Lies Are Fair in Love and War (R) - Hunger Games fic
Title: Lies Are Fair in Love and War
Author: millari
Characters: Kat, Peeta, Haymitch, Effie, OMC
Pairings: Kat/Peeta, Haymitch/OMC
Rating: R
Spoilers: The Hunger Games series
Beta: trovia
Warnings: References to forced prostitution and nonconsensual sex acts, all in the past and off screen.
Summary: Peeta and Haymitch have a plan to save Kat. An unexpected visitor from Haymitch's past suddenly makes that plan possible, but his help might come at a cost.
Notes: Slight AU, in that it treats as untrue a statement Haymitch makes in Mockingjay and takes that as a jumping off point for the fic; otherwise very canon compliant with the first book.
An Eleven. She got an Eleven.
Peeta is still thinking about the significance of that score long after Cinna, Portia and Effie have left for the night, Portia and Effie exiting amidst excited chatter about how they should take advantage of their newfound celebrity status with some partying tonight.
“While the night's still young!” Effie had exclaimed, a little too loudly. Peeta had had to hide his grimace, because he never would have gotten this far without their help. But still. How quickly Kat's training score announcement turned for them into something frivolous - a pass into an exclusive Capitol nightclub.
He looks over at Katniss again, who is curled up into herself on one of the sofas, quiet ever since the hugging and general hubbub over her unexpected score died down into general discussion. She doesn't look as happy about things as she might. In fact, she looks spent and a bit morose. Haymitch doesn't look much better. He'd been surprisingly chatty earlier, but he's been more subdued ever since Peeta made the mistake of asking him what score he'd gotten in his Games all those years ago.
“Don't remember,” he'd shrugged and put down his wine glass from dinner and went over to the sideboard. Peeta had blinked with surprise as he'd watched Haymitch fix himself a glass from the whisky decanter engraved with the Capitol mascot, his first the whole evening.
It's a lie, he'd realized. One thing Peeta has learned over the last two hours is that he will never forget his eight training score. It will stay permanently engraved on his brain like the mascot on that decanter. If he lives.
But living is not the plan that he's been formulating in the back of his mind.
Kat arrived at dinner this evening, her eyes red and puffy from crying over her performance, and it only confirmed in his mind the rightness of what he wants to do. Despite what could have been a suicidal move against the Gamemakers, Peeta can tell she truly does want to make it out of these Games alive. And not even for herself, not because she's afraid to die. She wants to live because she made a promise to her sister, because she's afraid her family won't survive without her. She deserves to live, he thinks.
And she doesn't even get how badly he wants that for her. He suppresses a sigh as he watches her staring into space, lost in her own thoughts. She's a confusing ball of rage and defensiveness and cluelessness that he'll never sort out before it's time to enter the arena. But he's promised himself. And he's made Haymitch promise too, ever since Haymitch cornered him alone the evening of their first training day and made Peeta admit what had been so obvious to him at breakfast:
Peeta's in love with her.
His family will be just fine without him, maybe even better, with one less mouth to feed. Peeta's not even sure they'll miss him all that much. Maybe they'll miss him when it comes time to frost the cakes, he thinks, not quite suppressing the bitterness. It occurs to him as he sits here in silence that while Haymitch can be an embarrasing and irritable drunk, he at least is giving a damn about the one thing Peeta really wants.
“Look who I found!”
The three of them turn in slow, surprised unison at the sound of Effie's sing-song voice trilling out at them from the entrance to the District Twelve apartment. She's standing there in different clothes than when she left - a shimmering evening gown in canary yellow, glistening everywhere with beads that sparkle like diamonds. She's next to a Capitol man who's in a blonde wig and a long turquoise jacket over black silk trousers. Peeta has never seen this man before. He looks over at Kat, who's started to wake up a bit from her reverie, but she looks just as confused.
Haymitch doesn't though.
Peeta watches him with fascination. Haymitch is staring with dismay at the two figures standing at the door, his expression moving rapidly through confusion, then reconfiguring itself into a blank mask. He slams down his drink on the small, teak sidetable next to him, but somehow Peeta doesn't think it's in anger: his shoulders have stiffened like the body of a cat encountering a vicious dog in its path.
“Hello, Haymitch,” the man says in a quiet tenor, not as shrill as Effie or Portia, vowels not so ridiculously elongated. “It's been a long time.”
“Can you believe it, Haymitch?” Effie cries with gossipy excitement for which Peeta realizes he's missing vital context. There's a mix of awkwardness and tense expectation quickly settling into the room that Peeta doesn't understand. “Just how long has it been?” Effie prompts the stranger.
“Oh, ten or eleven years now,” he replies softly. The man might be in his late forties, or maybe his fifties? Peeta's been learning all this week how hard it is to tell anyone's age here.
“Twelve years last month,” Haymitch corrects automatically. His whole body seems to be vibrating with a nervousness Peeta has never seen in the usually laconic man. Meanwhile, something vulnerable flashes over the stranger's face.
“I'm glad you remember,” he says with a breathlessness that gets Peeta thinking.
“Of course he does!” Effie gushes, turning to meet Haymitch's gaze directly. “How could you forget someone who you were...”
At that point, Haymitch rises with a loud, raspy cough that cuts off the rest of Effie's sentence. “It's wonderful to see you, Lincoln,” he says in an equally quiet voice that to Peeta indicates that it is clearly everything but wonderful, from Haymitch's point of view. Peeta can't help exchanging an amazed look with Kat at the word choice: Wonderful? They have never heard Haymitch use a word like that.
“I ran into him at Club Venus!” Effie squeals, although no one has asked her for an explanation, they are all too shocked for that. “He recognized me as the District Twelve escort.” (It's clear that Effie is thrilled.) “And of course, I recognized you,” Effie teases the stranger, pressing a flirtatious finger into the man's chest. “I don't mind saying, Lincoln.” Her voice goes wistful. “I had such a crush on the both of you back when I was young.”
“Effie...” Haymitch groans irritably, his eyes squinting shut.
“What?” she protests. “I was thirteen! You were a victor, he was a movie star!” She huffs at him as if he's being ridiculous. “And it's not like I have one now. Six years of working alongside you certainly made sure of that,” she mutters. “You, however ...” she continues to beam at the mystery man, flirting shamelessly, “... you took longer to get over.”
He directs a gracious, dignified smile at Effie, but Peeta sees how his eyes are carefully following all of Haymitch's anxious little movements as he stands where he jumped up from the sofa, seeming to want to look anywhere but at this visitor from his past.
“Anyway,” Effie blusters on in her oblivious way, “Lincoln told me that he had been thinking about you ever since he'd seen you on television this Hunger Games, that he'd been thinking of coming to talk to you.”
At that, Haymitch presses his palm into his forehead, his eyes hiding behind. He looks mortified, and and Peeta realizes that he must be thinking of Reaping Day, and how he'd made such a spectacle of himself on that dais.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your tributes this year,” the man adds quickly, as if he's afraid of being misunderstood. He then turns to Kat. “Congratulations, by the way, Miss Everdeen, on your eleven rating.” Kat narrows her eyes at him on general principle.
“... and well,” Effie finishes with an air of desperation at being forgotten, before Kat can even hope to answer, “it's not like I could say no to the legendary Lincoln Benford, could I? Especially when he's making noises about becoming a District Twelve sponsor.”
At that, everyone else in the room freezes. Haymitch removes his palm from his forehead and stares at Benford.
“I thought maybe I might be able to add a little to your fleet of parachutes,” the man smiles.
“What fleet of parachutes?” Haymitch retorts, a spark of disdain flaring up that takes Peeta aback. “You really haven't been paying attention, Lincoln, have you?”
“Well, to be honest, I tried for a long time to forget about you,” the man murmurs. “Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
Peeta flashes a shocked look at Haymitch, finally sure that he understands what once passed between these two men. This is only confirmed for him by how Haymitch refuses to look Kat or Peeta in the eye.
Kat is only just behind Peeta in understanding: “Wait,” she blurts out, her attention fully on Haymitch now. She casts a withering stare at him. “Are you telling me the two of you used to be a couple?” Peeta can hear the shock in her voice at the idea that Haymitch once was dating one of these Capitol sponges; he's not sure what he thinks of the revelation either.
For the briefest flicker of a moment, Haymitch looks lost. Peeta doubts anyone else besides him saw it, because a second later, the mask has returned.
“All right,” Haymitch hisses, the implied accusation in Kat's voice seeming to propel him from pointless jittering into actual motion towards the door. “You're not watching this conversation.” He turns his attention to Benford. “Lincoln, if you want to talk, follow me.”
The legendary Lincoln Benford, Capitol movie star that neither Peeta nor Kat have ever heard of, gives the room a wan smile and turns to follow Haymitch into an adjoining chamber. As the door is automatically sliding shut behind them, Peeta watches how he places an affectionate, utterly comfortable hand on Haymitch's shoulder. He sees how Haymitch's shoulders stiffen all over again. But to his surprise, Peeta also notices how Haymitch doesn't do a thing to retreat from the man's touch.
