiss against her collarbone, where it sharply protrudes from the rumpled collar of her shirt.

“Because like you said, then the quiet part becomes loud.”

“Real,” he viciously offers her the exact word.

“Yes.” And he’s thoroughly surprised that Effie actually accepts it, though the sound is nearly unintelligible in the back of her throat.

But maybe she has no choice to otherwise.

When he experiences rather than hears her wince, all her willowy limbs tightening against his own, Haymitch finally uncloses his bleary eyes and immediately sees all the blood, how it spirals down her shin in lovely ribbons—both beautiful and terrible to behold.

His fault.

How many people?

His family.

His friends.

His fellow victors. He can't save them all.

District 12's stylists and prep teams.

Effie herself.

He might not be able to save fucking any of them.

His fault.

"Sorry," he chokes out as she wordlessly cradles his head to her chest, holding him and all of his endless horror; he doesn't think he's ever been held like this before, not since his mother was still alive, and he was just a gap-toothed boy scraping his knees on coal piles in the Seam. At the mere thought of her—the first person in the world who had ever loved him—hot tears prick his eyes and assault the sunken hollows of his face, dampening Effie's beautiful shirt.

"Sorry," he says again, even though he knows it's not sufficient; she could be dead three weeks from now, and she doesn't know it. Or maybe she does. Maybe it's all becoming real now.

"Shh," she murmurs, easing the tortured syllable into his hair, and it is is not absolution. It could never be for either of them.

They are what they are, him and Effie Trinket.

There is no making up for the monsters they have become.

"Shh," she consoles him anyway and all the same.

#hayffie #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #the hunger games #catching fire #f: thg #reginianwrites #all of my writing has been about indulging childhood nostalgia lately

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ballad-of-birdy-lamb · 2 months

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The request was made by @fleorsee

Won't you stay with me, my darling?

Treech x Fem! Tribute! Reader (romantic hurt comfort) Summary: Treech is reaped alongside fem! Reader, but she's far too sorrowful to pay attention to much else other than becoming a tribute. Contains: mention of death, murder, hurt/comfort (reader being comforted), hints at su1cide (about unnamed Seven victor), hints at panic attacks (towards unnamed victor). Word count: 5.4k ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

The reaping for the tenth Hunger Games had been another shitshow, as had every year since the first.

All the boys lined up on their side, the girls the other. Treech had been called and he went to the podium reluctantly, no matter if his face showed that or not. But you had brought the District some attention. Your name had been called at the reaping and almost immediately other girls within nearby lines ran to hold you close and sob.

It wasn’t until their tears flowed that yours did too. Seconds after you felt their hands grasping at your clothes, grabbing at anything that could keep you close, your eyes had watered too and your wails didn’t sound too different to your friends’.

The entwined bodies were pulled from each other rather harshly, finally showing your figure to the Capital citizens, the crowd, and Treech who you truly were. You were brought next to him and shown off for District Seven’s tenth Hunger Games tributes.

And now as you stood at the train station, two peacekeepers standing besides you both, it was awkward. The silence was sickening, the skin around your tearful eyes having grown sensitive from you constantly wiping them.

Treech didn’t worry about that though, he was too worried about what could happen to both you and him while in the Capital and the arena. The idea of his death wasn’t something he wished to get to so soon. The same could be said for you. He knew so little about you but he had enough empathy to understand that you felt the same, more physically too.

Treech looked over at you, the tears having partially dried into a shine around your cheeks. You occupied yourself with picking at your fingers or feeling at the cloth of your clothes. He couldn't help gazing at you, looking at the fabric of your clothes, seeing the intricate details on the cloth. It made him think of the browns and vague blues of his attire, having felt slightly underwhelming next to you. It was true to an extent, his lifeless reaction to his name call probably made him seem underwhelming too.

