Chapter Text
Haymitch put down the phone and mutely reached for a new bottle of white liquor, snapping the seal on it. To hell with Plutarch, all those veiled allusions over the years about the rebellion just waiting to happen, waiting for the right moment.
You’re a fucking Gamemaker, we both know there’s something you can do…
I’m sorry, Haymitch, there’s nothing I can do. Only the president can have the power to change things, and… They knew he was speaking both about Snow and about that shadowy figure in Thirteen that Haymitch had never talked to.
That was when he understood. Plutarch had made contact already, probably as soon as the card was read last night. Those quietly promised allies in Thirteen wouldn’t stir themselves, not for this.
He was Twelve’s only victor; just like there was no wife at his side, there would be no female victor-tribute either. Alone as ever, and he let out a bitter laugh as he realized that one last time, he’d messed up Snow’s scheme there.
That didn’t last long, and as usual, his messing things up meant someone else paid. The details followed swiftly. Snow announced smoothly that due to Twelve’s misfortune in having only one victor to offer, in order to give Panem the Games under the terms specified on the card during the Dark Days, with tributes reaped only from existing victors, at the Twelve reaping the names of the female victors from the candidate pools with excess numbers over two tributes and two mentors, namely One, Two, and Four, would be placed in the Twelve reaping bowl. Whoever was drawn, if not already selected during their home reaping and if not replaced by a volunteer when their name was announced, would be seconded as "Twelve" for the Games. His mentor would be taken from one of the two districts that didn't offer up that extra tribute.
He gave a harsh laugh. He’d won the Second Quell in a double reaping and now he was causing another one elsewhere for the women thanks to Snow. He wondered which of the women it would be and just how much she would resent wearing being forced to wear Twelve’s black on his behalf rather than the gold of One, the deep red of Two, or the blue-green of Four.
He drank and he drank and he thought about drinking enough to not ever wake up. But he knew if he did that and thwarted the plan someone else would pay, because Snow always made someone pay, and he’d had enough people dead on his account already. A Career victor just added to that tally.
The knock on his door came on the third day after the reading. “President’s orders,” Cray said, eyeing Haymitch, who still had a bottle with some dregs in it in his hand. “No more alcohol.”
Jarron Undersee gave him what might have almost been an apologetic look. “And you’re to start training for the Quell once you’re…well again.” Once he’d dried out, Haymitch understood.
So that was Snow’s little “fuck you” to him to keep him in line—not only did he expect Haymitch to take part in this debacle, he expected him to put his all into it. He smirked at Cray. “Then all the booze,” he encompassed the whole of the house with an expansive sweep of his arm, “is yours, dear Cray. My parting gift to you.”
Then he looked blearily at the other man with the Peacekeepers. “And who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Doctor Galen Wing,” the man said, a fairly plain man as Capitolites went. The only alteration Haymitch could detect was that the blond highlights in that dishwater brown hair were probably dyed. The doctor gave no hint of his thoughts about the situation from his expression. “The president,” he explained quickly, “sent me and several of my colleagues from the Capitol to attend closely to those victors with substance abuse problems, so they can start their training.”
At least he hadn’t sent that asshole Lucius Sixleigh whose only concern had ever been that Haymitch was fit for fucking. “How generous our dear president is,” Haymitch said with a dark smile. “Sending someone to look after my health all the way from the Capitol, so I can be healthy to get killed in the arena.” What an asshole. He thought of Poppy and Max out in Six and realized they’d be going through this hell too, and Laurence out in Five, and others too. He wondered just how short the Capitol was of doctors right now given the number of victors who had their drug of choice. His smile grew wider. “If I’m gonna be stuck in bed, we’d better stay at whatever house they’ve put you in. Mine isn’t fit for company.” He pointedly nudged some dirty laundry with his foot and finishing the bottle of white liquor—one last drink before Cray confiscated it all—he dropped it casually to let it shatter on the floor beside his bare feet.
“I’ll have someone clean while you’re…” Wing hesitated. “Indisposed,” he finished.
Haymitch shrugged. It didn’t much matter. The place would sit empty after he died anyway. It had been twenty-four years and forty-eight dead children. With or without him, there would be no more victors in Twelve in a big hurry. Somehow, as ever, the thought was both pain and comfort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cedrus came out to Johanna’s backyard, leaning on his walking stick. She was sure the Capitol could have provided a better prosthesis for that foot in the fifty years since his win, but he had refused. She respected that. He wasn’t going to take anything from them without them forcing it on him. Glancing down the way towards Cedrus’ house, she was sure his husband Matthias was probably freaking out too, even several days later.
“Blight and I spoke already,” Cedrus said, laconic as ever, rubbing his bearded chin idly as he looked at her. “He’s the one going in.”
“Fine,” she said, and that was that. She knew both of them would probably be equally useless to her: Blight with his wandering mind and Cedrus with his age and that gimp foot. It didn’t matter. In the arena, she wouldn’t want to kill either of them, but neither did she have any particular loyalties to them either.
Cedrus nodded in acknowledgment. “He says he’s fine, and to throw my efforts your way. He’d prefer you made it out.”
“And he can’t come tell me that himself?” she said archly, burying the axe in the chopping stump, unbuttoning her shirt over the t-shirt and flapping the tails of it a bit to let in some of the spring breeze.
“He has things of his own to deal with right now, girl,” Cedrus told her in a tight voice. What the hell a middle-aged man with no wife and family had to deal with, Johanna had no clue. “I’ll get you sponsored best I can. They know who you are.”
“They know who they think I am,” she corrected him sharply. What they had forced her to become, that mold they wouldn’t let her escape. They didn’t know the first fucking thing about her.
He didn’t argue, which pretty much meant she’d won that argument. “There’s no point trying to change your angle. We play you like a Career this time. Your skill, your ferocity, your determination.”