**
The minute Haymitch is out of the room, Kat is voicing her disgust.
“Can you believe that?” she sneers. “No wonder none of his tributes win! Look how he's been spending all his time!”
“That was twelve years ago,” Peeta corrects. And a month, he adds in his head, disquieted. “You heard Haymitch. And anyway, we don't know the whole context.” He's still thinking about what he saw. “I don't think whatever used to be between them was entirely Haymitch's idea.”
“What do you mean? Of course it was his idea! This is Haymitch. When has he ever done anything he didn't want to?”
“Come on, Katniss. You must have seen it too: he didn't seem comfortable around that guy.” But then, maybe you wouldn't, it occurs to him. After all, you don't see how much I love you, do you?
“He said it was wonderful to see him,” she argues.
“Haymitch has stayed away from him for the last twelve years,” he insists. “That must mean something.”
“Well, they did have an awkward breakup, it's true,” Effie chimes in.
“See?” Kat says in resentful triumph. “They had a breakup. They were a couple. How was that not Haymitch's idea?”
“Oh, they were definitely a couple,” Effie offers, before Peeta can counter, “ the biggest celebrity couple in the Capitol for four years, in fact. From the 59th Hunger Games through the 63rd.” Effie is only too excited to be dispensing gossip. “Everyone knew about Lincoln and Haymitch. Each year when Haymitch came back to mentor, the two of them were inseparable, so in love.” Her expression turns dreamy. “Sometimes he would even stay on for a few months after most of the other victors had left town.”
“In love? Haymitch?” Kat shakes her head. “I can't imagine Haymitch in love with anyone. I bet he was just using the guy, taking advantage of him to spend more time here living it up.” She's the picture of angry betrayal.
“Yeah, I don't know either, Effie,” Peeta agrees, although his suspicions are for the moment more charitable. “In love? Are you sure?”
Effie gives him a cockeyed look. “Am I sure? Peeta, when I was fifteen, I could tell you all the details about virtually every single of one their public dates. They were both so handsome...”
She sniffs. “Don't tell him this, but I always kind of regretted that I never got to meet Haymitch when he was still young and attractive and …” she searches for a diplomatic phrase. “... together. Before he met Lincoln, of course. I would have liked to see if I could have gotten just one date.”
She catches the two of them staring at her in incredulity. “You two have never seen what he looked like back then,” she insists.
“So why aren't they still together?” Peeta asks, changing the subject. It's nosy of him, he supposes, but he's curious now. “What happened?”
“I'd like to think he came back to his senses,” Kat snarks. “But I bet old Lincoln got tired of cleaning vomit off his shoes.”
“Manners!” Effie scolds her. “Do they teach you none in that barbaric district of yours?”
Kat just scowls. Effie harrumphs as if that just confirms everything she's been taught about District Twelve.
“Come on, Effie,” Peeta prods her. He realizes he wants something that his mind can use in Haymitch's defense. “What broke them up? Did something happen?”
Effie shakes her head. “Well, I don't think so. I used to follow their lives rather closely, and I never heard about anything in particular. They seemed quite happy at first.” She lowers her voice to a more confidential tenor. “But Kat is right, I hate to say: Lincoln did break up with him over the drinking. It was on all the gossip shows. Lincoln even gave interviews about it, saying he would take Haymitch back in a heartbeat, if he'd go to rehab. But he refused to go.
“It was rather a scandal: He had apparently started drinking somewhere in the middle of their relationship and it just got worse and worse every year. Haymitch started showing up drunk at the Reapings. Lincoln's friends gradually started pulling back their sponsorship support, and then others were following their example, until District Twelve couldn't get sponsors anymore at all.”
“Wow, “ Peeta breathes in amazement. “This relationship is the whole reason District Twelve hasn't had a victor in so long?”
“Well, no,” she corrects. “It wasn't exactly that. They weren't having victors even with the sponsorship money.”
“Why? Haymitch is good at strategy. And if we had the resources ...”
Effie shrugs. “No one could figure it out either. They used to speculate every year in the coverage about what Haymitch was doing wrong, or if it was maybe just bad luck.”
“It's obvious, isn't it?” Kat interjects. “All the sponsorship money in the world can't make up for his tributes being the most scrawny, underfed, undertrained kids in Panem.”
They all go awkwardly quiet for a moment, realizing what this says about Kat and Peeta.
“Now, now,” Effie then trills in discomfort. “We've been filling the two of you up successfully enough, I am sure. And you have those excellent training scores.” She shifts gears and her voice turns singsong with excitement again as she casts her gaze at the door where Haymitch and Lincoln exited. “Plus there's the little matter of us getting a very wealthy sponsor!”
“You think he'll give us a lot of money?” Kat asks with new interest.
Not us, Katniss, Peeta tells himself, like an incantation in his mind, a fire that burns clear through to his resolve. Not us. Only one of us can come out of that arena. And it's going to be you.
“Oh, did you see the way he looked at Haymitch?” Effie's eyes flutter with pleased anticipation as she stage whispers. “He'll definitely come up with the money.” Her voice then returns to normal. “And don't sell yourselves short: you two have generated a lot of excitement.
“In fact, I'm going back to Venus,” she declares suddenly. “Those two have so much to catch up on, they'll be in there for hours. And I can't wait to tell all my friends about this!” She stops for a moment, as if to reflect. “It might even help, come to think of it, get the gossip mill running.”
She leaves them in a delighted string of chatter not really directed at them. With no Haymitch around to focus them, they soon turn on the television and look for a non-Games channel, grateful for a bit of a break from their newly rigorous schedule of training and strategizing. They eventually settle on a documentary program about the Capitol's zoos.
“No wonder he's been an outcast all these years,” Kat says after they've watched for a long while and there's no sign of Haymitch returning. “You heard Effie, it was all over the gossip shows. All that would have eventually got back to the District. What was he thinking?” The exhausted quietude from before is clearly descending upon her again.
Peeta shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe he really was in love.”
“Love? Haymitch?” She gives him a look that says, Seriously? “With that guy? I mean, did you notice that he's got to be at least ten years older than Haymitch, maybe fifteen?”
“Love is funny like that,” Peeta insists. “You sometimes fall in love with the people you least expect, people who don't even like you, or people you think you don't like.” He pauses a moment, wondering if she just might make the connection. But she just scoffs at him.
“Can you imagine what they thought of him at home? Leaving our tributes to die in the arena while he'd go off every year to make out with a Capitol movie star?” She frowns. “It's sickening.”
Peeta's features turn hard, even though he's not entirely sure what to make of all this. But he keeps remembering Benford's possessive hand on Haymitch's shoulders. “I don't think you should be so quick to judge,” he urges. “He's working to save our lives, isn't he? Just wait until you get the whole story.”
“Hah,” says Kat, rolling her eyes. “Like he'll ever tell us the whole story about anything.”
**
Haymitch leads Lincoln Benford into the adjacent room, whose purpose is exactly the same as the room they left - eating, television, lounging. The only difference seems to be that this room has a different décor. This room, like all the tribute housing in the Training Center, is deliberately soundproofed, after an incident years ago with an Avox who was bribed by another Mentor into listening at doors for him, long before Haymitch's time. Haymitch is aware, though, that there are still plenty of Snow's bugs here. But he's already decided since walking in here that he doesn't give a fuck. Nothing he's going to say here will be news of any consequence to Panem's president. He has enough years of experience to be pretty sure about that.
“You're looking well.” Lincoln's wistful tone breaks into his thoughts, and Haymitch can't help turning back to look at him with traces of knee-jerk worry. “Better than you have in years.”
He tries to cover with a sardonic roll of his eyes. “Yeah, well, I guess it actually does help to stop drinking a bottle of whisky a day.” He shrugs. “Still, I might go back to it once the Games are over.”
He knows he's adding the comment to be cruel, given their past, but he's not sure how satisfying it is to see Lincoln's brow wrinkle with dismay.
“So what was important enough to you to make you stop?” Lincoln's hands gesture vaguely towards the other room. “Those kids of yours? Are they that special that you could quit drinking for them and not for me?”
Haymitch's jaw clenches. “Lincoln ...”
“I think I have a right to know,” he insists, a touch of restrained anger playing at the edges of his voice. “After all, it was your drinking that broke us up.”
Haymitch's arms fold across his chest. “Actually, my drinking made you decide I wasn't worth paying for anymore,” he says acidly.
The meaty slap he gets in response doesn't really hurt, but it is an unpleasant surprise. So is the expression of genuine hurt that crosses the other man's face. To his supreme annoyance, Haymitch feels a lot worse about the latter.
“You know it was never like that,” Lincoln admonishes. “I had to pay whatever Snow demanded. It was the only way to keep you out of all those sick people's clutches.”
Haymitch shrugs at him, reluctant to acknowledge this truth. After a a number of appointments with Lincoln mandated by President Snow when Haymitch had been twenty-five, the movie star had surprised him one night in his apartment with an impromptu visit, even though it was technically against the rules. Haymitch had just returned from another client, one who had left him with harsh, purple bruises on his face that the Capitol doctors would somehow magically heal in the morning, as they always did. Lincoln's intrusion had been such a surprise, Haymitch hadn't had a ready response to all the questions his face had prompted. So he had just closed himself up inside and refused to answer, until Lincoln had finally left, unsatisfied.