A rust-colored cattle car pulls into the station. Treech looks at it with uncertainty. Not many animals were ever brought to the district, so it was either for animal meat or for you both. He had heard the Capital brought the tributes in cattle cars, so it was likely for you both. Which was quickly proven correct.

The door is thrown open by a nearby peacekeeper. You crooned your head to look into the car, seeing the slightly dirty hay sitting on the wood flooring. Treech's lips drew into a line while his nose scrunching from the smell. It smelled disgusting, even as far as you both were from the train.

Treech looked over at you, wondering how you felt about the situation and the train car entirely. His questions were quickly answered as your hand went to your face and pinched your nostrils closed, your expression forming into one of displeasure. Treech’s mind went to your clothes and the possibility they would get dirty and ruined from the disgustingness from the car.

The peacekeepers beside you pushed you both forward towards the cattle car. Their demand was met with reluctance from both you and Treech but you went along anyway. He climbed onto the train, his nose wrinkling at the smell of the train car. Either way, he turns back to you to help you up. His hand took yours gently, hoping you wouldn't see him as a possible threat, now or in the arena.

You gratefully took his hand but didn’t vocally thank him, simply giving him a look. A brighter look than you would have given anyone else. You swiped your shoe over the hay, moving the beige colored grass out of your way once you sat on the wood floor. Treech does something similar but sits across the cattle car, not trying to get near you.

The peacekeepers closed the doors harshly, causing both you and Treech to jump a bit. He sighed and leaned against the metal walling. Hoping to calm his heart, his fingers tracing the details on his palm, his fingertips lightly brushing between creases and over the sores from work brought a mindless feeling to him. He had done something similar when he was in school, his mind having naturally wandered off to other places as he traced the delicate intricacies of his palm then the veins on his hand.

Your legs were close to your chest, curling your body to comfort yourself. Treech didn’t try comforting you, he simply didn’t know what to do. He’s comforted people before but not in situations like this. When he was young, he would comfort his friends when they got hurt but this was a different kind of hurt. This was worse than Treech thought he could ever comfort you through. So he didn’t try. But he’d have to talk to you at some point.

“You’re in my math class, right?” Treech asked, hoping to break the ice. Your eyes trail to him as you try stifling your sniffles, which was a failure. “I might have gotten you mixed up but you look very familiar.”

You stare at him, sniffling before nodding. “I could say the same for you,” You mutter and turn your head down to your hands. “Ms. Ecordium, yes?” He nods with a slight smile.

“Yep,” he mumbles awkwardly and looks down at his hands. You nod, wait several seconds before going back to looking out the crack in the wall. The sunlight shines from your forehead to your bottom lip, covering your skin in the soft golden glow.

The silence was brought back with the familiar awkwardness from the train station. Treech glanced at you again, seeing the movements of shadows over your cheek, showing the train slowly picking up speed.

He sighs, setting his hat near him as he laid down. Treech’s thoughts were plagued with what could be in the arena, how he would hold up with the other tributes who were possibly stronger than him. But he eventually closed his eyes, the last thing he sees is you sitting in the corner, looking out the crack in the wall.

♡♡♡

It was roughly 6:30 at night when Wovey and Bobbin, the District Eight tributes, had been brought to the same train car. Bobbin didn’t try speaking to you or Treech’s sleeping body, Wovey did though. It was only a small “hello” and a wave that had been made in your direction, which you had done back out of politeness.

The sun had finally set and Wovey and Bobbin curled up in their pile of hay, which had been gathered by the both of them. You offered to help but Bobbin said they could do it on their own, leaving you to grovel in your moonlight. Now, they slept, Wovey’s blonde hair that had been pulled from the bun to keep her comfortable, the hairband around her wrist. Her head rested on Bobbin’s arm while they slept.

The night had grown quiet, the only sound filling the night sky was the screeching train rails and the soft snoring coming from the Eight tributes and Treech. The train car rocked lazily though it moved hastily across the countryside. Your tears had dried hours prior when you couldn’t produce any more tears, leaving just soreness from constantly wiping the diluted water from your cheeks.

