A/N: Well then here's another hayffie drabble series! It's based on the OneRepublic's song of the same title and the assumption Haymitch had to suffer the same fate as Finnick when he was younger. Pre series, up to THG.

Beware I'm still not a native speaker. Each drabble is 100 words exactly.

Counting Stars:

I don't think the world is sold I'm just doing what we're told

She is younger than he expected. Pretty even. She can have a multitude of boys at her high heeled feet with a snap of her manicured fingers, he can't imagine anyone would resist the depth of her blue eyes underneath those fake long purple eyelashes. She smiles when she greets him and it's a sight to remember, except void of any warmth. She hands him a folder and she asks him to read carefully before signing the contract. There was never a contract for this kind of transactions but he complies. He's just the commodity in this trade after all.

Old, but I'm not that old Young, but I'm not that bold

He's her birthday present, her little prize for having lived a year longer surrounded by luxury and the privilege of being a wealthy Capitol citizen. He can see the scowl on her white powdered face at his slouch position, sprawled on the couch nursing a drink. Her friends are not impressed. He thinks he'll get off the hook if he can piss her off enough but she merely purses her lips when he lets his hand slide on the nearest girl's nude thigh he can reach. When she gives him his money later that night she kisses his cheek goodnight.

I see this life like a swinging vine Swing my heart across the line

She gifts him tailored suits, she makes him dance, she kisses him goodnight and she leaves him wondering why on earth she chooses to pay for something she could easily have for free. On the taxi back to his hotel room after their third date he realizes he's no more than her living toy. A useless broken toy untill she fixes him, correcting his behaviour, polishing his manners, smoothing his edges. He drinks to that. Every day. For a week. On their next date she kisses his lips, he kisses her back and he's allowed to stay for the night.

I could lie, couldn't I?! Everything that kills me makes me feel alive

She is sweet and passionate when the doors are closed and he can't quite reconcile the bubbling bright young woman she presents the world outside their room with the sadness he can feel burning beneath her skin. He kisses the tip of her nose and watches her sleeping form at dawn. He can tell by now every meaning behind a little nod of her head, a fake smile, a glance… she trained him well. He spends their hours together trying to commit to memory every inch of her and consumes the rest of his days drowning those memories in alcohol.

Lately I've been losing sleep Dreaming about the things that we could be

He tries to reject it but she insists, she's adamant everything has to be on paper even if their contract has long expired. So he collects the money, date after date, week after week, month after month, tucks it in a closet in his house in Twelve and never touch it again. He slips the bills in his pocket without even checking as he kisses her neck while they get dressed in the morning. A dance they perfectioned early on, a pas de deux shattered the moment she utters the words:

"I can't afford you for another night this month."

I feel the love and I feel it burn Down this river, every turn

She can't deny the raw emotion underneath and she doesn't. Her touch is demanding and the urge intoxicates him more than alcohol would. He drinks to that every night they're not together. Most nights now, really. He doesn't call it love, yet, but the word is there, swirling in his mind, down his throat, stinging and burning everything in passing.

Her goodbyes are filled with tears and he doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand.

"You'll find your perfect Capitol boyfriend while I'm not looking," he half jokes. And that's when it dawns on him there was one from the start.

Take that money Watch it burn Sink in the river The lessons are learned

She can't pretend it isn't true and truth hits him below the waist again. He's wealthy now, wealthy and famous, but he'll never be anything more than the stubborn, uncultured and impudent boy from Twelve who refused to die, Effie's passing fancy to her family. And they all have better plans for her.

"I was selfish, I shouldn't have," she weeps "I wanted you, I wanted to be with someone I could love and could, maybe, love me back."

Everyone knew even back then that they weren't going to last. He drinks to that, night after night, cursing her name.

Everything that drowns me makes me wanna fly

He drinks and he dreams of her. Her ridiculous attires, the colourful wigs, her fake eyelashes, her powdered skin, her boring stupid friends… So he drinks more and those dreams turn to nightmares. Her complicated clothes, so difficult to remove in the throes of passion, the wigs he wasn't quick enough to discard to plunge his fingers between her soft curls, her fake eyelashes tickling him as they made love, her creamy skin tasting like vanilla on his tongue… some other man enjoying the sound of her laughters. In the morning he reads his name on the newspaper. Seneca Crane.

I feel something so right Doing the wrong thing

Seeing her cheerfully chitchatting with her dim-witted acquaintances at the other end of the room makes his blood boil and his hand shoots out to grab another drink. The ring at her finger casting a caleidoscope of colours around her every time it catches the light is proof she's not his anymore. She never was, he reminds himself bitterly. But he's too drunk to be rational so he crosses the room only to find her fiancé on his path. She never even catches sight of him before two bodyguards throw him out with bloody nose and split lip, matching Seneca's.

Hope is a four-letter word Make that money, watch it burn

She always treasured her independence and he shouldn't be surprised, but he is when he sees her for the first time in front of District Twelve Justice Building picking children names from glass balls.

Hope is her job and it's the hardest: escort children to their death making them look on the bright side, making them believe they have a chance at life, letting them dream. He wonders if that's what she does to him as she presses her lips to his, loving him frantically and discreetly at the same time behind closed doors.

He never meets Seneca's toy boy.

I feel something so wrong Doing the right thing

They never discuss their arrangement, their time too precious to spoil, so they just exist in the dark of their room and in those rare moments the world stops spinning in between kisses. He drinks to that the rest of their time apart.

There is no guilt, nor regret. He still doesn't dare calling it love but he knows now it was never a passing fancy on her part and he fell too hard, perhaps he's still falling, his head is spinning. Most days he blames it on the booze.

That's why he drunkenly hugs her publicly on reaping day.

But baby I've been praying hard, no more counting dollars We'll be counting stars

She cried in his arms the first time they lost their tributes, so when they can't find sponsors he invests the money she paied for his company, but it's no use untill Katniss Everdeen volunteers.

He never meant to add fuel to the flame and he never meant for her to get burnt. Seneca Crane was collateral damage. She cries quietly in the dim light of their room and the bed feels like a million broken glasses as they drift closer.

"The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve," she muses with a sad smile "I wonder where you picked that up."