Chapter Text
For the first time in his life, Haymitch awoke on the day of the reaping to complete silence, rather than Sid’s hushed voice wishing him a happy birthday.
For the first time in his life, Haymitch also woke up on the day of the reaping hungover. He groaned as he rolled over in his bed, pressing his fists against his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep the sunlight from amplifying his already raging headache.
Deciding that there was absolutely no way he was going to make it through the reaping in his current condition, Haymitch picked up a nearly empty bottle of liquor from his nightstand and downed the remains.
For once, he managed to pace his intake, relying on that small dose of alcohol to get him through the next few hours. He didn’t want to be wasted, not when he remembered how terrified he was when he was reaped, and how Drusilla’s drunken stupor had only contributed to his nerves. He’d done a lot of really horrible things in the past year, but he was not yet far gone enough to subject the newest tributes to the same treatment he’d received last July.
Sighing, he dragged himself out of bed, throwing on a crumpled white shirt and faded denim jeans. Effie and Plutarch would be mortified that he didn’t bother to put any effort into his attire, but he didn’t want to give the Capitol any ideas to turn into the latest fashion trend.
He looked in the elegant, full-length mirror that Snow had provided him with as a “gift” when he moved into his new house, though Haymitch suspected it was being used to spy on him, somehow. Every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection, he was surprised, half-expecting to see a healthy, innocent 15-year-old boy staring back at him. Instead, the mirror outlined his hollow cheekbones and bloodshot eyes. The worst of his scars were covered by his shirt, but there were a few that he couldn’t hide etched into his face and hands, reminding everyone of who he was.
He finished getting ready in a hurry before making his way to the entrance of his house, heart pounding as his hand hovered over the doorknob.
He hadn’t been around so many people since his Victory Tour back in the winter. He didn’t know if he was ready to face them again, but he didn’t have a choice.
With one final, shaky breath, he opened the door and stepped out into the light.
#
“How do I look?” Blair asked as he spun slowly in a circle, showing off his finest button-down shirt and perfectly tailored pants.
“Like you’re going to a funeral,” Burdock deadpanned.
Blair flashed him a winning smile.
“Perfect!”
He flopped down on Burdock’s bed, watching as the other boy buttoned up his own shirt. It was powder blue, something he only wore on special occasions, not that he considered the reaping to be one. The Peacekeepers did, however, so Burdock had no choice but to dress in clothes that they would deem appropriate for the occasion.
In the past, it made him feel better if he pretended he was dressing up for Haymitch’s birthday instead.
He hadn’t spoken to Haymitch in months.
“Burdie? Are you almost ready,” Blair asked impatiently.
They were running behind schedule. Blair had slept over the previous night, and it led to them staying up late into the evening, barely waking up with enough time to get ready for the upcoming event.
“Yeah,” Burdock replied, running his hands through his hair one final time before scrambling for his keys and racing Blair out of the door.
When they got to the site of the reaping, Blair and Burdock took their places amongst the swarm of seventeen-year-old boys, each one of them wearing a grim facial expression, anticipating the worst but hoping for the best.
One more year, he thought to himself. One year after this and I never have to worry about getting reaped again.
It didn’t take long for District 12’s new escort, Effie Trinket, to show up, with Plutarch Heavensbee standing by her side and Haymitch dragging a few feet behind them. He was swaying slightly where he stood, clearly tipsy.
Burdock flinched upon seeing the state his former best friend was in, and Blair gave his arm a tight squeeze. Neither of them could take their eyes off of Haymitch.
“He looks awful,” Burdock mumbled.
That was an understatement. He looked like he was on the verge of death. His skin was pale and ashy, accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes. His shirt hung loosely from his bony frame, making Burdock wonder if he’d been eating anything at all these last few months. It wasn’t like anyone was making sure that Haymitch was taking care of himself.
“Yeah,” Blair agreed quietly.
Burdock couldn’t focus on Effie’s voice, despite the sound causing pastel purple spots to dance in front of his vision, as she began to recite the same speech that he heard year after year. Instead, he kept his eyes on his best friend’s ghost blending into the shadows.
There was an awful moment when Haymitch’s eyes met his, and Burdock thought that he’d been caught staring, but he seemed to be looking through Burdock rather than looking at him. His gaze was unfocused and his entire body was trembling slightly. He was mumbling to himself, too, mouth parted open in fear.
He was reliving his own reaping.
Burdock’s heart broke and instantly, he decided that after this, he was going to pound on the door to Haymitch’s shiny, new house and not leave until the other boy opened up to him. He was sick of sitting around and watching helplessly as his friend wasted away.
He glanced over at Asterid, remembering the sickening crack of rock colliding with bone as Haymitch fought to push them both away.
Whatever. He’d go alone.
“As always, ladies first,” Effie’s voice rang out, drawing Burdock back to the present moment.
His shoulders stiffened as he prayed silently.
Please not Asterid. Anyone but Asterid.
“Rosalia Shepard!”
Burdock exhaled in relief, all tension seeping out of him.
Obviously, he felt bad for the girl, but out of anyone who could’ve been picked, he was glad it was her. Rosalia was 18 years old, and while it was unfortunate to be reaped this close to aging out of the system, it was far better than the years that one of the tributes had come home in a child sized coffin.
To her credit, Rosalia kept her head up as she walked onstage, peering straight into the camera with a stoic gaze.
Effie gave Rosalia a sympathetic smile, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. Burdock raised an eyebrow in surprise. Drusilla wouldn’t touch anyone from the Districts with a ten foot pole to save her life.
“And now for the boys,” Effie said.
She read the name on the slip, and the world fell silent.
The colors that usually swam in front of Burdock’s vision were blurred and dull. He could barely hear anything over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.
Next to him, he saw Blair’s mouth move, forming two words.
