to sleep, perchance to dream | hunger games | haymitch/katniss
title: to sleep, perchance to dream
pairing: haymitch/katniss
rating: pg-13
prompt: but there's somethin' behind the whiskey whispers you speak that rocks me to sleep
words: 1023
beta: girl-on-sunshine
disclaimer: no profit is being made. no copyright infringement is intended. the title is by william shakespeare.
author's notes: originally posted here.
& this is how it starts
.
Tonight's the kind of night where she feels like crying the world a new lake. She really isn't one to waste tears but, see, her sister - dead. Her best friend - gone. Her lover - not real, not real, not even really here.
Morning is creeping closer and closer and the half moons underneath her eyes finally burn into her skin, intending to stay forever. The cold, ash-drenched air is driving through her hair like icy fingers. And no, no, she can't stand the maddening silence of the twilight hour.
A sudden “hey you, fleeing from your little baker?” echoes across the blank street where the empty houses of victors are lined up like pale pale pearls on a necklace. A silly grin splashing Haymitch's features lazily follows. Drunk again. But this is what she's used to. Haymitch. Haymitch is familiar, never changed.
She herself is already two gin and tonics into the evening, too, so she slaps on a cheery smile and lies right into his face. “You know me, I don't run away.”
“Ple-ase,” he slurs and when he leaves, waving his hand in a way that really tells her nothing, she still knows she's meant to follow. The gusting wind doesn't leave them alone until the lock of his front door finally clicks shut.
“Drink that, sweetheart.” He holds out an old, dirty looking mug with something that smells suspiciously high-proofed. Perfect.
A soft sip sip fills the room, next to Haymitch's heavy breathing. It's peaceful, almost, but not quite. And when she sets the stained mug aside, an almost whiny “doesn't help. Please, Haymitch, I need something” escapes her tongue.
There is a brief flash of want in his eyes and she can't help but act on it. In a short short second her fingers are caught on his belt, dragging him close.
She litters kisses up his neck to the pink shell of his ear, one hand in his messy black hair and the other tracing the bumps of his spine. And he wants it, too, she can see it in the deepening blush riding his cheeks.
He pulls them flush together, as if trying to crawl into her, into a safer place. He needs this just as much as she does. And with that thought, she feels startlingly fragile and vulnerable beneath him in a twinkling of an eye.
But she is Katniss, right, so in a fit of pique, she bites down on one of his ruby lips, feels it throb beneath her teeth. And for a moment, it's only them in this grey scale world.
.
& this is how he makes her forget
.
Three nights later, half past eleven, she takes the steps to his house again, two at a time, even though she feels like death itself. She doesn't bother with closed doors or knocking. She's so full of shit, she doesn't really know what she's doing any more at all. But it's not like she's in love with him now. (This is no romantic tale of love and loss.) It's just a solution like any other to not go mad after all.
When she spots him, his hair is still damp from showering, and stray curls cling to his ears.
“I need you,” she whispers, but it's okay. She knows she isn't the brave one in this story. And she feels a need like an animal's for him and his body and the way he can make her feel just by being close. “Don't make me tell you twice.”
She clings to him, his broad shoulders, large forearms, thick thighs. She can't let him go and the thought of him gliding away, right through her fingers, chews at her nerves and leaves her itchy and irritated.
Don't go don't go, please, don't go. She could never say it out loud. Then again, there's no need to spell it out.
Afterwards, he stinks of sex and sweat and whiskey. But it's good; the smell of being save and forgetting and sleep, please please please, she just needs to sleep again.
.
& this is how they're told to stop
.
It was an open secret between them. Until now. Until Peeta decided he was here enough to actually care.
“You can't do this! Katniss, please” He's pacing around the room, growling like a caged animal. He, god Peeta, is so in love with her.
“No?” It makes her sick, how his eyes glaze over with hurt instead of some far away place. “Watch me!”
Dusk settles around the District when she stomps out the door. Peeta isn't what she wants, what she needs so badly, not any more.
Her hands are clumsy on the buttons of Haymitch's shirt that night but she knows this is right so never think about him, just don't.
There's nothing left of the Star-Crossed Lovers, it seems.
.
& this is how they never stop
.
Between midnight and dawn, she kisses up his thigh again. The faint tang of sweat is lingering in the air, growing heavier and thicker with each press of lips to skin. Her mind screams Haymitch over and over again, like a prayer, perhaps, but that's also one of those things she can't say.
When she straddles his lap, she licks his red, gasping mouth; covers his lopsided grin with her own version of lust-drunken smiling.
She wants happiness, or to feel as close as one can in this fucked up world. You can't blame her for that.