The next day, an Avox had appeared at his door with a summons clinically outlining how until further notice, Lincoln Benford would be his exclusive client, and as such, he was not to be seen consorting romantically with anyone else.
For the next four years, Snow made a fat profit off Lincoln's determination to have exclusive rights to Haymitch.
“I loved you,” Lincoln continues. “It broke my heart to see you drinking like that, destroying yourself like that. And you just flat-out refused to stop. I'd swear you were doing it to spite me.”
Haymitch still says nothing. He can't.
“You reach a point where you can't take that kind of thing anymore,” Lincoln's defensive tone fills the silence between them.
Yeah, I know that feeling, Haymitch thinks. All sorts of confused and uncomfortable memories bubble up to the surface - of gentle kisses in a feather bed, of going to clubs and movie premieres and just about everywhere arm in arm, because Lincoln had said he loved him, and because the cardinal rule of Snow's whoring system has always been whatever fantasy the client wants, the client gets.
In his day as one of Snow's sex slaves, Haymitch had stoically endured plenty of whips and chains, plenty of being fucked over a table, over a car, in front of seventy people at a party. He'd once even been put on his knees in a replica of his Games uniform and ordered to give Caesar Flickerman a blow job. In his dressing room, no less. That one had really fucked with his head.
But he had never been quite sure what to do with Lincoln, his only client who had never hurt him, who had paid exorbitantly to save him from the perils and pitfalls of the crazy clientele, and whose only fantasy was having Haymitch's love.
A tidal wave of emotions he's been damming back for the last twelve years begins spilling out over the sides. All the rich food he's been gorging himself on is now making him feel sick. Why now? Why did Lincoln have to show up now and mess him up, just when he had decided to give a damn again?
No, I'm not going to be messed up by this, he tells himself. He clings to the reminder of his tributes and the sense of purpose it gives him.
“So you're interested in Kat and Peeta?” he tries, thankful that he's still remembering the little tricks of this particular game, like using his tributes' names. It makes the sponsor more likely to see them as real people worth caring about. “I'm seeing a lot of interest in those two, you know, with their plucky dark-horse backstory.”
This is a total lie, but he turns on his best attempt at charming. Lincoln may be a fading star, but he's still considered a fixture in the Capitol, a respected veteran of the movie industry who brings up the younger generation. Lincoln's is exactly the kind of imprimatur these two nobodies with nothing but some promising scores need to take them up to the next level of the sponsorship game.
“I'll even let you in on a secret,” he promises archly. His nausea kicks in a little harder when he realizes he's flirting. “Sponsor them now, while they're still a cheap buy, because that's not going to last long. And you'll get to say you saw something special in them from the beginning.”
Lincoln's expression looks unhappy at this change of topic, but Haymitch's tone seems to interest him, and so he takes the bait with an aura of slight resignation. “Oh?” he asks mildly.
Haymitch wills himself not to react to the sadness he sees there in Lincoln's eyes. You don't owe him anything, he tells himself over and over. It's clear that the sponsorship thing was mainly a ruse to call on Haymitch again, but anything's better than an argument about why Lincoln stopped buying him twelve years ago, and besides, it's looking like he might get something useful out of this.
“The two of them are working together,” he explains further. “And even better, Peeta's in love with Kat, but she doesn't know it. He's going to reveal it the night before the Games during the interview with Flickerman. She'll find out right along with the audience. It'll be ratings gold.” Of course, he hasn't told Peeta this part yet, but he will tonight.
“I see,” Lincoln sighs, putting it together quickly. “They find true love at the Games and then they'll never get to be a couple because one of them has to die. How tragic. What a nice twist on the star-crossed lover angle,” he compliments. He's getting sucked in despite himself, like he did in the old days, when Haymitch used to sell him on his doomed tributes every year. “I haven't ever seen it played out quite that way, either, with the surprise reveal. Very creative. And that's a brave move revealing it to her on camera. No one will take it for a publicity stunt. But what if she reacts negatively?”
“She won't. I'm working on that. Come on, what do you say? It's the perfect story for a well-respected actor to hitch his wagon to. Very romantic.”
Lincoln nods in acknowledgment, but then suddenly his face looks stricken.
“You didn't think that's what I was doing back then, did you?” he blinks. “Using us as a story to hitch my wagon to?”
“No, of course not.” But in truth, Haymitch doesn't really know what Lincoln was doing back then. He was otherwise a pretty nice guy who seemed to miss the fundamental concept that Haymitch didn't have a choice about being in a relationship with him.
“I really am glad to see you're taking better care of yourself. I hope you'll continue to do so.”
Haymitch steels himself, forcing himself to focus on the sponsorships.
“I've watched every one of your Reapings since we broke up, you know,” Lincoln continues. “I couldn't stay away, even though it killed me to see you like that. But when I saw the footage of you this year in the Capitol, and you looked … better. And I felt such a surge of hope for you, for us, that I knew I had to come see you.”
At the word us, Haymitch's body goes deadly still. “Are you going to start buying me again?” he asks in a panic that he hopes he's successfully hiding behind a monotone.
Lincoln searches Haymitch's eyes. “Would you like it if I did?”
He finds he is only capable of standing there and staring, as speechless as an Avox.
“Actually,” Lincoln amends hurriedly, “I was hoping that wouldn't be necessary.”
Haymitch still can't say anything, but his eyes narrow with confusion.
“I was hoping that maybe you'd want to try living with me for real, that we could try again, without all that baggage of you being for hire. Snow doesn't sell you anymore, right? I haven't seen you on the gossip shows on anyone's arm. Not for years.”
The shrug he manages to finally give Lincoln isn't as nonchalant as he wants it to be. “Well, all the public drunkenness took care of that, I guess.”
He doesn't mention the part where he started drinking more because he couldn't deal with the daily emotional rollercoaster of Lincoln Bedford and Haymitch Abernathy - celebrity couple - and the fucked-up, silent bargain it entailed; and because his tributes kept dying, no matter how much money Lincoln and his buddies gave - and they were starting to look more and more unhappy about how much, even if Lincoln couldn't see it. Because he realized that there were days when he could no longer tell the difference between love and gratitude for Lincoln's doting protection.
Then there was the awful day that he realized that maybe if he kept living out Lincoln's fantasies, the man might one day whisk Haymitch away from Mentor Central and District Twelve forever - the ball of string finally leading him out of this horrible labyrinth his life had become.
“Excuse me,” he blurts out, the low-lying nausea suddenly rearing up. It's the best he can do before he has to make a run for the toilets, just barely getting there before he falls to his knees and the food and drink come rushing out of him, jerking his body forward with the force. The violent retching that rings in his ears is painful and humiliating; he knows that Lincoln is hearing all of it; it's only made worse when he hears the soft hiss of the bathroom door sliding open.
Then there are soft fingers pulling back his unruly bangs and holding him steady as he ejects everything, until there is nothing but greenish-yellow bile. He finally collapses on the cool white tiles, panting for breath, Lincoln's fingers still caressing his scalp.
“Well, this certainly brings back memories,” Lincoln remarks with a ironic, voiceless laugh that Haymitch knows from experience is not meant to be unkind, but still comes out that way.
“I'm not drinking. This wasn't from drinking,” he insists, hating this begging feeling. He takes the hand towel an Avox hands him before Lincoln shoos the man away.
“You should sponsor Kat and Peeta, my tributes,” he rasps, his throat hurting from so much undigested food and acid coming up. He wipes his mouth. “Do it now, while you still can do it cheaply.”
He hears nothing above him for what feels like a long time, as if Lincoln is thinking.
“They're going to be the stars of the Games,” he argues. “And when they're winning with your help, everyone will be talking about how you saw the diamonds in the coal before they all did, I guarantee it.”
“Diamonds don't come from coal.”
“Yeah, I know, Lincoln.” He raises himself up from the floor, still feeling wobbly, but determined to cover it. “Not the point.”
Another one of Lincoln's sad smiles. “You have such an optimist hiding under that cynical exterior, you know that? I always found it such an endearing quality. Every year you went into that Training Center telling me, “I've got a good feeling about these two.”
Shit. Forgot about that. “I was a lot more inexperienced back then,” he growls. “I've had too many losers to not know what a winner looks like. This year is different than my other years.” He makes himself stare the man down. “I wouldn't steer you wrong.”
Again, that voiceless laugh. “No, no, I know you wouldn't. I know you believe in them. And don't worry. I'll sponsor your tributes. Like I said, they've got a good story. I think I can even convince a few of my friends too.
“But they'll have to really sell it in the arena. If any of my friends are going to throw their lot in with your underdogs again, there's got to be a serious entertainment factor involved, you know?” He takes Haymitch's chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Haymitch has to work not to pull away.
“I'm not a kid anymore, Lincoln.”
The hand on Haymitch's chin retreats. “No, no you're not. In fact, neither of us are as young and inexperienced as we used to be, hm?”