The idea of you never getting back home and seeing your friends again plagued your mind. You couldn’t think of anything but their cries as they held you close, pleading that you wouldn’t leave. And there was a possibility you would never go home, your fate being held in another tribute's palms, their blood covered hands.

Treech gradually opened his eyes, the darkened car only lit by the small cracks of moonlight shining down on the countryside. He sat up begrudgingly, his body rocking back and forth just as the train car did.

He lazily reached into his pocket, his arm slightly sore from sleeping on it. He pulled out the silver pocket watch, reading 11:52 PM, and sighed. It had been a long while that he had slept, it’s unlikely that he would sleep for the rest of the night. Treech ran his fingers gently through his hair, trying to fix himself just a little. His eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness.

Treech stared at you as you sat in your corner, curled up in a ball, trying to comfort yourself the best you could.

“(Y/n)? Are you crying again?” Treech asked then paused, pressing his lips into a line, realizing how mean he might have sounded. But thankfully you didn’t consider crying more at his question. Instead, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you answer and look away, back through the crack in the wooden wall, watching the moon again. The silver shined onto your skin, showing the layer of tears left untouched by your hand.

Treech’s mind immediately thought you were embarrassed, why else would you look away so quickly? He pursed his lips, looking around at the hay that surrounded his body, his hat on the gold grass. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about that,” he stated simply, rubbing his eyes.

You look back at him again and shake your head. The back of your palm wiped the newfound tears. “No, I’m not embarrassed,” you assure and sigh, which was interrupted by a hiccup. “I just keep crying.”

Treech’s eyes trail to Wovey and Bobbin who sleep soundly in their pile of hay, their bodies still but full of life. He looks back at you again and nods. “I get that,” he mutters awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

Your tears sparkled on your skin from the silver moon grazing over the sky. Treech’s dark eyes looked down at yours as you sobbed. And it dawned on him, he didn’t think too much about going back to District Seven. He hadn’t shed a tear while waiting for or on the train. Maybe it was just how quickly he had accepted his demise or how his friends and family didn’t react either. It didn’t matter now.

“Do you… um,” Treech hesitates, looking down at his hands. “Hold you? I meant, do you want me to hold you?”

You stare at him silently, thinking about his offer. But it didn’t take too much time to finally have an answer.

It only took a matter of seconds for you to crawl into his arms, laying your head on his chest, your arms wrapped tightly around him. The softness of your clothes and the tightness of your hold reminded Treech too much of home. It almost comforted him too. Knowing your arms were open to him just as much as his to you was enough.

“I don’t want to die!” You sobbed and curled into yourself more, which Treech didn’t think was possible. His arms tightened around you, pulling you to his shoulder, which you accepted quickly. The tip of your nose poked over the muscle between his shoulder and neck.

Treech awkwardly sat with you, keeping you in his arms, caged around your trembling body. He no longer had to think of comforting things to say.

“You won’t die,” Treech assures and hesitantly pets your head, his breath delicately touching your cheek. It helped you slightly, but it brought in the idea of his death. As little as you knew him, it still meant a lot for him to stay alive.

You didn’t say anything for a long while, just keeping close to Treech and making sure to calm your breathing, which was only interrupted by sniffles and hiccups.

“You’ll go home to your family,” Treech muttered, the joint of his pointer finger gently rubbing your cheek. “And they’ll have a nice dinner for you, and they’ll celebrate that you're home.”

Now, Treech didn’t know if that was true at all. He didn’t know what your family life was like. For all he knew, he was saying what he wanted when he possibly got home. He wanted a celebration for his victory, though it’s rarely ever a victory.

There was only one victor from Seven he knew of, and it wasn’t pretty. A seventeen-year-old girl came back to the District a victor but only stayed for four months before she died. She had several of those… fear filled moment when she smelt something she couldn’t stand anymore. And it didn’t take her too long to no longer take it.