“There’s going to be six—seven,” she thought of whoever was getting thrown in as Haymitch’s partner, “Careers in there already.” She wasn’t going to pity whoever the woman was. One, Two and Four couldn’t whine given that they at least had chances to not go into the arena, unlike her. Besides, the only Career she cared about not hearing their name on Reaping Day was Finnick.
“Then you’ll have to be outstanding somehow.” With that blunt advice, he gave another of those decisive nods that told her the subject was closed. “Elmar Luoma dropped by this morning.”
“And what did our illustrious mayor want?”
“To pass on instructions from the president: you and Blight are to start training for the Games tomorrow.”
She reached for the axe again. How very like Snow, she thought. He’d make them all kill each other for entertainment and he’d make them be so good at it when they did it.
The axe slammed down with more force than necessary as she imagined it was Snow’s skull she was splitting, and she automatically reached for another piece of wood, and another, and another. When she looked up again, Cedrus was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~
He’d try to protect those with a future if he could, but beyond that…he tried to not think about it. Killing unknown children had been bad enough. Killing his friends was still unthinkable.
Haymitch stood in the roped-off pen all alone, not even glancing at the other empty pen where nobody stood. Effie clawed around inside the women’s bowl, catching a slip of paper. “Cashmere Donovan of District One,” she trilled. After a moment of waiting, Effie touched a hand to her ear where she was wearing an earpiece that apparently communicated with the escorts in One, Two, and Four. “Cashmere has already taken the role of District One’s female tribute. So, well, I suppose I’ll draw again!” She sounded uncertain. Effie and her fucking protocols, and of course, something unprecedented like this was messing with them and knocking her off her game. He almost enjoyed seeing that. “Laeta Pfeffer of District Two!”
Laeta was a recent victor, of the 68th Games. He was a little surprised when Effie, perturbed, got another message and announced, “And Eunike Sherman has taken her place.”
He understood the message loud and clear—Two might be forced to sacrifice one of its own for another district, but they would show their opinion of Twelve by sending a lesser tribute, one who had failed to live up to district expectations and delight the Capitol the way someone like Enobaria had. Still, it wasn’t like they’d sent their oldest tribute, Aurinia from the 10th Games. He was a little surprised that they’d risk sending her, though, rather than sending Laeta. Eunike hadn’t exactly been celebrated for her win during the 72nd Games, when most people died of thirst and heat stroke and scorpion stings, and she had been quickly forgotten. Snow could possibly interpret that as defiance from them, trying to undermine his Games, especially given year after year Two sent only their best.
Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe Eunike was like Brutus and would probably leap at another chance to prove worth in the arena to make up for a supposedly poor showing the first time. “Now for the boys—I mean, the gentlemen!” Effie said.
He spread his hands. “Well, looks like I volunteer,” he said with a sarcastic edge, impatient with the farce, stepping forward before she could even reach for the slip. He didn’t look back. There was nobody who would miss him.
The train was unfortunately alcohol-free but given that he had been dry for months and had a focus now—trying to find someone to try to keep alive and send home from the arena—the cravings were far more bearable. He watched the recap of the reapings, wincing as he saw too many old friends mounting the stage. He saw Finnick called for Four, and Mags taking the place of Finnick’s Annie.
Enduring prep was a pain, literally and figuratively, but he hadn’t been off the whoring circuit so long that the old routine wasn’t unfamiliar yet. He still knew just when to grit his teeth when they were ripping the wax off. At least he managed to sweet-talk Portia into cutting his hair with the justification that he didn’t want it in his eyes in the arena. The chariot ride was no treat, knowing that even Cinna’s and Portia’s best on the costumes with the interesting suggestion of smoldering embers about ready to burst to life wouldn’t be enough. The fact that Eunike rode beside him in stony silence, no hint of any emotion on her face, kept him silent too.
Glad enough to get away from that, when he went upstairs, waiting for him in the Twelve apartment were Annie Cresta and Mags from Four. “Annie’s taking you on as your mentor,” Mags told him, getting her point across with a combination of her stroke-garbled voice and her hand-signs. Fortunately Haymitch had some experience in understanding both.
At first he thought this was Four undermining him also, sending a girl with no mentoring experience. Then he understood: Mags wanted Annie here to have what moments she could with Finnick before the Games in case he didn’t make it out, but she also didn’t want Annie to have to be directly responsible for either her or Finnick. He couldn’t exactly blame Mags for that. At least it was someone from Four. He was sure Chantilly had been tapped as the One mentor already, and he didn’t trust any other One quite the way he did her.
“Carrick’s agreed to assist her where it’s needed,” Mags added, obviously seeing the comprehension on his face, “so don’t you worry now, you’ll be in good hands.” Carrick was something like a twenty-five year veteran, mentored for several years even before Haymitch himself won, and then carried on until Finnick too his place. He knew her hopes were that Finnick would survive in the end—her volunteering for Annie assured it. But even with that hope committed, she wouldn’t let Four slack off on mentor duties towards him, even if it was a burden they were forced to bear rather than one of choice. But then, none of the victors had ever had the choice towards mentorship in the first place.
Mags patted him on the shoulder as she turned to leave. “Best that it be Finnick,” she signed to him, without apology and knowing none would be needed for favoring a young man from her own district with hopes and a beloved to go home to, “but if something happens, I’d rather you than anyone else.”
“Thanks,” he said, throat a little tight. He knew the esteem she placed in him with that. He also knew he didn’t much deserve it. “I’ll try to look after him.” They both knew she wouldn’t survive long, and he wouldn’t do her sacrifice the disservice of pretending otherwise.