Their legs are a tangled mess; their skin is cool with dried sweat. “You can sleep now,” he whispers in his drunken oh so Haymitch voice, and it shouldn't be like that, but she closes her eyes then, and drifts off into pitch-dark nothingness.
pairing: haymitch/katniss
rating: pg-13
prompt: but there's somethin' behind the whiskey whispers you speak that rocks me to sleep
words: 1023
beta: girl-on-sunshine
disclaimer: no profit is being made. no copyright infringement is intended. the title is by william shakespeare.
author's notes: originally posted here.
& this is how it starts
.
Tonight's the kind of night where she feels like crying the world a new lake. She really isn't one to waste tears but, see, her sister - dead. Her best friend - gone. Her lover - not real, not real, not even really here.
Morning is creeping closer and closer and the half moons underneath her eyes finally burn into her skin, intending to stay forever. The cold, ash-drenched air is driving through her hair like icy fingers. And no, no, she can't stand the maddening silence of the twilight hour.
A sudden “hey you, fleeing from your little baker?” echoes across the blank street where the empty houses of victors are lined up like pale pale pearls on a necklace. A silly grin splashing Haymitch's features lazily follows. Drunk again. But this is what she's used to. Haymitch. Haymitch is familiar, never changed.
She herself is already two gin and tonics into the evening, too, so she slaps on a cheery smile and lies right into his face. “You know me, I don't run away.”
“Ple-ase,” he slurs and when he leaves, waving his hand in a way that really tells her nothing, she still knows she's meant to follow. The gusting wind doesn't leave them alone until the lock of his front door finally clicks shut.
“Drink that, sweetheart.” He holds out an old, dirty looking mug with something that smells suspiciously high-proofed. Perfect.
A soft sip sip fills the room, next to Haymitch's heavy breathing. It's peaceful, almost, but not quite. And when she sets the stained mug aside, an almost whiny “doesn't help. Please, Haymitch, I need something” escapes her tongue.
There is a brief flash of want in his eyes and she can't help but act on it. In a short short second her fingers are caught on his belt, dragging him close.
She litters kisses up his neck to the pink shell of his ear, one hand in his messy black hair and the other tracing the bumps of his spine. And he wants it, too, she can see it in the deepening blush riding his cheeks.
He pulls them flush together, as if trying to crawl into her, into a safer place. He needs this just as much as she does. And with that thought, she feels startlingly fragile and vulnerable beneath him in a twinkling of an eye.
But she is Katniss, right, so in a fit of pique, she bites down on one of his ruby lips, feels it throb beneath her teeth. And for a moment, it's only them in this grey scale world.
.
& this is how he makes her forget
.
Three nights later, half past eleven, she takes the steps to his house again, two at a time, even though she feels like death itself. She doesn't bother with closed doors or knocking. She's so full of shit, she doesn't really know what she's doing any more at all. But it's not like she's in love with him now. (This is no romantic tale of love and loss.) It's just a solution like any other to not go mad after all.
When she spots him, his hair is still damp from showering, and stray curls cling to his ears.
“I need you,” she whispers, but it's okay. She knows she isn't the brave one in this story. And she feels a need like an animal's for him and his body and the way he can make her feel just by being close. “Don't make me tell you twice.”
She clings to him, his broad shoulders, large forearms, thick thighs. She can't let him go and the thought of him gliding away, right through her fingers, chews at her nerves and leaves her itchy and irritated.
Don't go don't go, please, don't go. She could never say it out loud. Then again, there's no need to spell it out.
Afterwards, he stinks of sex and sweat and whiskey. But it's good; the smell of being save and forgetting and sleep, please please please, she just needs to sleep again.
.
& this is how they're told to stop
.
It was an open secret between them. Until now. Until Peeta decided he was here enough to actually care.
“You can't do this! Katniss, please” He's pacing around the room, growling like a caged animal. He, god Peeta, is so in love with her.
“No?” It makes her sick, how his eyes glaze over with hurt instead of some far away place. “Watch me!”
Dusk settles around the District when she stomps out the door. Peeta isn't what she wants, what she needs so badly, not any more.
Her hands are clumsy on the buttons of Haymitch's shirt that night but she knows this is right so never think about him, just don't.
There's nothing left of the Star-Crossed Lovers, it seems.
.
& this is how they never stop
.
Between midnight and dawn, she kisses up his thigh again. The faint tang of sweat is lingering in the air, growing heavier and thicker with each press of lips to skin. Her mind screams Haymitch over and over again, like a prayer, perhaps, but that's also one of those things she can't say.
When she straddles his lap, she licks his red, gasping mouth; covers his lopsided grin with her own version of lust-drunken smiling.
She wants happiness, or to feel as close as one can in this fucked up world. You can't blame her for that.
Their legs are a tangled mess; their skin is cool with dried sweat. “You can sleep now,” he whispers in his drunken oh so Haymitch voice, and it shouldn't be like that, but she closes her eyes then, and drifts off into pitch-dark nothingness.