No one knew about the other Districts, if they had something similar with their victors. It was mostly a prayer that neither of you would succumb to something similar that girl did. Only a little bit of hope would help you both.

“You’ll live long. You’ll get a nice job and a house, maybe a pet or two,” Treech continued, the hand that wasn’t petting your face held onto your shoulder that raised with every hiccup. “And you’ll be happy.”

You kept your eyes closed as you drifted your head to his chest again, listening to the quiet beat of his heart, caged behind the soft fabric of his shirt and coat. The muscles in your legs eventually loosened, causing your knees to move away from your chest.

“You want that too?” You ask, looking up at his jaw since you would have to pull away to look him in the eye, which you didn’t wish for. “You want to go home to a victory dinner.”

Treech nodded without a second thought. “Better than starving in the arena,” he says with a slight smile. You hum in agreement. A good meal would always be better than this, for you and him.

“I want you to go home with me,” you state suddenly, changing the direction of the conversation. Your fingers go to one of his dark coat buttons, tracing the small details pressed into the silver.

Treech paused for a second. He knew it wasn’t possible, there was only one victor. But he’d be willing to give it up to you. “Yeah, I want that too…,” he trailed off, continuing to rub your cheek and cheek bone with his fingers. “I want you to go to sleep soon. It’s not good if you run into the arena tired.”

You nodded tiredly, allowing yourself some peace, just enough to sleep. Your breathing slowed and your grasp on his shirt loosened, and finally, you were out. Treech waited a minute more to continue rubbing your cheek before he decided it was good enough for him to sleep too.

Treech reached up to his hat and set it in the beige hay under the both of you and gently laid you next to him. Your sleeping body was still in his arms, your back against his chest. His dirtied fingers drawing up to your cheek bone then down to your chin one more time before his brown eyes were closed. Within a couple seconds, he followed in pursuit of sleep.

♡♡♡

The train eventually came to a stop, making a loud screech on the rusting rails. You slowly opened your eyes, blinking several times to get the sleepiness to go away. Treech’s arms were still wrapped tightly around you, finding comfort in your figure. The soreness of sleeping on the wood floor has affected you too, causing a groan to leave your lips once you sit up. Wovey and Bobbin hadn’t stirred from their slumber, their bodies only shifting slightly as the sudden lack of movement from the train.

You trail your eyes to the metal rods holding up the corners of the cattle car but are temporarily blinded by the light of the opened doors. You stiffened at the white light that shined in, turning away to cover your eyes.

“Come on, move out!” A man’s rough voice yelled at the four tributes inside. Bobbin and Wovey woke up almost immediately from the suddenness, a bit of fear in their sleep filled eyes.

“Treech, wake up!” You shake your district partner with haste. Which drew him to life with the help of the light. He groaned with sleepy irritation and looked up at you.

“Hm?” He whined and glanced around the train car, eventually falling on the armed peacekeepers. At the sight, Treech sat up quickly. It was almost like instinct, standing from the hay like he had been caught with something bad. Which of course wasn’t true, but he wasn’t going to act like it didn’t scare up.

“Come on,” you whispered to him, pushing him in the direction of the open doors. He obliged.

Treech quickly jumped down from the cattle car and onto the station platform. He turned back and reached up for your arms, hoping to help you down. You got onto your knees and leaned down until your arms were around his shoulders. Taking several steps back, he lowered you until your shoes made a soft tap to the platform flooring.

Turning your attention back to the other tributes, you and Treech silently followed them toward the chosen truck -or rather prison- for the tributes, staying close to each other as you went along.

The detailing of the train station drew your attention, the details of the clock over the ticket master’s office was beautiful. The best District train station wouldn’t even compare to the Capital’s worst. And that was a fact.