~~~~~~~~~~
She wasn’t surprised he was doing his own dealings rather than sending Finnick’s girl to do it for him because Annie probably didn’t have a clue how it all worked. At least he didn’t waste time mincing words. Johanna appreciated that. She also appreciated that he actually gave a fuck enough to give her some priority like that. She was sure he was the only one—well, aside from Blight. “You’d almost think I mattered to you, Haymitch,” she mocked him, tapping the screen to pick out the edible plants. She knew Finnick probably mattered more. That was fine. Finn had something to go home to and people that loved him. She wasn’t much sure she wanted to die for Annie Cresta to have her happy ending, but she’d intended to protect Finnick as long as she could too. “The bitch nobody likes put on equal footing with the Capitol’s golden boy? I’m touched.”
“You’re young, Jo,” he said softly, leaning in. “If it’s you that makes it out, maybe you still have a chance.”
The whole idea made her uncomfortable, even angry, because stupid as she was, him mentioning it tugged at parts of her that ought to remain firmly shut up and locked away. “Because you’ve provided such a fucking stellar example there,” she said. Turning to face him, she looked him up and down slowly, wanting to make him uncomfortable. He’d lost the extra weight and he looked steady and sober and strong. Apparently he’d endured those months of forced training too. “Although you’re not looking too bad, really. Sure there’s not some woman back home drooling over you?” She knew there wasn’t. His district shunned him as much as Seven did her.
But the urge to lash out and punish him for saying that was right there anyway. “Got any offers on the table for one last fuck before you go die?” They both knew she meant the patrons with cash in hand. She didn’t doubt if Snow was allowing buyers, Finnick would probably be busy this week because he was a commodity that might soon be gone.
“Why, are you offering instead since you’re so fucking free with your favors?” he snapped back, and she knew she’d hit a nerve by bringing up the circuit. She also tried to not show that he’d hit the mark with her and it hurt to have that from Haymitch, of all people.
She shrugged. “Depends what you’ve got to offer me. You’ve been kind of lousy in the past, so I need to know what you’ve got now.”
He stared at her, grey eyes incredulous. “What?”
She nodded towards the weapons station. “I meant what have you got for this alliance, brainless?” She hadn’t been referring to the one time in her life Haymitch had fucked her. Or at least, she would pretend she wasn’t, even if she knew it had been a bit of both.
From how forcefully he threw the knives, his irritation obvious, she knew she’d probably won that round. Strangely it didn’t bring her all that much pleasure.
~~~~~~~~~~
She’d spent most of her evenings up here lately anyway. She told him Cedrus kept to himself, as always, and Blight was usually gone from the Seven apartment. She made it clear she didn’t care where he went. Haymitch knew Blight must be in the Nine apartment with Clover, trying to find whatever way to say goodbye to the wife he could only marry by district traditions, and who he only saw a few weeks of each year.
If in nine years Johanna hadn’t asked and Blight hadn’t seen fit to tell her, he wasn’t going to be the one to explain that situation. At least Finnick was getting to spend time with his Annie. Apparently Snow had cancelled any “dates” just to make the Capitol feel the sting of losing their precious pet victors even more. Or more likely, maybe he just didn’t want to have to deal with the prospect of hurrying victors for Remake before interviews and the arena.
As for him, it was quiet up in the Twelve apartment every night. Eunike, Annie, and Eunike’s mentor Alcmene had their bedrooms up here because it was expected of them as “Twelve” tribute and mentors, but he knew Annie would be down on the fourth floor with Finnick and the other two women would be in the Two apartment for the evening, busy plotting with Brutus and Enobaria.
It was good to have Johanna there, even if he wouldn’t openly admit that to her. So many summers it had been so quiet up here, with the tributes usually hiding in their rooms scared out of their minds, and after they were dead, it was oppressively silent. He also wouldn’t tell her he understood why she was there: she didn’t want to be alone either during these last few days. He tried to not feel something like pity that the only person she felt she could reach out to for that last human contact was someone like him.
Funny how even as the worst days of his life were approaching, the nights sitting there talking about nothing much, pulling out a game of chess, or making fun of a shitty Capitol movie rerun, were sweet in their own way.
There was no alcohol in the apartment this year. But it was only the night of watching the training scores, when it all became so much more indelible and he was sitting there with Eunike, Annie, and Alcmene rather than Johanna, that he realized he wanted a drink in a way he hadn’t most nights.
He got an eight. Very respectable—one mark better than his seven at age sixteen, actually. He must have shown them something, going in knowing he’d better prove his willingness to fight, whereas when he was a boy he’d emphasized his survival skills and stealth. Or maybe they marked him a little higher for having survived that Quell, a Games tougher than any other. In any case, he’d have rated himself about a five or a six, so maybe he wasn’t as bad off as he’d thought. Whatever reason, Annie looked hopeful. “Well, that’s good,” she said. Finnick had gotten a ten, Johanna a nine. Mags, joking to him that she’d just taken a nap during her private session, had a two.
Eunike didn’t even look at him. He didn’t expect her to do it either. She might be forced into sleeping up here and wearing a black uniform in the arena but they all knew where her loyalties would be. Her nine would earn her some sponsors and that was probably all she and Alcmene needed.
He wondered if she’d go for him first to take away whatever stain of dishonor she imagined was on her.
~~~~~~~~~~
She went up to the Twelve apartment. Haymitch had shed his frock coat and was at the window looking out over the city. Kicking off her shoes, she padded silently across the plush carpet to stand beside him. He didn’t turn to look but he acknowledged she was there when he spoke up, too soft for the microphones. “You saw the audience. There’s talk of a last minute petition being sent to Snow.”
The audience was upset, some were evenly openly weeping. The sight of it had made her all the angrier. As if they had the right to weep, as if anything was being taken away from them. They were like a bunch of spoiled children crying over the loss of a favorite toy, not mourning actual people. Next year’s Games, they’d be excited over that victor too, probably even more so for the losses this year. “Tears and pleas don’t sway Snow,” she answered him harshly, fingers clenched on the windowsill, staring out into the bright lights and the neon of the Capitol. At least this would probably be the last time she’d be forced to look at this place she hated, that had stolen everything from her.