He doesn't know what to say to that, and he's afraid if he says the wrong thing, it might screw up this sponsorship, the only actual bite he's had yet, and dammit, he made a promise. For the first time in years, he's going to keep it or go out trying.
“Would you at least say you'll consider my offer?” Lincoln asks. “It would make me feel better.”
Haymitch's eyes widen. Is that part of the deal? Does he have to say yes to get the money?
“Okay,” he finally says slowly, reluctantly. He never actually wanted to be with Lincoln, or at least not for any of the reasons one should be in a relationship with someone. But then, how the fuck would he even know what the right ones were, when this thing with Lincoln was the closest thing he's ever had to a relationship since he was sixteen?
“I'll consider it.”
Something about Lincoln's eyes look not nearly as happy as they should, though, and Haymitch thinks he knows he is lying. But he also gets the sense that Lincoln maybe needs him to lie - though for what reason, he cannot fathom. He just hopes this will not come back to bite him in the ass: he's sure Snow would have no problem selling him again, to Lincoln or to anyone else crazy enough to request him at this age. And by taking this deal with Lincoln and his friends, he's not sure if he's opening himself up to all sorts of demands for reciprocation, for repayment of favors given. But he reminds himself that he's old and out of shape and a known drunk - three things the Capitol abhors. There's a certain safety in that.
But if Lincoln came back to him in a week, asking him to go out to dinner, or making some other prelude to reconciliation, Haymitch's not sure if he could find it in himself to say no, especially if by some crazy luck, Kat emerges as victor and he feels a debt of gratitude to Lincoln for saving her.
“All right then,” Lincoln fusses with his jacket. “I've got to be on my way. You can look for five thousand credits in your account by tomorrow morning, and I'll get to work on my friends.”
It's an extremely generous start, Haymitch has to admit, already calculating in his head how much more he'd need to be able to get Kat a bow, if she even makes it past the second day. If any of Lincoln's friends join in, he's got a real chance.
“Just make sure there's some kissing,” Lincoln adds with a wry grin. “Passionate kissing. People like that. It makes them believe.” Haymitch nods, willing himself to ignore the complicated barb he's pretty sure is there underneath. As he walks away, Lincoln flashes him a familiar gesture of farewell.
It takes Haymitch aback to see it coming from him, until he remembers having taught it to Lincoln fifteen years ago. It's the two-fingered salute that the people of District Twelve sent Kat off with this year at the Reaping. And maybe Lincoln means to refer to that. It was on television screens all over the Capitol, after all. But it's also something else: it was the gesture Lincoln used to make at him every year when he boarded the train back home, to comfort him.
He would always be in a funk at that point - about having to bring home dead tributes and face their families' accusing faces - Maybe if you'd spent more time paying attention to our children instead of your love life.... Then there was the months he would have to spend in a district where he had no friends anymore and everyone looked at him as a figurative Capitol whore, not the actual slave he was. Many times he boarded that train feeling just plain guilty, because Lincoln had paid extra for him to return to the Capitol as soon as the tributes' funerals were done, and he was secretly relieved not to have to deal with anyone back home until it was Victory Tour time again and he'd have to be there to greet the new victor. But he'd always just let Lincoln believe simply that he was already missing him. He'd always return that two-fingered farewell out the window of the departing train; he could tell Lincoln liked the romance of it.
But there's something else about that gesture that he never told Lincoln, he realizes. Among the many things it means - admiration, respect, love it can also mean, Goodbye. We won't be seeing each other again.
But now he wonders if maybe Lincoln knows that.
“Thank you,” he says in a low voice. “For helping me.” He even means it.
“You're welcome, Haymitch,” he replies with that sad smile again. “And good luck. I'll be watching with interest.”
He walks out of the bathroom. Haymitch waits until he hears the hiss off the outer door closing, signaling that Lincoln is gone.
It's only then that he goes back into the adjacent room, where Kat and Peeta are still sitting and idly chatting - gossiping about him, most likely, given the way they abruptly stop talking when he walks in.
He has barely time to recover before Kat pounces on him:
“Who was that? Effie says you two used to be a couple? Were you married to him? Did you actually like him?” She's like one of those high-speed Capitol trains, barreling right over him with a dozen accusatory questions.
“Enough!” Haymitch roars, annoyed that she has the power to make him feel so defensive about this, when all along, he hasn't cared what she thinks about his drinking, about his manners, or anything else. But he knows what she's saying underneath: How could you be with someone who would watch you die for their entertainment? How could you betray us like that? How could you give up what little you had for them? And it makes him feel like he's gone back fifteen years, to those glaring faces in Twelve. She really is Seam through and through, he thinks.
“Look, it's none of your business, is it?” he snaps. “So you can just leave me be.”
“But Effie said you'd been sleeping with him for four years?” Kat says this part with such girlish disgust, Haymitch realizes he's not sure if she's more horrified by his association with a paragon of the Capitol, or simply by the thought of Haymitch having sex, and with a man no less. The realization makes him laugh enough inside that he's able to retrieve some of his sarcasm.
“Frankly, sweetheart, I'm not interested in hearing your opinion on my personal life,” he says through his teeth. “Now get out. We'll get back to strategy at breakfast.”
“Is that guy going to sponsor us?” she ignores his command. “Effie said he would.”
“What did I say?” He lets his voice go up a few decibels.
She glares at him, but he can tell she's realized that he's in no mood, so she rises from the couch, and Peeta follows her example, shutting off the television and putting down the remote.
“You stay here,” he gestures at Peeta, who looks appropriately surprised. “I've got a bone to pick with you, baker boy.”
Kat looks surprised too, but naturally, she also turns suspicious, and a little protective, and far too ready to stick around, which is exactly what Haymitch doesn't want. As she begins to protest, he cuts her off.
“What did I say?” he repeats, his tone a little louder, a little angrier. a little like an annoyed parent. He needs her out of here. He points a demonstrative finger in the direction of the door. “Go to bed.”
Peeta, ever the little peacemaker, helps him out: “It's fine, Katniss. Don't worry.” When she casts a doubtful glance at him, he adds, “I got an eight, didn't I? I can take him if necessary.”
The joke only earns him her narrowed eyes, but he gives her an insistent smile. “I promise I'll come see you before I turn in. So you'll know I've survived.”
He still looks convincingly confused about the order to stay, thankfully, because otherwise, Haymitch is sure Kat would have never agreed to leave. Haymitch makes sure the door slides closed before turning around to deal with his other tribute, only to find Peeta's gaze trained hard on him, inspecting him.
“Are you okay?” he asks simply.
Haymitch stops dead, blinking at him in surprise, then embarrassment he's not sure he's covering well enough. The boy couldn't possibly know, could he? Not even Effie knows. The whoring is such a well-kept secret among Panem's top elite. Did he just figure out everything from watching him with Lincoln?
“I'm fine,” he growls.
“Are you sure?” Peeta cocks his head, disbelieving. “You seemed a little off. I mean, around that guy.”
Haymitch swallows hard. No, kid. I'm not in the least sure. He hadn't figured Peeta to be quite so perceptive. A bit more than Katniss, certainly, but...
But then Effie Fucking Trinket had thrown him for quite the loop with this little surprise visit, hadn't she? Hadn't been exactly on top of his game.
“'Off'?” Haymitch mimics his tone back at him, with a playful air, to show Peeta how little Lincoln's surprise visit has affected him, but Peeta's look of genuine concern makes it difficult. He does the best he can with an affected shrug. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he assures him. “Just some old business I never finished, that's all.”
He grabs the remote and turns the television back on. The channel they'd been watching is now showing some overwrought romance drama, judging from the breathy tone of the actors' voices. It's good cover, and he turns the volume up too loudly for the silence of the room, but not loud enough to tip off anyone listening in. He ruthlessly changes topics in a much lower voice.
“If you're in such the mood to analyze, kid, let's talk about you and the Girl on Fire.”
“That's what this private meeting is about, isn't it?” Peeta asks, his voice following Haymitch's cue, as Haymitch motions for them to sit next to each other on the couch. “About what we discussed two nights ago.”
Haymitch gives him a barely perceptible nod. The kid's quick at the mental strategy, he has to admit, even if he may turn out to be shit when it comes to combat tactics. The caginess is a good sign too; he's clearly not forgotten that he's under surveillance here all the time and that he must be watchful with his words. He might be good enough to make some convincing alliances in the arena.
“I have a plan,” he acknowledges. “A plan that could help the two of you get sponsors. But you've got to be able to keep it from her for now, because it'll only work if she doesn't know ahead of time, we clear?”
Peeta reflects on this. “She'll be angry when she finds out,” he says.
“Of course she will,” Haymitch snaps. “But she'll be alive.”
That works, as he knew it would. Peeta stiffens with resolve. “I'll do it,” he declares. “Whatever it takes.”
“All right, then.” He notices the drink he'd abandoned earlier on the endtable, grabs it and downs it, pushing away thoughts of bargains he might have to make to bring that girl home a victor.
“So here's the first thing I need to know, kid,” he begins. “How good a liar are you?”