“Step up!” The peacekeeper hollered at you, drawing you away from the thought of the train station. You followed Treech into the truck, holding his hand as you climbed into the dark metal that would bring you to your tombs.

The calls of the peacekeepers grew loud and quick as Bobbin tried climbing over a nearby dumpster onto the roof of, what seemed to be, a shed. And the opportunity was taken by a Capital citizen in red.

The blonde boy ran into the truck, going all the way to the back to hide amongst the tributes. It must have worked since the peacekeepers pushed Bobbin back in to sit with Wovey and slammed the metal doors shut.

The truck started with a low rumble, the children inside swaying slightly from the suddenness as it slowly leaves the train station.

The van was eerily quiet, nearly all the tributes staring at -who you now known as- Coriolanus. Their eyes drilled holes into him as he turned to them. You couldn't help but stare too, wondering why he was in the van in the first place. It was obvious he shouldn't have been with you all, he was too well dressed.

Treech stared at him with a disgusted look, looking him up and down. The vibrancy of his red outfit gave him away. No one in Seven, hell, any of the districts, wore a red that vibrant. Not many could afford such a vibrant dye. The closest anyone of the tributes had to a vibrant dye was Lucy Gray, but even the ruffles of her skirt were too faded to have been made lavishly.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy? You're in the wrong cage?” Reaper remarked and gazed at the boy. The blonde boy looked around anxiously at the tributes and then shook his head.

Your attention was turned back to Reaper, who seemed to stand over the other tributes like a statue, larger than life with his attitude toward the random boy who intruded on their cage.

“No, this cage is delightful,” Coriolanus said back, looking around at the tributes who gazed at him.

The other tributes grimace at his lacklustre answer, constantly giving Coriolanus dirty looks. You stare at him too, wondering how he could have gotten in without getting caught. The red was too bright to not have gotten caught. The closest color that was as vibrant as the mentor’s coat was Reaper’s blue dress shirt, which was far behind in dye.

His words seemed to annoy Reaper as the boy was quick to grab Coriolanus, pushing him against the wall violently. Reaper held tightly onto his blue collar, pulling Coriolanus closer but holding him with an iron fist.

"I will kill you right now." Reaper threatened harshly, giving Coriolanus an angered look. The blonde didn’t try pushing him away, not trying to get his ass kicked before he could possibly find safety, or at least get the opportunity to run.

The other tributes leaned closer to try and witness the murder, hoping it was a little gruesome for them to get some satisfaction for their later deaths. At least it would be a death they would root for.

"There's no point in killing him," Lucy Gray pitched suddenly, drawing the attention of both Reaper and Coriolanus, looking up at the boys. "They'd kill you then your family."

"You care about him?" Reaper asked and looked over at her, a slight scowl on his face at the idea that he couldn’t kill Coriolanus. Lucy Gray stared at her mentor before nodding.

"He's my mentor, I'd prefer keeping him alive," Lucy Gray answered, smiling slightly at her own remark. A ginger haired girl glanced at Coriolanus then at Lucy Gray, looking her over, and bending down to the tributes level.

“Why do you get a mentor? You’re more special than the rest of us?” Coral asked in a condescending tone, giving Lucy Gray a dirty look.

“You all get one,” Coriolanus piped up, gazing at Coral, who stared back but gave him an annoyed look.

“Why aren’t they here?” Coral remarked and raised her brow.

“Just aren’t as kind,” Coriolanus answered and grunted from being pushed back against the wall by Reaper, firmer this time.

You watched silently, leaning forward to watch the event, wondering if Reaper would kill the Capital Boy. You lean forward, your lower stomach meets the upper parts of your thigh from leaning so far. Treech suddenly places his palm against your chest, lightly pushing you back against the truck wall. You didn’t try going against it but were slightly disappointed at his action. You wanted to watch as much as any other tribute.

Suddenly, the truck came to a stop, causing everyone inside to pause and look around. Wovey stood up from the bench and looked out the tinted window near the roof. She didn’t get much info for what was out there though.