“I know.” He was silent after that. What was there left to say now? Asking for one more game of chess seemed like a frivolous thing now rather than the welcome distraction it had been. But all the same, she was reluctant to head back down to the Seven apartment, to finally put away everything but the bitch with the axe she’d have to become in the arena tomorrow.
She didn’t really want to die. But she wasn’t so far gone in her own rage that she couldn’t admit that someone like Finnick didn’t deserve to be the one that walked away more than her. Because unlike him, she didn’t much know how to live. And she wouldn’t walk away from a second round of the arena unscathed. The only question was how much more of what tattered remnants of her soul were left she’d lose in there. The thought of becoming someone who could even kill her best friend just to survive—no, she couldn’t. That would mean the Capitol had finally taken everything from her. She might as well be dead in that case.
Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, she looked over at him, catching his eyes with her. She knew he was coming to that same realization—after so many years of stubbornly existing with no good reason for it, accepting death still wasn’t easy. Looking at his face, his eyes, she saw he was afraid and angry and troubled and yet somehow entirely certain and she thought with an agonized relief, Well, fuck, at least I’m not alone.
With that came the swift follow-up, And I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Carefully, he reached over and laid his hand lightly over hers, and she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. He waited until she grasped his fingers in hers to hold on in return, to know his touch was welcome, because he’d been on the circuit and he knew what it was like, so there was no need to explain or to justify.
It wasn’t enough, though. If these were the last hours she’d have for her own before cameras would be wanting her every move and every word, she intended to make the most of it. She’d steal back everything she possibly could that the Capitol had taken, have something that was only hers, even if it was just for one night. Mind made up, she didn’t hesitate. She put her other hand on his shoulder, stretched up on her toes, and kissed him.
For just a moment she felt him yielding to it, felt the surge of hunger in him, heady and raw, and waited for him to kiss her back with that sheer feeling, but then he drew back. “Why?” he asked simply, even as his fingers tightened in hers.
The truth hurt too much. “Hey, I said you ought to get one last fuck before you die,” she said with a shrug and a cocky, meaningless smile.
His dark brows knitted together and he scowled at her. “Don’t fucking play games with me, Johanna. Not tonight, of all nights. I’m really not in the mood to be the one you scratch the itch with because Finnick’s busy with that girl of his.” He let go her hand and nodded to the door. “You know your way out.”
It was all too close to the surface and as usual, temper rose up first to cover the pain of what felt like rejection. “What, you want me to beg you?” she almost snarled at him, putting her hands on his shoulders to push him away. “Like I practically had to beg you then? You know what, fuck you, you’re not that good anyway!”
But it had been different when she kissed him. She’d felt him there, felt the emotion and passion there seething right below that mask of absolute indifference. When she was a teenager and he’d agreed to fuck her before she endured her first patron, there had been nothing. He’d been just the consummately professional whore doing her a favor. She could tell this wasn’t like that.
“Johanna.” The sound of her name stopped her as she turned to go. He raised an eyebrow and said with a strangely awkward, rueful smile, “Me? Really? Your last chance here, you could do better.”
The self-deprecating honesty hurt. She shook her head. “You understand,” was all she said. “What it’s like.” This wasn’t simple lust and a need to be fucked, or something darker, the need to dominate some of those Capitol assholes to feel like she was in control again. She wanted to be comforted. She wanted some small scrap of tenderness for her own. She wanted to feel human before she went into that arena. “I just…don’t want to be alone.”
He didn’t say anything, no wisecrack or wry quip or sarcastic comment. He just nodded and took her hands in his again, leaning down to kiss her. Right before he kissed her, he said in her ear, “It may not be that good anyway. I’m still plenty fucked up. I can’t just…wish it all undone.” She understood: all the years with nobody but the patrons who paid for his body.
“Doesn’t matter,” she murmured back. “You know I’m fucked up too.” She didn’t care as much about his body, about the pleasure of it. He could be with her tonight, knowing how broken as she was, and still want to be there for her. That was all that mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~
On the last night before he went into the arena to kill some of his friends and to die, someone cared enough to give him this small bit of grace. He’d chosen this. He was only himself to her, and the moments of uncertainty, of waiting for encouragement, only seemed to underscore that.
It was entirely real, not some empty fantasy. When she let out that final gasp of pleasure, and she said his name, soft, almost too soft to hear, as she leaned against him and let him wrap his arms around her, it felt like the sound of it still drowned out the dozens of men and women that had shrieked it, cooed it, moaned it, purred it. They hadn’t really known him at all. She did. So maybe it actually was the best sex he’d had in his life.
He dozed off afterwards and startled awake at the feel of the dip in the bed as she got up, unused to the feel of someone else there. Instinctively he reached for a knife, but quickly enough saw it was her. He watched, seeing she was getting dressed. His heart fell at that, a little. The light was still on and he tugged the covers over himself, now oddly self-conscious.
For a moment it was on his lips to ask her, Stay. Then he realized it was pointless. They were going into the arena tomorrow. What point was there in asking her to stay, in saying that over the last days he’d found himself falling in love with her?
“Falling in love” seemed all too apt a phrase. She’d already been let down once with Finnick, trusted him to catch her and Finnick had instead let her crash down to the earth. He couldn’t catch her either, not with what was coming in the morning. He’d promised to try to save Finnick if he could, promised to try to keep her alive as long as he could too. That was conflict of interest enough already. He couldn’t take on another burden and swear that for her sake he’d try to stay alive—only one of them would make it out anyway. There was nothing he could offer her, and best to not encourage her to take the leap when she had to fear it because she’d already been left broken and bleeding by it once. “Good night,” he said instead, watching her go.