Author: millari
Characters: Kat, Peeta, Haymitch, Effie, OMC
Pairings: Kat/Peeta, Haymitch/OMC
Rating: R
Spoilers: The Hunger Games series
Beta: trovia
Warnings: References to forced prostitution and nonconsensual sex acts, all in the past and off screen.
Summary: Peeta and Haymitch have a plan to save Kat. An unexpected visitor from Haymitch's past suddenly makes that plan possible, but his help might come at a cost.
Notes: Slight AU, in that it treats as untrue a statement Haymitch makes in Mockingjay and takes that as a jumping off point for the fic; otherwise very canon compliant with the first book.
An Eleven. She got an Eleven.
Peeta is still thinking about the significance of that score long after Cinna, Portia and Effie have left for the night, Portia and Effie exiting amidst excited chatter about how they should take advantage of their newfound celebrity status with some partying tonight.
“While the night's still young!” Effie had exclaimed, a little too loudly. Peeta had had to hide his grimace, because he never would have gotten this far without their help. But still. How quickly Kat's training score announcement turned for them into something frivolous - a pass into an exclusive Capitol nightclub.
He looks over at Katniss again, who is curled up into herself on one of the sofas, quiet ever since the hugging and general hubbub over her unexpected score died down into general discussion. She doesn't look as happy about things as she might. In fact, she looks spent and a bit morose. Haymitch doesn't look much better. He'd been surprisingly chatty earlier, but he's been more subdued ever since Peeta made the mistake of asking him what score he'd gotten in his Games all those years ago.
“Don't remember,” he'd shrugged and put down his wine glass from dinner and went over to the sideboard. Peeta had blinked with surprise as he'd watched Haymitch fix himself a glass from the whisky decanter engraved with the Capitol mascot, his first the whole evening.
It's a lie, he'd realized. One thing Peeta has learned over the last two hours is that he will never forget his eight training score. It will stay permanently engraved on his brain like the mascot on that decanter. If he lives.
But living is not the plan that he's been formulating in the back of his mind.
Kat arrived at dinner this evening, her eyes red and puffy from crying over her performance, and it only confirmed in his mind the rightness of what he wants to do. Despite what could have been a suicidal move against the Gamemakers, Peeta can tell she truly does want to make it out of these Games alive. And not even for herself, not because she's afraid to die. She wants to live because she made a promise to her sister, because she's afraid her family won't survive without her. She deserves to live, he thinks.
And she doesn't even get how badly he wants that for her. He suppresses a sigh as he watches her staring into space, lost in her own thoughts. She's a confusing ball of rage and defensiveness and cluelessness that he'll never sort out before it's time to enter the arena. But he's promised himself. And he's made Haymitch promise too, ever since Haymitch cornered him alone the evening of their first training day and made Peeta admit what had been so obvious to him at breakfast:
Peeta's in love with her.
His family will be just fine without him, maybe even better, with one less mouth to feed. Peeta's not even sure they'll miss him all that much. Maybe they'll miss him when it comes time to frost the cakes, he thinks, not quite suppressing the bitterness. It occurs to him as he sits here in silence that while Haymitch can be an embarrasing and irritable drunk, he at least is giving a damn about the one thing Peeta really wants.
“Look who I found!”
The three of them turn in slow, surprised unison at the sound of Effie's sing-song voice trilling out at them from the entrance to the District Twelve apartment. She's standing there in different clothes than when she left - a shimmering evening gown in canary yellow, glistening everywhere with beads that sparkle like diamonds. She's next to a Capitol man who's in a blonde wig and a long turquoise jacket over black silk trousers. Peeta has never seen this man before. He looks over at Kat, who's started to wake up a bit from her reverie, but she looks just as confused.
Haymitch doesn't though.
Peeta watches him with fascination. Haymitch is staring with dismay at the two figures standing at the door, his expression moving rapidly through confusion, then reconfiguring itself into a blank mask. He slams down his drink on the small, teak sidetable next to him, but somehow Peeta doesn't think it's in anger: his shoulders have stiffened like the body of a cat encountering a vicious dog in its path.
“Hello, Haymitch,” the man says in a quiet tenor, not as shrill as Effie or Portia, vowels not so ridiculously elongated. “It's been a long time.”
“Can you believe it, Haymitch?” Effie cries with gossipy excitement for which Peeta realizes he's missing vital context. There's a mix of awkwardness and tense expectation quickly settling into the room that Peeta doesn't understand. “Just how long has it been?” Effie prompts the stranger.
“Oh, ten or eleven years now,” he replies softly. The man might be in his late forties, or maybe his fifties? Peeta's been learning all this week how hard it is to tell anyone's age here.
“Twelve years last month,” Haymitch corrects automatically. His whole body seems to be vibrating with a nervousness Peeta has never seen in the usually laconic man. Meanwhile, something vulnerable flashes over the stranger's face.
“I'm glad you remember,” he says with a breathlessness that gets Peeta thinking.
“Of course he does!” Effie gushes, turning to meet Haymitch's gaze directly. “How could you forget someone who you were...”
At that point, Haymitch rises with a loud, raspy cough that cuts off the rest of Effie's sentence. “It's wonderful to see you, Lincoln,” he says in an equally quiet voice that to Peeta indicates that it is clearly everything but wonderful, from Haymitch's point of view. Peeta can't help exchanging an amazed look with Kat at the word choice: Wonderful? They have never heard Haymitch use a word like that.
“I ran into him at Club Venus!” Effie squeals, although no one has asked her for an explanation, they are all too shocked for that. “He recognized me as the District Twelve escort.” (It's clear that Effie is thrilled.) “And of course, I recognized you,” Effie teases the stranger, pressing a flirtatious finger into the man's chest. “I don't mind saying, Lincoln.” Her voice goes wistful. “I had such a crush on the both of you back when I was young.”
“Effie...” Haymitch groans irritably, his eyes squinting shut.
“What?” she protests. “I was thirteen! You were a victor, he was a movie star!” She huffs at him as if he's being ridiculous. “And it's not like I have one now. Six years of working alongside you certainly made sure of that,” she mutters. “You, however ...” she continues to beam at the mystery man, flirting shamelessly, “... you took longer to get over.”
He directs a gracious, dignified smile at Effie, but Peeta sees how his eyes are carefully following all of Haymitch's anxious little movements as he stands where he jumped up from the sofa, seeming to want to look anywhere but at this visitor from his past.
“Anyway,” Effie blusters on in her oblivious way, “Lincoln told me that he had been thinking about you ever since he'd seen you on television this Hunger Games, that he'd been thinking of coming to talk to you.”
At that, Haymitch presses his palm into his forehead, his eyes hiding behind. He looks mortified, and and Peeta realizes that he must be thinking of Reaping Day, and how he'd made such a spectacle of himself on that dais.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your tributes this year,” the man adds quickly, as if he's afraid of being misunderstood. He then turns to Kat. “Congratulations, by the way, Miss Everdeen, on your eleven rating.” Kat narrows her eyes at him on general principle.
“... and well,” Effie finishes with an air of desperation at being forgotten, before Kat can even hope to answer, “it's not like I could say no to the legendary Lincoln Benford, could I? Especially when he's making noises about becoming a District Twelve sponsor.”
At that, everyone else in the room freezes. Haymitch removes his palm from his forehead and stares at Benford.
“I thought maybe I might be able to add a little to your fleet of parachutes,” the man smiles.
“What fleet of parachutes?” Haymitch retorts, a spark of disdain flaring up that takes Peeta aback. “You really haven't been paying attention, Lincoln, have you?”
“Well, to be honest, I tried for a long time to forget about you,” the man murmurs. “Unsuccessfully, I might add.”
Peeta flashes a shocked look at Haymitch, finally sure that he understands what once passed between these two men. This is only confirmed for him by how Haymitch refuses to look Kat or Peeta in the eye.
Kat is only just behind Peeta in understanding: “Wait,” she blurts out, her attention fully on Haymitch now. She casts a withering stare at him. “Are you telling me the two of you used to be a couple?” Peeta can hear the shock in her voice at the idea that Haymitch once was dating one of these Capitol sponges; he's not sure what he thinks of the revelation either.
For the briefest flicker of a moment, Haymitch looks lost. Peeta doubts anyone else besides him saw it, because a second later, the mask has returned.
“All right,” Haymitch hisses, the implied accusation in Kat's voice seeming to propel him from pointless jittering into actual motion towards the door. “You're not watching this conversation.” He turns his attention to Benford. “Lincoln, if you want to talk, follow me.”
The legendary Lincoln Benford, Capitol movie star that neither Peeta nor Kat have ever heard of, gives the room a wan smile and turns to follow Haymitch into an adjoining chamber. As the door is automatically sliding shut behind them, Peeta watches how he places an affectionate, utterly comfortable hand on Haymitch's shoulder. He sees how Haymitch's shoulders stiffen all over again. But to his surprise, Peeta also notices how Haymitch doesn't do a thing to retreat from the man's touch.
**
The minute Haymitch is out of the room, Kat is voicing her disgust.