A loud beeping sound followed as the doors opened widely as it suddenly tipped back. Your eyes widen as you hold onto your seat, which wasn’t helpful as you felt Bobbin fall onto your side, making you lose your grip. Treech was able to grab your arm as you and the rest of the tributes fell.

The terrain below the truck was an unforgiving rocky hill, almost as if the rocks sharpest points were towards the now falling district children. The sounds of rolling pebbles and cries from the tributes intermingled with the shrill calls of others, which you couldn’t put a figure to as you rolled down the hill. The sharp bits of rock poked into your back and ribs, causing you to writhe in a way to get away from the points, which didn’t do much but cause other areas to be jabbed.

Your body was tense as you quickly slowed as hastily as you started, groans leaving your lips. The area had changed from the rocky hill to soft green grass, which eased the growing newly found bruises. You stayed still for several seconds, simply listening to the pained moans of the other tributes and the calls of what you now knew as Capital citizens.

You turned your head to look over at the crowd behind the bars surrounding you, many of which were well dressed men, women, and children. It almost gave them away as Capital, their vibrantly dyed outfits. The blues, greens, and reds are too bright to say ‘district’. And they wouldn’t be excited to see their fellow man in cages if they were truly District.

But it didn’t matter now. You eventually sat up dusting your clothes of the sand that covered the stones and looked around, your mind trailing to Treech.

"Treech? Are you alright?" You groaned and looked around, hoping to find the boy nearby. Your call was answered with a whine of pain just behind a rock. You stood from the grass and quickly walked over to the sound of the familiar voice.

"I'm fine," Treech replied while slowly sitting up. He winced as he leaned over and grabbed his hat. You bent down and helped him to his feet, staring as he looked around the cage surrounded by people with kids and cameras.

“We’re in a zoo,” you mumble and look at the large camera that a man held, pointing it at the tributes. You hesitated to look away. Cameras were never truly fond memories, no one could afford them in the Districts and you could only ever see them used with the reaping's. The kids of past reaping's must have felt the same about the cameras.

“Yeah, I got that,” Treech remarked and sighed.

You nodded and sigh too, tightening your grasp on his hand. Treech pulled you closer, just close enough to whisper something in your ear. “Just make sure to-,” as Treech was about to finish his sentence, your name was called.

“(Y/n)!” A boy in a similar red to Coriolanus called your name, motioning for you to come closer.

You look from the boy calling to you to Treech, expecting him to finish his sentence, which he didn’t do. “I can talk to you again when you finish talking to him,” he simply states and pushes you in the boy's direction.

♡♡♡

The day had moved slowly, now the stars hung over the sky, the silver glow of the stars and nearby streetlamps contrasted greatly with the gold of the sun’s rays. The masses of people had gone home, now only being guarded by peacekeepers, who were reluctantly keeping their eyes open in case a tribute tried escaping.

Treech had gone off to juggle acorns for the camera, which had been rewarded with some bread. It wasn’t much but it was better than just the dust on his fingers. The bread had been split between you both while conversing about what your mentor had told you.

“His name is Pup Harrington,” you smiled and tore the brown bread between your fingers, popping smaller pieces into your mouth. Treech smiled slightly and did something similar. He raised his brow.

“Your mentor?” Treech asked, which you answered with a nod.

“Yeah,” you said through a mouthful of bread bits. “He just wanted to introduce that he was my mentor, and we needed a plan for the Games. I didn’t say too much so he did most of the talking anyway. Must’ve taken English seriously.”

Treech smiled and finished the little bit of bread he had left, licking his fingertips of the leftover crumbs off with hesitance. Moreso felt desperate, which was true but didn’t want that viewed from the Capital eye.

Once you both finish your small meal, you lie down in the grass, looking up at the stars that stared down at you. The other tributes had gone to bed or were keeping themselves occupied with miniscule tasks, like dusting off their clothes. Treech’s hands lay folded on his stomach, his hat sat near his head. You laid in a similar way, your hand close to his side, his coat to be specific.