“See you in the arena,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
He waited a minute for her to get out the front door and then padded to the bathroom, turning on the shower. He hated these fucking showers, never could quite figure all the buttons out, but tonight he was lucky that the soap smelled like the clean scent of fresh grass in summer rather than roses or the like. He closed his eyes and thought of the Meadow and how he’d never see it again. It was easier than thinking of other things he’d never have, things that he would have to let go of once again before morning so he could do what he had to do.
Pulling on his pajamas he went to go sleep on the couch. He was as comfortable on a couch as a bed anyway after all these years, and he had to get some sleep before morning. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all in that bed where the scents of sex and Johanna would still linger to haunt him.
~~~~~~~~~~
Throat tight and aching with the effort of stifling it, she let herself into the Seven apartment, trying to keep quiet. The light was still shining beneath Cedrus’ door—chances were he was reading. Blight’s room was dark and she didn’t know whether he was there or not.
It was only in the shower that she finally let herself cry, and only for a minute. Then she forced herself to get a grip and bid that farewell. She’d had that one night to not be alone, and with someone who understood. That was all she had asked for in the first place.
She nodded to Blight in the morning as they headed for the hovercraft. She might not love the old man, but he was going to his death, same as her, and she was sorry for it all the same. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She didn’t know if he meant it the same way she did. The strangely sympathetic look he gave her said otherwise. But caught up in her own thoughts, she just nodded in acknowledgment and held her arm out for the tracker injection, which stung like hell.
In the stockyard, she dressed in her tribute uniform, pulling on the tan trousers, and the t-shirt and long-sleeved overshirt both in Seven’s deep green. She looked when the preps weren’t looking at her and could see no signs on her body of the night before. Hesitant as they’d been, the sex was careful, almost gentle. She wasn’t used to that, not since Finnick. But it was better that way, to not have a tangible reminder.
Instead she focused on the last day of training, when Haymitch had been drifting around the room, chatting here and there to people, some of whom were in the alliance and some that weren’t. She could sense One and Two’s eyes on him as he made the rounds, trying to guess what he was up to and who his allies would be. To her, he’d said simply, “I don’t know what the arena will be and if we three,” meaning himself, Finnick, and her, “will have a good shot at the Cornucopia before One and Two get there. Whatever it is, use your judgment. If you can grab anyone from our alliance, do it. If we get separated…”
She nodded, remembering the whistle the lumberjacks used to keep in contact in the woods that she’d taught him. If they used the countersign, it was all fine and good. If they answered with the whistle repeated, that meant the Peacekeepers were breathing down their necks. That was their signal. If she whistled and they didn’t answer it correctly, she’d know to be ready for a fight.
When the platform raised, she stared incredulously at the expanse of salt water. She could flail around enough to not drown on a hot summer’s day in a lake, but sustained swimming was beyond her. “Fuck,” she cursed, hearing the countdown, glancing around her with relief to see Finnick was only two platforms down. He didn’t acknowledge her directly, but she knew he’d seen her when he looked her way for a minute and their eyes met. The only black shirt nearby she saw was on Eunike. There was Chaff, impatiently prowling the few steps of his platform in his brown shirt like a caged wildcat.
She could have screamed in impatience. “Fuck it,” she said finally, telling herself she’d better do something or else. Leaping in, she sputtered at the salt water and started flailing her way towards the strip of sand, surprised that the stupid-looking belt she had on apparently helped keep her afloat. Suddenly someone grabbed her collar and she gasped, inhaling a mouthful of blood-warm salt water, convinced someone was trying to drown her already.
“It’s me, Jo,” Finnick said. “Let’s face it, you’ll make it to shore faster with me.”
“Shut up, Finn,” she told him, though she relaxed and let him drag her to the shallows.
“Nobody else is going for it yet,” Finnick said, “except Haymitch. He ought to be here in a minute. I think you’ll have a few minutes yet before anyone else manages to flail their way to land. You two go to the Cornucopia and start getting the supplies and weapons for our people. I’m gonna start trying to get Mags, Seeder, and the like, and put them on the far shore.” He nodded towards the beach.
“Got it,” she said, feet already digging into the sand to start sprinting.
“Get me a trident if there’s one!” he yelled, already swimming towards Mags.
“Yes, your highness,” she yelled back sarcastically, running for it. She was already sorting through the supplies and weapons, tossing some into a pile outside the mouth of the Cornucopia, when she heard a voice.
“We about ready to clear out?” She looked up to see Haymitch standing there, dripping wet, though he obviously understood the plan because he quickly was grabbing knives and the like without even having to ask.
“Make me do all the work,” she grumbled at him, reached for a pair of hatchets that she judged were well-weighted for throwing. Rolling her eyes at an enormous battle axe, she ignored it. As if she could run carrying that damn thing. Gamemakers never learned that a smaller, versatile weapon was far more useful, and it sure as hell was less tiring to use.
“Get the trident,” she directed him, pointing to the weapons rack too high for her to easily reach without leaping for it. Even Haymitch at five ten would have to stretch a little. Obviously it had been put there for the reach of someone tall like Finnick. Not like anyone else in the entire arena was going to be waving a trident around anyway. “Finnick and his fucking fancy weapons,” she said with a snort of amusement.
“Sponsors,” was all Haymitch said, not wasting his breath on prolonged conversation. She knew what he meant. Finnick with his iconic trident was going to appeal to wallets far more than the mundane image of him with something like a spear or a machete. “That it? Let’s go.”