“Can you believe that?” she sneers. “No wonder none of his tributes win! Look how he's been spending all his time!”
“That was twelve years ago,” Peeta corrects. And a month, he adds in his head, disquieted. “You heard Haymitch. And anyway, we don't know the whole context.” He's still thinking about what he saw. “I don't think whatever used to be between them was entirely Haymitch's idea.”
“What do you mean? Of course it was his idea! This is Haymitch. When has he ever done anything he didn't want to?”
“Come on, Katniss. You must have seen it too: he didn't seem comfortable around that guy.” But then, maybe you wouldn't, it occurs to him. After all, you don't see how much I love you, do you?
“He said it was wonderful to see him,” she argues.
“Haymitch has stayed away from him for the last twelve years,” he insists. “That must mean something.”
“Well, they did have an awkward breakup, it's true,” Effie chimes in.
“See?” Kat says in resentful triumph. “They had a breakup. They were a couple. How was that not Haymitch's idea?”
“Oh, they were definitely a couple,” Effie offers, before Peeta can counter, “ the biggest celebrity couple in the Capitol for four years, in fact. From the 59th Hunger Games through the 63rd.” Effie is only too excited to be dispensing gossip. “Everyone knew about Lincoln and Haymitch. Each year when Haymitch came back to mentor, the two of them were inseparable, so in love.” Her expression turns dreamy. “Sometimes he would even stay on for a few months after most of the other victors had left town.”
“In love? Haymitch?” Kat shakes her head. “I can't imagine Haymitch in love with anyone. I bet he was just using the guy, taking advantage of him to spend more time here living it up.” She's the picture of angry betrayal.
“Yeah, I don't know either, Effie,” Peeta agrees, although his suspicions are for the moment more charitable. “In love? Are you sure?”
Effie gives him a cockeyed look. “Am I sure? Peeta, when I was fifteen, I could tell you all the details about virtually every single of one their public dates. They were both so handsome...”
She sniffs. “Don't tell him this, but I always kind of regretted that I never got to meet Haymitch when he was still young and attractive and …” she searches for a diplomatic phrase. “... together. Before he met Lincoln, of course. I would have liked to see if I could have gotten just one date.”
She catches the two of them staring at her in incredulity. “You two have never seen what he looked like back then,” she insists.
“So why aren't they still together?” Peeta asks, changing the subject. It's nosy of him, he supposes, but he's curious now. “What happened?”
“I'd like to think he came back to his senses,” Kat snarks. “But I bet old Lincoln got tired of cleaning vomit off his shoes.”
“Manners!” Effie scolds her. “Do they teach you none in that barbaric district of yours?”
Kat just scowls. Effie harrumphs as if that just confirms everything she's been taught about District Twelve.
“Come on, Effie,” Peeta prods her. He realizes he wants something that his mind can use in Haymitch's defense. “What broke them up? Did something happen?”
Effie shakes her head. “Well, I don't think so. I used to follow their lives rather closely, and I never heard about anything in particular. They seemed quite happy at first.” She lowers her voice to a more confidential tenor. “But Kat is right, I hate to say: Lincoln did break up with him over the drinking. It was on all the gossip shows. Lincoln even gave interviews about it, saying he would take Haymitch back in a heartbeat, if he'd go to rehab. But he refused to go.
“It was rather a scandal: He had apparently started drinking somewhere in the middle of their relationship and it just got worse and worse every year. Haymitch started showing up drunk at the Reapings. Lincoln's friends gradually started pulling back their sponsorship support, and then others were following their example, until District Twelve couldn't get sponsors anymore at all.”
“Wow, “ Peeta breathes in amazement. “This relationship is the whole reason District Twelve hasn't had a victor in so long?”
“Well, no,” she corrects. “It wasn't exactly that. They weren't having victors even with the sponsorship money.”
“Why? Haymitch is good at strategy. And if we had the resources ...”
Effie shrugs. “No one could figure it out either. They used to speculate every year in the coverage about what Haymitch was doing wrong, or if it was maybe just bad luck.”
“It's obvious, isn't it?” Kat interjects. “All the sponsorship money in the world can't make up for his tributes being the most scrawny, underfed, undertrained kids in Panem.”
They all go awkwardly quiet for a moment, realizing what this says about Kat and Peeta.
“Now, now,” Effie then trills in discomfort. “We've been filling the two of you up successfully enough, I am sure. And you have those excellent training scores.” She shifts gears and her voice turns singsong with excitement again as she casts her gaze at the door where Haymitch and Lincoln exited. “Plus there's the little matter of us getting a very wealthy sponsor!”
“You think he'll give us a lot of money?” Kat asks with new interest.
Not us, Katniss, Peeta tells himself, like an incantation in his mind, a fire that burns clear through to his resolve. Not us. Only one of us can come out of that arena. And it's going to be you.
“Oh, did you see the way he looked at Haymitch?” Effie's eyes flutter with pleased anticipation as she stage whispers. “He'll definitely come up with the money.” Her voice then returns to normal. “And don't sell yourselves short: you two have generated a lot of excitement.
“In fact, I'm going back to Venus,” she declares suddenly. “Those two have so much to catch up on, they'll be in there for hours. And I can't wait to tell all my friends about this!” She stops for a moment, as if to reflect. “It might even help, come to think of it, get the gossip mill running.”
She leaves them in a delighted string of chatter not really directed at them. With no Haymitch around to focus them, they soon turn on the television and look for a non-Games channel, grateful for a bit of a break from their newly rigorous schedule of training and strategizing. They eventually settle on a documentary program about the Capitol's zoos.
“No wonder he's been an outcast all these years,” Kat says after they've watched for a long while and there's no sign of Haymitch returning. “You heard Effie, it was all over the gossip shows. All that would have eventually got back to the District. What was he thinking?” The exhausted quietude from before is clearly descending upon her again.
Peeta shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe he really was in love.”
“Love? Haymitch?” She gives him a look that says, Seriously? “With that guy? I mean, did you notice that he's got to be at least ten years older than Haymitch, maybe fifteen?”
“Love is funny like that,” Peeta insists. “You sometimes fall in love with the people you least expect, people who don't even like you, or people you think you don't like.” He pauses a moment, wondering if she just might make the connection. But she just scoffs at him.
“Can you imagine what they thought of him at home? Leaving our tributes to die in the arena while he'd go off every year to make out with a Capitol movie star?” She frowns. “It's sickening.”
Peeta's features turn hard, even though he's not entirely sure what to make of all this. But he keeps remembering Benford's possessive hand on Haymitch's shoulders. “I don't think you should be so quick to judge,” he urges. “He's working to save our lives, isn't he? Just wait until you get the whole story.”
“Hah,” says Kat, rolling her eyes. “Like he'll ever tell us the whole story about anything.”
**
Haymitch leads Lincoln Benford into the adjacent room, whose purpose is exactly the same as the room they left - eating, television, lounging. The only difference seems to be that this room has a different décor. This room, like all the tribute housing in the Training Center, is deliberately soundproofed, after an incident years ago with an Avox who was bribed by another Mentor into listening at doors for him, long before Haymitch's time. Haymitch is aware, though, that there are still plenty of Snow's bugs here. But he's already decided since walking in here that he doesn't give a fuck. Nothing he's going to say here will be news of any consequence to Panem's president. He has enough years of experience to be pretty sure about that.
“You're looking well.” Lincoln's wistful tone breaks into his thoughts, and Haymitch can't help turning back to look at him with traces of knee-jerk worry. “Better than you have in years.”
He tries to cover with a sardonic roll of his eyes. “Yeah, well, I guess it actually does help to stop drinking a bottle of whisky a day.” He shrugs. “Still, I might go back to it once the Games are over.”
He knows he's adding the comment to be cruel, given their past, but he's not sure how satisfying it is to see Lincoln's brow wrinkle with dismay.
“So what was important enough to you to make you stop?” Lincoln's hands gesture vaguely towards the other room. “Those kids of yours? Are they that special that you could quit drinking for them and not for me?”
Haymitch's jaw clenches. “Lincoln ...”
“I think I have a right to know,” he insists, a touch of restrained anger playing at the edges of his voice. “After all, it was your drinking that broke us up.”
Haymitch's arms fold across his chest. “Actually, my drinking made you decide I wasn't worth paying for anymore,” he says acidly.
The meaty slap he gets in response doesn't really hurt, but it is an unpleasant surprise. So is the expression of genuine hurt that crosses the other man's face. To his supreme annoyance, Haymitch feels a lot worse about the latter.
“You know it was never like that,” Lincoln admonishes. “I had to pay whatever Snow demanded. It was the only way to keep you out of all those sick people's clutches.”
Haymitch shrugs at him, reluctant to acknowledge this truth. After a a number of appointments with Lincoln mandated by President Snow when Haymitch had been twenty-five, the movie star had surprised him one night in his apartment with an impromptu visit, even though it was technically against the rules. Haymitch had just returned from another client, one who had left him with harsh, purple bruises on his face that the Capitol doctors would somehow magically heal in the morning, as they always did. Lincoln's intrusion had been such a surprise, Haymitch hadn't had a ready response to all the questions his face had prompted. So he had just closed himself up inside and refused to answer, until Lincoln had finally left, unsatisfied.