"I wanted to thank you for being so nice to me," you mutter, finally breaking the silence. The grass was soft under your body, the yellowing dandelions around you making your natural bed seem fancier.

"You don't have to thank me," Treech assured you, watching mindlessly as you moved to hold his hands. You pulled his intertwined fingers from each other and took them into yours, squeezing gently. He kept his hand limp.

"And you didn't need to take care of me," you state with a small smile. Your mind raced with ideas, something similar to a gift. A gift you could give him, though you didn’t have much you could give him. "I can repay you in a specific way... if you'd want me to."

Treech smiled and let out a little breath, meant to be a small chuckle. Though, you could see the blush rise in his cheeks. "How would you repay me? You don't have much I could want," he remarked, giving you a specific look, one of wonder. It was obvious he wanted an answer quickly.

You hesitated at his question; you were partially expecting him to give you the idea for your gift. But he had nothing to offer and neither did you, materially, at least. You had nothing to offer but yourself.

"A kiss," you suggest hesitantly, as though the idea of kissing him wasn't something that made you nervous. You couldn’t deny that he was attractive, you would have told him sooner if your nerves didn’t get the best of you. Or if you weren’t sobbing since the reaping.

Treech paused for several seconds, the blush brightening on his face (which you didn’t know was possible), even with the dirt smudged on his cheeks. He looked away, trying to gain the confidence he had before your offer, which he doubted he could get back.

Your face grew warm too, realizing how it must have felt to have that told to you. Your hands wipe your cheeks slowly, followed with a sigh. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I was just suggesting,” you mutter and look back up at the stars. The silver spots stared down at you and Treech, just as eagerly waiting for his answer as you.

Treech pressed his lips into a line and tried breathing slowly, conjuring up some confidence to at least get to kiss your soft lips. He took in a final breath, nodding his head. “I’ll take it,” he said, finally making eye contact with you, though his blush brightened.

You raised your brow and nodded. “Just know I’m not too experienced with kissing, I don’t usually go around practicing kissing with others,” you muse and gradually place your hand on his cheek.

Treech stared at you and nodded slowly, a smile gradually crossing his face. He stayed silent for several moments before realizing you spoke. “Neither am I,” he mumbled, looking from your lips to your eyes. “I don’t mind.”

You smiled back at him, trying to gain the courage to kiss him. Your lack of experience made you nervous but knowing Treech was just as experienced helped slightly. You swallowed thickly as you leaned closer and hesitantly pressed your lips to his.

Treech eagerly held your hand, tightening his grasp as he tried leaning closer, though you thought it was impossible. Your chests pressed together as you kissed him softly, not growing in intensity since you both didn’t know how. But you didn’t pull away and neither did Treech.

Your hands were placed on his upper back and neck, keeping him closer as he gradually got closer. Treech breathed heavily through his nose, though the intensity wasn’t much, it was still so much for him. It was likely used for comfort, just as much as it was for you. The softness of his lips brought a softer feeling in your chest.

Eventually, you pulled away from each other, your soft breath was felt on his lips, which were only an inch or two away from yours. It was obviously a disappointment for Treech since he hastily grew fond of the affection and instinctively leaned closer to get another from you. It was only met with gentle rejection from your end, putting your hand on his shoulder to interject with his idea.

You both laid in silence, but a nice one. Treech lazily brought his head to your chest, laying down onto you. Now the roles were reversed. He laid in your arms for comfort, mainly just because he needed to wait to no longer be lightheaded. The silver stars looked down at you now with Treech in your arms, who held your hand gently. It was doubtful that the redness of his cheeks would ever leave, especially now after the kiss.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩

I'm so sorry it took so long to get back to you, I have been really busy, but I finally got to completing this!!!

My tbosas masterlist

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