She almost ran straight into Laurence, dressed in Five purple. Apparently someone else could swim enough to make it here, and that meant it was high time to be gone. Arms full of gear and weapons, she couldn’t reach an axe. Her eyes went wide to see a knife suddenly sprout from the man’s chest like it had appeared by magic. Haymitch stepped past her, grabbing the knife and pulling it from Laurence’s chest, stepping aside and watching with something like helpless horror as the other man gurgled and bled out, staining the sand red. “Come on,” she said, shoving his shoulder to snap him out of it, seeing other figures bobbing on the waves growing closer, and spying Finnick waving frantically to her from where he had a group assembled on the beach.
Scooping up his own pile of gear, Haymitch followed her and she hoped he didn’t look back. The Games had begun.
~~~~~~~~~~
He felt particularly sick when he saw Seeder and Blight's faces in the sky that night and knew they had died because they'd been left behind. But Angus was still alive so perhaps they’d gain him. He didn’t think ahead to what happened when their alliance inevitably would have to break up.
Just like last time the arena held its own particular horrors, and it whittled them all down. Two cannons sounded, and then they lost Mags first, when she sacrificed herself as a diversion to let them all get away from a giant white bear mutt that was twin to the one that had killed most of the tributes in her own Games. Finnick cried that night as the rest of them talked loudly about the arena to cover it.
Angus had died somewhere during the day, maybe the one killed when the giant wave swept the beach. Eunike was an early casualty too, and he closed his eyes for a moment in regret. He hadn’t liked her, but it hit hard that she’d been forced to die on behalf of District Twelve instead of her own. Only Wiress from Three was still at large.
Golden-furred monkeys attacked them the next day as they lingered a little too long and ended up caught in one of zones of their “clock” they hadn’t figured out. He tried to not think of the memory of fluffy golden squirrels as their teeth and claws slashed his skin and their small bodies piled up. Once the onslaught was over, they found Chaff dying from his torn-open throat. Finnick and Johanna stepped back and let the two of them have privacy.
“You win and you go have a drink and remember me,” Chaff said, giving him a smile with his teeth horribly blood-stained, as Haymitch held his best friend’s one remaining hand and thought about Maysilee Donner dying, so many years ago. Maybe he should have been the one who died that day. He’d done nothing good in his life since. Chaff had a wife and kids back in Eleven. But as always life and the Games were anything but fair, so instead it was Chaff McCormick’s cannon that sounded, and Haymitch reached up with a shaking hand and closed his eyes. He touched his fingers to his lips as the hovercraft took Chaff away, bidding goodbye to a man who’d been like a brother, more so than anyone in Twelve.
He didn’t cry, or at least, he tried not to let it show on camera. Hopefully it looked like he was just wiping sweat off his face. He was grateful Finnick could still feel so deeply and let it show, but he wouldn’t give the Capitol his grief for them to claim. He just shouldered his pack again and said, “Let’s keep moving.” Another cannon sounded as they headed back towards the beach, then one more sounded later that day—apparently the Careers had run into one of the arena’s snags.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Haymitch said with a smirk, reaching over to pluck a blue-striped one from Finnick’s hand. He tasted it and dramatically rolled his eyes back in his head like he’d faint from the sheer pleasure of it. “Blueberry. He told her to put blueberry in there. Annie, you’re a darlin’, but I just might have to marry Carrick.”
She laughed at the ridiculousness of his overacting, even as she couldn’t help but think about the look on his face a few nights ago when he came, that genuine look of astonishment and bliss. She reveled in having made him feel like that, and she couldn’t help but rest her hand on his shoulder for just a moment as she passed by, wanting so much more but willing to settle for that little bit of contact. He surprised her by taking her hand briefly in his, squeezing her fingers, and his eyes met hers before he let go. Neither of them looked away for a few long seconds.
She was startled awake as Finnick raised the alarm that night. She scrabbled to her feet and found her axes just as Finnick gave an odd moan, and even in the artificial moonlight she was horrified as she saw him falling.
She didn’t hesitate, seeing the shadowy figure at the edge of camp, and she launched an axe right into Gloss’ chest where he stood over Finnick with his hookblades with the blood dark on the steel, screaming something as she did it—an obscenity, or maybe just a shriek of wordless grief and rage. She heard the metallic sound of blades meeting and saw Haymitch and Enobaria fighting, Haymitch in his rage like a man possessed. She rushed over to lay into Cashmere before she could backstab Haymitch, yanking the other woman’s long blond hair to expose her throat and hitting her neck with one good chop.
The clash of steel stopped and she looked up to see Haymitch still standing and Enobaria down. Four cannons sounded all at once even as she raced back to Finnick’s side and with that she realized he was gone already, and she hadn’t even fucking well had the time to say goodbye or hear what he had to say to her. “No!” she screamed, shaking Finnick as if that would somehow bring him back. “You asshole, don’t you dare die on me!”
That was when she gave in and started weeping, not caring if the cameras saw it, not caring if the world saw it. One of the two people in the world who’d been her friend was dead and nothing could ever be right again because he was supposed to win and go home to that girl he loved so much that he couldn’t have loved her instead, and he’d sworn he would name one of his kids Johanna. He shouldn’t be there on the sand curled in on himself like he was only sleeping but for the blood around him.
Haymitch’s arms were around her and she buried her head in the crook of his neck, feeling how tightly he held her as he too mourned the loss of the best of them. They’d sworn years ago to look after Finnick, when both of them were off the circuit and Finnick was stuck, and now finally they had utterly failed him. “I’m sorry,” he kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” She didn’t know who he was apologizing to—her, Annie, the memory of Mags, maybe everyone who had died in this hellhole.
The hovercraft finally came and took Finnick away and she couldn't bear to watch. “You’re bleeding,” she realized finally, feeling the wetness against her own flank.
“Not bad,” he said, shaking his head, watching the hovercraft go. “Stitches only, I think. It’ll keep. Too bad.”
