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“Gale? Can you stay with Prim for a second?” Asterid asks the boy, barely older than the daughter she thinks she will never see again, in the hallway of the Justice Building after leaving Katniss’ room.
She does not have a second to spare to wonder why Otho Mellark is walking in the room she just left, she barely has the time to hand her still-sobbing daughter to Gale and accept his nod of agreement before walking off. She sees Madge Undersee, the child of her former best friend, take Prim’s hand as well, and knows her daughter will be in good hands for the moment. She will just have to be quick.
She’s grateful that she does not encounter another Peacekeeper until she’s around a corner, not wanting the people with her to know what she’s doing now.
Upon finding one, she says, “The mayor asked that I take a look at Haymitch after his fall, to make sure he’s okay. Could you bring me to him?”
It’s a bad lie, because the mayor is not a monster. Any other day than this horrifying one, certainly, she would have been asked to check on anyone who took a nosedive off the stage. But she doesn’t expect that anyone will be actually asking for her help for several weeks, allowing her and Primrose to sit in their grief for as long as possible. Only those near death will darken her doorstep. And some of them may even leave her be regardless of that.
This Peacekeeper, however, seems to not be thinking of such things. He’s newer, and she thinks that’s what is helping sell the lie. He does, luckily, know of her medical capabilities, and leads her down a winding hall to a quiet room.
No one is waiting outside this door. Asterid assumes someone will be by to collect Haymitch right before the train is set to depart, but not a second sooner.
It will be quiet, and they will be alone.
Which is what she hoped for.
The room is dimly lit and there is a couch against the far wall, leaning against windows with closed curtains. She had expected him to still be unconscious, had taken a mental inventory of the meager contents of her pockets as to what might be able to revive him, but he is lying down and staring at the ceiling when she walks in.
“Shit.” Haymitch’s voice is soft, an automatic response and to himself, like he was expecting to remain alone. He hastily shuts his eyes.
Reasonable assumption on his part, really. Most people wouldn’t bother him today, especially not after the scene onstage. As for herself, it’s been so long since they had something remotely considered a real conversation, so why would he assume she’d seek him out today? She’s barely certain why she’s here.
“I know you’re awake, Haymitch.” Her voice cracks at his name, still heavy with her tears from moments ago. “You don’t have to pretend.”
“Asterid?” He opens his eyes once more and turns to look at her, having not seen who it was when the door burst open. He swings himself off the couch and moves to stand closer to her. “Are you - No. I’m not asking that. I know you’re not okay. What’re you doing here?”
She shakes her head, very suddenly unable to speak, and takes a small step toward him. He hesitates, but opens his arms slightly, an invitation for her to accept or dismiss. She closes the gap and allows herself to be pulled into a hug.
A long time ago, before any of the things that made him who he is now, before she had been shattered by life in her own way, they hadn’t quite been friends. But they had cared so deeply for the same person that they’d always felt a little connected. In this moment, they let themselves pretend that the relationships they’d had with Burdock had translated into anything more than respect for each other. And find comfort there.
She pulls away eventually, quicker than she would really have liked on account of the time constraint, on account of both her daughters elsewhere in the building, and sits on the couch. He sits next to her, the look on his face seeming grateful that he will not have to do whatever this is while looking her in the eye.
For a second she thinks about how he should be drunker than this, how he was just plastered and tripping across the stage. But then a hazy, distant memory of a cocky interview with a determined focus on winning comes to her. One that was drastically unlike the boy she knew. And she understands the morning a bit better.
“You jumped in front of her because she was about to cry.” Asterid says, blinking at herself as it had not been how she thought she would start this.
“I guess the fact that I’m conscious gave that away.” Haymitch replies, staring at his hands on his lap. “She seemed like she needed a second. And suddenly his voice was in my head telling me to help her. I don’t know. I overstepped. I’m sorry.”
“No.” Her tone is slightly harsh, and she grabs one of his hands, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you.”