The next day, an Avox had appeared at his door with a summons clinically outlining how until further notice, Lincoln Benford would be his exclusive client, and as such, he was not to be seen consorting romantically with anyone else.
For the next four years, Snow made a fat profit off Lincoln's determination to have exclusive rights to Haymitch.
“I loved you,” Lincoln continues. “It broke my heart to see you drinking like that, destroying yourself like that. And you just flat-out refused to stop. I'd swear you were doing it to spite me.”
Haymitch still says nothing. He can't.
“You reach a point where you can't take that kind of thing anymore,” Lincoln's defensive tone fills the silence between them.
Yeah, I know that feeling, Haymitch thinks. All sorts of confused and uncomfortable memories bubble up to the surface - of gentle kisses in a feather bed, of going to clubs and movie premieres and just about everywhere arm in arm, because Lincoln had said he loved him, and because the cardinal rule of Snow's whoring system has always been whatever fantasy the client wants, the client gets.
In his day as one of Snow's sex slaves, Haymitch had stoically endured plenty of whips and chains, plenty of being fucked over a table, over a car, in front of seventy people at a party. He'd once even been put on his knees in a replica of his Games uniform and ordered to give Caesar Flickerman a blow job. In his dressing room, no less. That one had really fucked with his head.
But he had never been quite sure what to do with Lincoln, his only client who had never hurt him, who had paid exorbitantly to save him from the perils and pitfalls of the crazy clientele, and whose only fantasy was having Haymitch's love.
A tidal wave of emotions he's been damming back for the last twelve years begins spilling out over the sides. All the rich food he's been gorging himself on is now making him feel sick. Why now? Why did Lincoln have to show up now and mess him up, just when he had decided to give a damn again?
No, I'm not going to be messed up by this, he tells himself. He clings to the reminder of his tributes and the sense of purpose it gives him.
“So you're interested in Kat and Peeta?” he tries, thankful that he's still remembering the little tricks of this particular game, like using his tributes' names. It makes the sponsor more likely to see them as real people worth caring about. “I'm seeing a lot of interest in those two, you know, with their plucky dark-horse backstory.”
This is a total lie, but he turns on his best attempt at charming. Lincoln may be a fading star, but he's still considered a fixture in the Capitol, a respected veteran of the movie industry who brings up the younger generation. Lincoln's is exactly the kind of imprimatur these two nobodies with nothing but some promising scores need to take them up to the next level of the sponsorship game.
“I'll even let you in on a secret,” he promises archly. His nausea kicks in a little harder when he realizes he's flirting. “Sponsor them now, while they're still a cheap buy, because that's not going to last long. And you'll get to say you saw something special in them from the beginning.”
Lincoln's expression looks unhappy at this change of topic, but Haymitch's tone seems to interest him, and so he takes the bait with an aura of slight resignation. “Oh?” he asks mildly.
Haymitch wills himself not to react to the sadness he sees there in Lincoln's eyes. You don't owe him anything, he tells himself over and over. It's clear that the sponsorship thing was mainly a ruse to call on Haymitch again, but anything's better than an argument about why Lincoln stopped buying him twelve years ago, and besides, it's looking like he might get something useful out of this.
“The two of them are working together,” he explains further. “And even better, Peeta's in love with Kat, but she doesn't know it. He's going to reveal it the night before the Games during the interview with Flickerman. She'll find out right along with the audience. It'll be ratings gold.” Of course, he hasn't told Peeta this part yet, but he will tonight.
“I see,” Lincoln sighs, putting it together quickly. “They find true love at the Games and then they'll never get to be a couple because one of them has to die. How tragic. What a nice twist on the star-crossed lover angle,” he compliments. He's getting sucked in despite himself, like he did in the old days, when Haymitch used to sell him on his doomed tributes every year. “I haven't ever seen it played out quite that way, either, with the surprise reveal. Very creative. And that's a brave move revealing it to her on camera. No one will take it for a publicity stunt. But what if she reacts negatively?”
“She won't. I'm working on that. Come on, what do you say? It's the perfect story for a well-respected actor to hitch his wagon to. Very romantic.”
Lincoln nods in acknowledgment, but then suddenly his face looks stricken.
“You didn't think that's what I was doing back then, did you?” he blinks. “Using us as a story to hitch my wagon to?”
“No, of course not.” But in truth, Haymitch doesn't really know what Lincoln was doing back then. He was otherwise a pretty nice guy who seemed to miss the fundamental concept that Haymitch didn't have a choice about being in a relationship with him.
“I really am glad to see you're taking better care of yourself. I hope you'll continue to do so.”
Haymitch steels himself, forcing himself to focus on the sponsorships.
“I've watched every one of your Reapings since we broke up, you know,” Lincoln continues. “I couldn't stay away, even though it killed me to see you like that. But when I saw the footage of you this year in the Capitol, and you looked … better. And I felt such a surge of hope for you, for us, that I knew I had to come see you.”
At the word us, Haymitch's body goes deadly still. “Are you going to start buying me again?” he asks in a panic that he hopes he's successfully hiding behind a monotone.
Lincoln searches Haymitch's eyes. “Would you like it if I did?”
He finds he is only capable of standing there and staring, as speechless as an Avox.
“Actually,” Lincoln amends hurriedly, “I was hoping that wouldn't be necessary.”
Haymitch still can't say anything, but his eyes narrow with confusion.
“I was hoping that maybe you'd want to try living with me for real, that we could try again, without all that baggage of you being for hire. Snow doesn't sell you anymore, right? I haven't seen you on the gossip shows on anyone's arm. Not for years.”
The shrug he manages to finally give Lincoln isn't as nonchalant as he wants it to be. “Well, all the public drunkenness took care of that, I guess.”
He doesn't mention the part where he started drinking more because he couldn't deal with the daily emotional rollercoaster of Lincoln Bedford and Haymitch Abernathy - celebrity couple - and the fucked-up, silent bargain it entailed; and because his tributes kept dying, no matter how much money Lincoln and his buddies gave - and they were starting to look more and more unhappy about how much, even if Lincoln couldn't see it. Because he realized that there were days when he could no longer tell the difference between love and gratitude for Lincoln's doting protection.
Then there was the awful day that he realized that maybe if he kept living out Lincoln's fantasies, the man might one day whisk Haymitch away from Mentor Central and District Twelve forever - the ball of string finally leading him out of this horrible labyrinth his life had become.
“Excuse me,” he blurts out, the low-lying nausea suddenly rearing up. It's the best he can do before he has to make a run for the toilets, just barely getting there before he falls to his knees and the food and drink come rushing out of him, jerking his body forward with the force. The violent retching that rings in his ears is painful and humiliating; he knows that Lincoln is hearing all of it; it's only made worse when he hears the soft hiss of the bathroom door sliding open.
Then there are soft fingers pulling back his unruly bangs and holding him steady as he ejects everything, until there is nothing but greenish-yellow bile. He finally collapses on the cool white tiles, panting for breath, Lincoln's fingers still caressing his scalp.
“Well, this certainly brings back memories,” Lincoln remarks with a ironic, voiceless laugh that Haymitch knows from experience is not meant to be unkind, but still comes out that way.
“I'm not drinking. This wasn't from drinking,” he insists, hating this begging feeling. He takes the hand towel an Avox hands him before Lincoln shoos the man away.
“You should sponsor Kat and Peeta, my tributes,” he rasps, his throat hurting from so much undigested food and acid coming up. He wipes his mouth. “Do it now, while you still can do it cheaply.”
He hears nothing above him for what feels like a long time, as if Lincoln is thinking.
“They're going to be the stars of the Games,” he argues. “And when they're winning with your help, everyone will be talking about how you saw the diamonds in the coal before they all did, I guarantee it.”
“Diamonds don't come from coal.”
“Yeah, I know, Lincoln.” He raises himself up from the floor, still feeling wobbly, but determined to cover it. “Not the point.”
Another one of Lincoln's sad smiles. “You have such an optimist hiding under that cynical exterior, you know that? I always found it such an endearing quality. Every year you went into that Training Center telling me, “I've got a good feeling about these two.”
Shit. Forgot about that. “I was a lot more inexperienced back then,” he growls. “I've had too many losers to not know what a winner looks like. This year is different than my other years.” He makes himself stare the man down. “I wouldn't steer you wrong.”
Again, that voiceless laugh. “No, no, I know you wouldn't. I know you believe in them. And don't worry. I'll sponsor your tributes. Like I said, they've got a good story. I think I can even convince a few of my friends too.
“But they'll have to really sell it in the arena. If any of my friends are going to throw their lot in with your underdogs again, there's got to be a serious entertainment factor involved, you know?” He takes Haymitch's chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Haymitch has to work not to pull away.
“I'm not a kid anymore, Lincoln.”
The hand on Haymitch's chin retreats. “No, no you're not. In fact, neither of us are as young and inexperienced as we used to be, hm?”