“Too bad?” she said fiercely. She’d just watched Finnick die and now here he was saying it was too bad he was going to survive his wounds from Enobaria? “Too bad?”
“We’re the last two.” He stepped away, clasped his hands behind his back. “So might as well get it over with.”
She realized what he meant with a sense of sick horror and fury. He shouldn’t be standing there defenseless, patiently waiting for her to kill him. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Hell no.”
“Well I’m damn well not killing you,” he snapped.
“I just watched my best friend die, you lost too many friends in here already too, I’m not gonna be the one that kills the man I…” It hung up in her throat, and suddenly she was conscious of the cameras again. Fuck them, she thought with a swell of rage and despair. If it made them unsettled that someone as unpopular as the bitch with the axe could love someone, they deserved to feel uncomfortable. “The man I love,” she said, hating them for taking this moment when it should have been theirs alone, but feeling triumph all the same because now, finally, she wouldn’t play their part. “So that’s fine if a mutt comes along this beach and something else kills me, but I’m not ever raising a weapon to kill you. Forget it.”
He looked at her, and then his arms were around her again as he said, “And I don’t want to survive by killing you either. I...I love you. So I can’t do it.” Her heart leaped to hear it, just for a moment, before reality sank in again. “But we can’t do this, not with the Gamemakers. I know. They’ll punish everyone else for it,” he said, voice now soft enough for only her to hear and she felt him trembling slightly with the knowledge that after so many years of quiet submission to keep people safe that the two of them were playing with fire here. “Johanna, we can’t…the longer we hold out the more angry Snow will get because we’re defying him. More people will die for it.”
“Don’t you ask me to do this,” she said thickly, shaking her head. “I can’t be that person. You know I've got nothing left already.” She couldn’t kill him deliberately and coldly and go home, pretending she was still any kind of a human being. Particularly with what he had made her feel in those days leading up to the Games, how she’d started to feel even just a little bit alive again, she couldn’t live with it.
“I won’t,” he murmured. “I can’t be that person either. It ain’t worth living if I let them turn me into that. But we have to end it so people will be safe. I won't let them pay for me, not this time. If we’re both gone, that’ll do it. We’ll have paid the price Snow wants. Together?” He touched her face gently.
“Together,” she agreed.
Then he smiled a slightly mischievous smile that she thought belonged on the man he would have become if not for the Games. “Snow will probably be glad to get rid of both of us, let’s be honest.”
She laughed, hearing the ragged edge in it. “Take your pick. So many ways to die in this arena.”
“I didn’t see anything obviously poisonous,” he said, and somehow she wasn’t surprised he’d been keeping track of things like that. “You?”
She shook her head. “No. And I’m not inclined to just start eating all kinds of stuff just hoping something will kill us quickly rather than in four days of agony.”
“If we wait hours for something like the wave that could be too long and Snow could start reprisals. Walking into the monkeys is no guarantee. One of us could survive it.”
“Jabberjays won’t kill us,” she observed wryly, even as her breath caught at the memory of Finnick screaming in anguish over the voice of his Annie, who even now must be sobbing herself sick up in Mentor Central.
He nodded towards the water. “That may be it. The water’s deep enough.” His hand tightened in hers and she knew even as determined they both were, he was afraid, just as she was.
“Look at you, using an arena to your advantage again,” she mocked him lightly. But she suppressed a shudder at the thought of it. “Hopefully it’s quick.” She let go of his hand, reached down and tore at the ragged edge of her overshirt, pulling off a long strip. “Here.” She caught his hand in hers, raising their clasped hands and seeing golden skin against olive. She wound the strip of green fabric around both their wrists and tied the knot. “If they have to try to untangle us,” she explained softly, “that may be enough for whoever holds out a little longer.” The few extra seconds could make all the difference. Her nightmare would be going into that blackness of dying only to wake up on a hovercraft and find out that in spite of her best intentions, she’d survived.
He nodded. Then he leaned down and kissed her with the fierce passion of a man who knew he’d never get the chance again. Maybe all of Panem saw it, but she knew it was just for the two of them, and so she answered it in kind. She didn’t care. She’d written all of them off. This was finally her choice and something that was hers alone. “Goodbye, love,” he said, and the two of them walked towards the water.
They’d just about gotten to chest depth for her and she could hear both of them breathing faster, instinctively fearful of the panic and the pain and then the unknown, when the voice boomed out over the arena. “Stop!”
~~~~~~~~~~
Fortunately, the phone call for that came to Central Command just as the two of them were about to drown themselves. He wasn't sure if the two of them would have been willing to kill each other if that wouldn't have played out without interruption.
He was also sure that was Plutarch’s doing as second chair Gamemaker, and his playing Seneca Crane like a master. Plutarch may not have been able to undo the Games, but he’d done what he could to preserve the groundwork of that rebellion that had long been in place.
Haymitch was sure he’d intended for Finnick and Haymitch to be the survivors. The secrets that Finnick had been gathering were invaluable, and for all his many fuck-ups, Plutarch insisted Haymitch’s ability to strategize was too important to lose either. That hadn’t worked out quite right. But as Snow placed yet another ugly metal crown on his head, and Haymitch carefully kept his face into a mask of amazed gratitude, he only hoped the cost hadn’t been too high.
“I expect whatever I want of either of you, Mister Abernathy, Miss Mason,” he said softly. “Whenever I demand it, and with no protests and no questions. I hope that’s clearly understood. You seem to have had issues with that lesson in the past.”
Haymitch understood, all right. Snow had let them survive only to have leverage again on both of them, something he’d been missing for years. If only one of them had lived, Snow would have even less hope of keeping either of them in line. But this way, he looked good to the people and he’d gotten his two problem victors more firmly in line than he’d ever had them. Besides, with Finnick and Gloss and Enobaria and other popular victors gone, the dual victors of the Third Quarter Quell would probably be much in demand next year. Someone would have to pick up the slack. He understood too that they would be expected to do that without complaint.