“Not again.”
Onstage, Haymitch collapsed to his knees.
#
“Get up,” Plutarch hissed in Haymitch’s ear, grabbing him by the arm and hoisting him back into a standing position.
Haymitch shoved the older man off of him, looking into the crowd below, both hoping and fearing that his gaze would land on a familiar face.
Effie stood in front of him, oblivious. She furrowed her eyebrows when no one emerged from the assembly of District 12’s children, repeating the name.
“Burdock Everdeen?”
Slowly, Burdock descended down the aisle and onto the stage, staring at the ground. He was wearing the same blue shirt that he’d worn on the last Reaping Day. Haymitch was beginning to suspect the thing was cursed.
“Very good,” Effie said, smiling brightly. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce you to District 12’s tributes of the 51st annual Hunger Games, Rosalia Shepard and Burdock Everdeen!”
Despite being a member of the Capitol, Haymitch never directed any of his anger toward Effie, but at that moment, he thought he might hate her.
Haymitch felt confident that this was another punishment dictated by Snow. How many names in that bowl were Burdock’s? Was it all of them? He felt an overwhelming urge to find out. It would be easy. All he had to do was knock the bowl on the ground and watch it break into a million pieces, the Capitol’s regime shattering with it as everyone realized that there were no odds to be in favor of. The outcome of the Games was manipulated from the start. He began to move towards the front of the stage before a firm hand pushed him back into place.
“He’s watching,” Plutarch whispered, sending chills down Haymitch’s spine.
Burdock spared a glance in Haymitch’s direction, wearing a terrified, haunted expression. Then, he was being dragged away.
Was that how Haymitch had looked last year?
He regretted not having more to drink earlier. Maybe then, he would be able to forget Burdock’s face when he realized he’d been sentenced to death.
#
Burdock wished he’d realized how loved he’d been before his last day in District 12.
He was receiving more visitors than the Peacekeepers had patience for, classmates and family members, each one lining up to offer their condolences or tell him that they’d miss his singing.
Asterid hadn’t said anything, either unable to find the words or unwilling to accept the truth of the situation. Instead, she kissed him, slow and passionate, as if she could memorize every last detail of his lips before it was too late. Then, she pressed a small, golden pendant into Burdock’s hand, a staple piece of jewelry that she’d worn since she was a child. His token.
Once she left, the door creaked open to reveal his next visitor, and Burdock ran out of his seat to wrap his arms around Blair.
“Fuck, Burdie,” Blair sniffled into his friend’s shoulder. “This can’t be happening. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“We really are the unluckiest trio of friends in the world, huh?”
Blair let out a wet, pitiful laugh.
“Yeah, I guess we are.”
There was so much that Burdock wanted to say to Blair, and he was furious at the limited time he was given to work with. How did one begin to consolidate 17 years worth of friendship to fit into a few minutes?
He supposed he should feel grateful to even be getting a goodbye, remembering how Haymitch had barely been allowed the courtesy to hug his family one last time.
“Listen, Blair,” Burdock started, deciding he didn’t have time to waste on sentiments, no matter how badly he wanted to. “There’s a couple of things I need you to do for me when I’m gone.”
“Anything,” Blair vowed, his lower lip trembling at the reminder of Burdock's imminent death.
“I need you to hunt for Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine. They don’t really go out much anymore. They’ve been paranoid since Lenore Dove died. Someone needs to put food on the table for them.”
“Done,” Blair agreed instantly. “What else?”
“Haymitch,” Burdock said. “You can’t let him do this alone anymore, okay? I need you to help him.”
Blair shook his head, tears filling his eyes as he grieved for two people who weren’t yet dead.
“I tried, Burdie, remember? I tried so hard. He doesn’t want my help.”
“Fuck what he wants!” Burdock yelled, the words causing specks of forest green to explode in front of his vision. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. He didn’t want to start a fight with Blair during what was probably their last conversation. “You saw him today, Blair. His fucking bones were showing. He’s going to die if he keeps this up. Don’t let him.”
The door burst open, and in the blink of an eye, Blair was being dragged out of the room.
“I promise, Burdie!” he shouted, fighting to get free. “Fuck, I promise.”
Then, he was gone, and Burdock knew that he’d never see him again.
Before he could even begin to process Blair’s absence, the space where he’d stood was being replaced by Merrilee Donner.
“Last one,” the Peacekeeper said. “Then, you’re off to the Capitol.”
Burdock spared a confused look in Merrilee’s direction. They weren’t friends. The only reason they tolerated each other at all was because of their shared love for Asterid.
Merrilee wore her hair in a short, fashionable bob. Asterid told him that she’d chopped it all off the day of Maysilee’s funeral, after Haymitch had mistaken her for her late twin. Her eyes were vacant as she stared at Burdock, clutching something tightly in her grip.
“Hi, Merrilee,” Burdock said cautiously, feeling a bit like he was talking to a feral animal.
“Hi, Burdock,” Merrilee said, speaking in the same robotic tone that she’d used to discuss everything since her sister died. “I have something for you.”
He wondered if she was going to stab him.
Instead, she held out an ornate pin, crafted by an expert’s hand. A mockingjay sat in the middle, on top of a golden arrow piercing through the center of the pin.
“It belonged to my sister,” Merrilee said, and Burdock’s eyes widened as he stared at her, not knowing what to say. “I think one of Lenore Dove’s uncles made it. Maysilee didn’t care for it much. She never really liked mockingjays. I thought it should go to someone who would appreciate it more.”
“Wow, that’s really kind of you, Merrilee,” Burdock said, finally finding his voice. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but Asterid already gave me a token.”
Merrilee ripped her hand away, cradling the mockingjay pin close to her chest.
“It’s not for you,” she said, voice cold, “but I never want to talk to Haymitch Abernathy again.”