He doesn't know what to say to that, and he's afraid if he says the wrong thing, it might screw up this sponsorship, the only actual bite he's had yet, and dammit, he made a promise. For the first time in years, he's going to keep it or go out trying.
“Would you at least say you'll consider my offer?” Lincoln asks. “It would make me feel better.”
Haymitch's eyes widen. Is that part of the deal? Does he have to say yes to get the money?
“Okay,” he finally says slowly, reluctantly. He never actually wanted to be with Lincoln, or at least not for any of the reasons one should be in a relationship with someone. But then, how the fuck would he even know what the right ones were, when this thing with Lincoln was the closest thing he's ever had to a relationship since he was sixteen?
“I'll consider it.”
Something about Lincoln's eyes look not nearly as happy as they should, though, and Haymitch thinks he knows he is lying. But he also gets the sense that Lincoln maybe needs him to lie - though for what reason, he cannot fathom. He just hopes this will not come back to bite him in the ass: he's sure Snow would have no problem selling him again, to Lincoln or to anyone else crazy enough to request him at this age. And by taking this deal with Lincoln and his friends, he's not sure if he's opening himself up to all sorts of demands for reciprocation, for repayment of favors given. But he reminds himself that he's old and out of shape and a known drunk - three things the Capitol abhors. There's a certain safety in that.
But if Lincoln came back to him in a week, asking him to go out to dinner, or making some other prelude to reconciliation, Haymitch's not sure if he could find it in himself to say no, especially if by some crazy luck, Kat emerges as victor and he feels a debt of gratitude to Lincoln for saving her.
“All right then,” Lincoln fusses with his jacket. “I've got to be on my way. You can look for five thousand credits in your account by tomorrow morning, and I'll get to work on my friends.”
It's an extremely generous start, Haymitch has to admit, already calculating in his head how much more he'd need to be able to get Kat a bow, if she even makes it past the second day. If any of Lincoln's friends join in, he's got a real chance.
“Just make sure there's some kissing,” Lincoln adds with a wry grin. “Passionate kissing. People like that. It makes them believe.” Haymitch nods, willing himself to ignore the complicated barb he's pretty sure is there underneath. As he walks away, Lincoln flashes him a familiar gesture of farewell.
It takes Haymitch aback to see it coming from him, until he remembers having taught it to Lincoln fifteen years ago. It's the two-fingered salute that the people of District Twelve sent Kat off with this year at the Reaping. And maybe Lincoln means to refer to that. It was on television screens all over the Capitol, after all. But it's also something else: it was the gesture Lincoln used to make at him every year when he boarded the train back home, to comfort him.
He would always be in a funk at that point - about having to bring home dead tributes and face their families' accusing faces - Maybe if you'd spent more time paying attention to our children instead of your love life.... Then there was the months he would have to spend in a district where he had no friends anymore and everyone looked at him as a figurative Capitol whore, not the actual slave he was. Many times he boarded that train feeling just plain guilty, because Lincoln had paid extra for him to return to the Capitol as soon as the tributes' funerals were done, and he was secretly relieved not to have to deal with anyone back home until it was Victory Tour time again and he'd have to be there to greet the new victor. But he'd always just let Lincoln believe simply that he was already missing him. He'd always return that two-fingered farewell out the window of the departing train; he could tell Lincoln liked the romance of it.
But there's something else about that gesture that he never told Lincoln, he realizes. Among the many things it means - admiration, respect, love it can also mean, Goodbye. We won't be seeing each other again.
But now he wonders if maybe Lincoln knows that.
“Thank you,” he says in a low voice. “For helping me.” He even means it.
“You're welcome, Haymitch,” he replies with that sad smile again. “And good luck. I'll be watching with interest.”
He walks out of the bathroom. Haymitch waits until he hears the hiss off the outer door closing, signaling that Lincoln is gone.
It's only then that he goes back into the adjacent room, where Kat and Peeta are still sitting and idly chatting - gossiping about him, most likely, given the way they abruptly stop talking when he walks in.
He has barely time to recover before Kat pounces on him:
“Who was that? Effie says you two used to be a couple? Were you married to him? Did you actually like him?” She's like one of those high-speed Capitol trains, barreling right over him with a dozen accusatory questions.
“Enough!” Haymitch roars, annoyed that she has the power to make him feel so defensive about this, when all along, he hasn't cared what she thinks about his drinking, about his manners, or anything else. But he knows what she's saying underneath: How could you be with someone who would watch you die for their entertainment? How could you betray us like that? How could you give up what little you had for them? And it makes him feel like he's gone back fifteen years, to those glaring faces in Twelve. She really is Seam through and through, he thinks.
“Look, it's none of your business, is it?” he snaps. “So you can just leave me be.”
“But Effie said you'd been sleeping with him for four years?” Kat says this part with such girlish disgust, Haymitch realizes he's not sure if she's more horrified by his association with a paragon of the Capitol, or simply by the thought of Haymitch having sex, and with a man no less. The realization makes him laugh enough inside that he's able to retrieve some of his sarcasm.
“Frankly, sweetheart, I'm not interested in hearing your opinion on my personal life,” he says through his teeth. “Now get out. We'll get back to strategy at breakfast.”
“Is that guy going to sponsor us?” she ignores his command. “Effie said he would.”
“What did I say?” He lets his voice go up a few decibels.
She glares at him, but he can tell she's realized that he's in no mood, so she rises from the couch, and Peeta follows her example, shutting off the television and putting down the remote.
“You stay here,” he gestures at Peeta, who looks appropriately surprised. “I've got a bone to pick with you, baker boy.”
Kat looks surprised too, but naturally, she also turns suspicious, and a little protective, and far too ready to stick around, which is exactly what Haymitch doesn't want. As she begins to protest, he cuts her off.
“What did I say?” he repeats, his tone a little louder, a little angrier. a little like an annoyed parent. He needs her out of here. He points a demonstrative finger in the direction of the door. “Go to bed.”
Peeta, ever the little peacemaker, helps him out: “It's fine, Katniss. Don't worry.” When she casts a doubtful glance at him, he adds, “I got an eight, didn't I? I can take him if necessary.”
The joke only earns him her narrowed eyes, but he gives her an insistent smile. “I promise I'll come see you before I turn in. So you'll know I've survived.”
He still looks convincingly confused about the order to stay, thankfully, because otherwise, Haymitch is sure Kat would have never agreed to leave. Haymitch makes sure the door slides closed before turning around to deal with his other tribute, only to find Peeta's gaze trained hard on him, inspecting him.
“Are you okay?” he asks simply.
Haymitch stops dead, blinking at him in surprise, then embarrassment he's not sure he's covering well enough. The boy couldn't possibly know, could he? Not even Effie knows. The whoring is such a well-kept secret among Panem's top elite. Did he just figure out everything from watching him with Lincoln?
“I'm fine,” he growls.
“Are you sure?” Peeta cocks his head, disbelieving. “You seemed a little off. I mean, around that guy.”
Haymitch swallows hard. No, kid. I'm not in the least sure. He hadn't figured Peeta to be quite so perceptive. A bit more than Katniss, certainly, but...
But then Effie Fucking Trinket had thrown him for quite the loop with this little surprise visit, hadn't she? Hadn't been exactly on top of his game.
“'Off'?” Haymitch mimics his tone back at him, with a playful air, to show Peeta how little Lincoln's surprise visit has affected him, but Peeta's look of genuine concern makes it difficult. He does the best he can with an affected shrug. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he assures him. “Just some old business I never finished, that's all.”
He grabs the remote and turns the television back on. The channel they'd been watching is now showing some overwrought romance drama, judging from the breathy tone of the actors' voices. It's good cover, and he turns the volume up too loudly for the silence of the room, but not loud enough to tip off anyone listening in. He ruthlessly changes topics in a much lower voice.
“If you're in such the mood to analyze, kid, let's talk about you and the Girl on Fire.”
“That's what this private meeting is about, isn't it?” Peeta asks, his voice following Haymitch's cue, as Haymitch motions for them to sit next to each other on the couch. “About what we discussed two nights ago.”
Haymitch gives him a barely perceptible nod. The kid's quick at the mental strategy, he has to admit, even if he may turn out to be shit when it comes to combat tactics. The caginess is a good sign too; he's clearly not forgotten that he's under surveillance here all the time and that he must be watchful with his words. He might be good enough to make some convincing alliances in the arena.
“I have a plan,” he acknowledges. “A plan that could help the two of you get sponsors. But you've got to be able to keep it from her for now, because it'll only work if she doesn't know ahead of time, we clear?”
Peeta reflects on this. “She'll be angry when she finds out,” he says.
“Of course she will,” Haymitch snaps. “But she'll be alive.”
That works, as he knew it would. Peeta stiffens with resolve. “I'll do it,” he declares. “Whatever it takes.”
“All right, then.” He notices the drink he'd abandoned earlier on the endtable, grabs it and downs it, pushing away thoughts of bargains he might have to make to bring that girl home a victor.
“So here's the first thing I need to know, kid,” he begins. “How good a liar are you?”