Moving to Johanna, placing the crown on her head, Snow continued, “And should I find that your final act in the arena was motivated by concerns other than your pure and deep love for each other—although I admit the audio feed from your room, Mister Abernathy, the night before the Quell is rather supportive—I will not be pleased.”
Haymitch gritted his teeth, trying to not respond to the jibe about Snow listening to the audio of the two of them having sex. “Of course,” he said coolly. “But you needn’t worry. We were only thinking about each other.”
Snow’s blue eyes studied his for a moment, sharp and inquisitive, and then he stared at Johanna likewise. Then he smiled. “Wonderful. It’s unfortunate you’ll only see each other in the summertime, of course, with the need for you to still mentor your respective districts. But when there’s a wedding to be held, of course it will be at my expense.” It sounded like a threat. Haymitch knew from that tone there had better be a wedding next summer, and of course Snow would take pleasure in controlling that. “And I look forward to seeing what marvelous children you two will produce.” Another expectation made clear. “I suppose as they’ll be born in Seven they’ll be eligible for the reapings there rather than Twelve, but of course as the father, you do have equal claim there, Mister Abernathy. Hm. That does cause a bit of a dilemma, but I’m sure we’ll have it all worked out by the time it becomes an issue.”
Neither of them flinched as Snow went on, although Haymitch’s stomach lurched sickly at the vision of his future, mingled heaven and hell. He’d known all that, part of why he’d never had a wife and kids, and here he’d played right into Snow’s hands. He couldn’t even bear the thought of those children right now, knowing they would be reaped. It was inevitable.
She slept up in the Twelve apartment with him that night. “We probably ought to…” Knowing Snow was listening in, and probably expecting hearing a happy couple joyfully celebrating their survival with lovemaking, was anything but arousing. “You think he jerked off to that first tape?” he murmured lowly to her, kissing her brow.
She laughed. “Knowing he’s got us under his thumb again? You bet that gave him a raging hard-on.” She raised her voice and said, “You look tired. Do you think you can…”
He caught on immediately. “Give it another day or two. My side still hurts,” where Enobaria had stabbed him. “And I want it to be something memorable for us both, OK?”
“That’s OK. It’s good just…just to be here. I can wait a few more days to get you naked.” She settled down against him with a sigh, and even as he reveled at the feel of her in his arms, the specter of years and years of lies and acting and fear stretched out ahead of him. “I love you. Don’t doubt that. But I wish we’d drowned,” she whispered. “Then we would have been free.”
Where I told you to run so we’d both be free, and he hummed the song softly to her until she fell asleep. It was hours before he fell into a broken and exhausted sleep himself, and the nightmares of two different Quells followed him there.
The next morning Plutarch woke them up early. “There’s so much to discuss about your interview tomorrow! Not to mention the logistics of a Victory Tour for victors from two different districts—oh my.”
It was really the last thing he wanted to discuss, but there it was. Keeping in mind acting like the relieved couple in rapture over their survival, they sat down with Plutarch on the sofa. Finally, Plutarch shoved a sheet of paper their way, asking brightly, “What do you think of this plan for the set tomorrow? We’ve had to make adjustments in a hurry!”
He read the paper, Johanna leaning over with a hand on his shoulder to read it as well. Among the drawings of set pieces, tiny cramped handwriting read, Seneca Crane dead. So Snow had shown his displeasure with Crane’s ability to be influenced.
Capitol intrigued by you but no danger there. But districts now support you two as potential act of defiance, rumored near-uprisings in Eight, Four, and Eleven. Interesting. All he could think of was that miserable, poor, downtrodden people had maybe found something to be inspired by that even the most miserable, isolated, disliked victors could have love that they didn’t want to lose and have friends they grieved deeply. Neither he nor Johanna could be called shining heroes but perhaps people saw themselves reflected more easily in the two of them because of that. So maybe, after all these years, their districts had again found something in them that resonated. Going home to Twelve suddenly made him nervous, unsure of his reception there. At least being loathed, he’d known what to expect.
Thirteen says the time is now. Will pick you up from your districts after you get back and get you to safety. Be careful. The rebellion—it would happen now? He tried to not want to lose his temper and demand to know what had changed and why it had taken twenty-two more deaths to earn that support. But he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t sixteen and stupid anymore.
Haymitch made sure to spill his water glass on Plutarch’s entire stack of papers when he set it down, wrecking that paper and deliberately smearing the ink as he picked it up. “Oh, fuck!” He shook his head. “Sorry. Looks like I’m still a little tired. My hands were steadier when I was drinking,” he grumbled.
“You’re not drinking again,” Johanna said sternly.
“She thinks she’s the boss of me already, Plutarch,” he quipped.
“We both know I am,” she said with a satisfied smirk. Then she looked at Plutarch. “Anyway, that plan, I like it! Just tell us what to do.”
Plutarch looked at the two of them and nodded. “If anyone can do it justice it’s you two, I suppose. Now, go get your rest!”
“All we need is Effie saying we’ve got a big, big, big day tomorrow,” Haymitch groaned. As Plutarch got up he leaned in close to Johanna. “So we’ll fight them,” he told her softly.
“Good,” she answered. “That’s what we do best.” He kept hold of Johanna’s hand, and as Plutarch left, for the first time since seeing Snow’s announcement, he let himself feel a spark of hope, and felt like the pressure of years had finally been released. They’d fight back, finally, for their murdered families, for their dead tributes, for the suffering in their districts, for the many friends slain in the arena—for Finnick and Chaff and Mags and Seeder and all the rest. For the children they might have someday, and everyone else’s children, to no longer fear the arena. After years of mutely enduring, now they and Panem might finally act.