For a second, they let that hang in the air. Asterid is reminded of the days after his Games, when she and Burdock would sit with him in his living room in the Victor’s Village and allow silence to persist together, letting the simplicity of their presence be a comfort. It shouldn’t still be helpful. It barely was then. But the level of nostalgia is somehow making it work.
“Help her.” It’s a simple request, but she whispers it as though she’s asking him for the impossible, rather than for him to do his job.
“I - ” He starts, in a whisper matching her own. “I will do everything I can.”
She looks at him then, and sees a flash of surprise and determination on his face. Like he hadn’t expected those words to come out of his mouth. Like he had, in that second, promised himself something.
“She’s a fighter. She’s the reason we’re still here. And I just…” She trails off, unsure if she’s willing to say the next part aloud. In a hushed tone, she continues, “You and I both remember exactly how the last Victor from Twelve got reaped. Maybe there’s something to this circumstance.”
He tenses when she says this, and she thinks she has gone too far. But she had nightmares about the reaping for the Second Quarter Quell for years. She remembers the truth. Not the highlights. She knows Haymitch will never talk about it, but she needs to emphasize every similarity between him and her daughter that she can in order to do this. If she’s asking him for this, she has to use every tool she can to make him want to agree.
He nods, a clear refusal to respond aloud, to fully acknowledge what she said. But he’s accepted this push. She’ll take it.
She stands to leave. She knows she has been in here too long, someone will come looking for her, or him, soon.
“You can’t let it break you.” Haymitch’s voice rings out across the silent room, the words directed at her back.
She laughs. It’s a gasping, watery laugh, and it’s wholly inappropriate. But his words are so similar to what Katniss said as she left the room minutes ago that she can’t help herself.
“The other girl needs you. You can’t do that again.” He isn’t asking. And it isn’t his place. But she needs to hear it, again, and she lets it settle in the room.
After a second, she nods, back still to him, and puts one hand in her pocket as she reaches for the door. In it, she feels the few herbs she had already inventoried before coming in, and a sprig that she had forgotten about. The feeling of it makes her want to laugh again, as she knows what it is by touch alone.
She turns again, drawing the chamomile from her pocket and holding it out to him. “Here. They say it’s good luck.”
He stares at it in her hand, recognition clear on his face. He coughs, clearly considering how to reply, and says, “Hell of a lot of good luck it brought me.”
“Hey.” Her voice is bolder than should have been possible, today of all days. He looks her in the eyes, blinking at the tone. “You won, didn’t you?”
Haymitch swallows hard and takes the sprig from her hand, placing it in his pocket. He then puts his other hand on hers, still extended in the space between them. “Asterid. There’s cash on the counter in my kitchen. Take it.”
He says this like he owes her something, like it’s an apology. Like he was the one who pulled her daughter’s name out of the bowl, or pushed her older daughter into volunteering. Like he hadn’t helped her daughter save face for the cameras or hadn’t agreed to do whatever he could. Like there was something else.
She shakes her head. Hopes he understand that whatever ill-will lied between them before this moment was gone the second he didn’t shout at her to leave.
He doesn’t let go of her hand and keeps up the direct eye contact. She realizes belatedly that this might be the longest he’s actually looked at someone in years.
“At the very least, you were here because you helped fix me up after I idiotically hurt myself. I owe you for services rendered. The rest can be considered a tip. Or a belated birthday gift. Or backpay for other times you’ve helped me in the past. Something.” He breaks eye contact, finally, and stares at the floor. “Just take it if you need it.”
After a beat, she finally pulls her hand away from his and replies, “Okay. Goodbye, Haymitch.”
“Bye, Asterid. I’m so incredibly sorry.”
Asterid doesn’t, can’t, reply to that, and doesn’t look at him again. She leaves the room quickly and walks as fast as she can back to her daughter.
It’s time for them to go home, draw the shudders, and weep.