Words of Alcoholics and Geese

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M for sexual references, bad words etc etc.

I own nothing except this little piece of whatever you can call it. The Hunger Games is, unfortunately, Suzanne Collins'.

Dusk was beginning to settle over District 12. The fading sun sent shadows crawling across the floor, soaking the newly-erected town in a warm glow. The centre was alive with activity: swarms of people finding their way home from a day of work at the medicine factory, the keepers of market-stalls gathering their wares and shutting up their shops, haggling with naked children who offered what they could for a bowl of stew from the dregs left, or a heel of bread. While most returned to their houses on the outskirts of the town, built of the rubble which remained after the bombing, some frolicked in the meadow, attempting to fly kites in the still air or bothering Buttercup as he tried to snooze under the shade of a tree.

In the Victor's Village, the only area of 12 which hadn't been reduced to ash and dust, it was much quieter, though lights were on in every house. After the reintegration of civilisation to the charred remains of the previous 12, and with the help of the newly acquired money from the medicine production, they had converted the houses into different and needed establishments; an orphanage, a hospital, a new school. The three victors of District 12 still lived in their own houses, even though they had offered to let the new mayor do with them what was needed in the district. He had smiled and declined, told Katniss and Peeta that they had already done quite enough for the whole nation of Panem; told Haymitch that he could keep his house if he stopped fighting for one of the others to become a brothel.

And so life went on in District 12. The mines closed, and the citizens mourned, but time had passed and they had begun to rebuild their lives: Peeta and Katniss were barely seen without each other; miners became chemists; Greasy Sae was still creating foul concoctions in the District centre; outside the back of his house, Haymitch had erected a mediocre fence which circled around to form a paddock.

It had started off quite well, then he got bored and drunk and bits went wonky. It was substantial enough, though – it kept the geese in, and they, having adopted Haymitch's temperament, kept Buttercup out.

It was in this little paddock that Haymitch sat. He was leaning against the fence where the last rays of sun touched, just about peeking over the house. An empty liquor bottle lay at his side, another, half-full, in his hand. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles, his hair lank and unkempt. His clothes were unwashed and, in places, threadbare, with his big toe poking out through a large hole in his left sock, but he didn't care enough to do anything about them. As far as he was concerned, not much had changed since the rebellion.

He sucked on the rim of the bottle and swallowed a large gulp, watching his seven geese mill about on the grass in the area drowned by the shadow of the house. They were getting big now, lost their grey feathers in return for bright white, their honks deep and loud. Goosey, Gander, Greasy Sae, Mama Goose, Glimmer, Gale; the only goose whose name didn't begin with a 'g' was Peeta, who, to the real Peeta's amusement and Katniss' annoyance, only had one leg. Haymitch decided to tell only the boy that every goose Haymitch cooked was called Katniss: The Goose who was on Fire, since he suspected Katniss would use places on his body he was rather attached to as target practise.

He gasped at the burn of strong liquor running down his throat, and nodded towards the fowl. "Look at you lot, all high and mighty. Don't even know you're born," Haymitch slurred as one came waddling up to him. "Got the life of luxury here, you do, G-… uh…" He tried to get some indication of which goose it was, but since he never remembered any of their names other than Peeta anyway he guessed it wouldn't matter. "Yeah, anyway, you're the lucky one, sweetheart."

The goose stopped, and stared at him with glittering little eyes. It ruffled its feathers.

"What I wouldn't give to be you," Haymitch went on, "I mean, if I cooked your brother now you wouldn't even care. I reckon people get too attached to other people for their own good. Y'know? They'll just find one person and" – he tried to snap his fingers but his drunken state meant that they didn't even meet. To save himself some embarrassment, he made a loud clicking noise with his tongue to imitate the sound – "that's it. Finito. Your life is over. Oh. Vee. Ee. Arr. Over." He stopped to take another swig of his drink, and push his hair out of his eyes.

The goose, again, ruffled its feathers, this time bobbing its head.

"You're asking how I know, aren't you? How could anyone like me could ever know what that feels like?" he slurred, trying to click his fingers again. "Well let me tell you, whatever your name is, I've known a woman who really fucked me up. Effie Trinket. Ever seen her? Capitol broad with an arse as firm as you like."

The goose quarked and fanned its wings, wiggling its tail feathers and violently moving its head.

"Yeah, yeah! That's her. Heh, real piece of sweetheart, that one. Could've done with shutting up now and again, but." He laughed softly, deep in his throat. "I never liked her when I first met her. Ended up scaring the escort before her off. Ray, he was called, though he made me call him Horatius. Then she came along with those dresses and wigs and shoes. She stood on my foot with those once, heel-first." He winced at the sudden memory, the pain which had shot up his leg and the hobble he'd endured for the rest of the day since he refused Capitol medics. "Maybe I deserved it. I did call one of the almost-sponsors a tight-arsed battleaxe."

The goose, who had stayed in a calm silence, now made a loud hahhnking noise and stared at him reproachfully, eyes clearly betraying that it agreed with Effie's actions.

"Well, she was only gonna sponsor the boy!" Haymitch rebuked, "I had to say something. Anyway, Effie was furious. Wouldn't speak to me all day. Not even to mention her bloody schedule." He took another swig from the bottle, swilling it around idly as he carried on. "I remember her first year, yeah. 69th Games. A good year, if you know what I mean." He smiled crookedly at the patient goose. "She kept trying to hide bottles from me in the penthouse, all over the place. Kept trying to dress me up in her Capitol clothes. Said my suit was out of fashion and asked how long I'd been wearing it. You should've seen her face when I said nineteen years, I thought she was about to be sick. Then, 'Looks like it's been about that long since you had a bath,' she says. Should've spent more time trying to scare her off then and there, I reckon. Hindsight's a wonderful thing and all that." He stopped swilling the liquor in its bottle long enough to pour a mouthful past his lips. "I think things got better… Well, I know things got better. Not sure where, exactly. It's like one day we were hating each other and the next we were… heh, we were still hating each other, but with less clothes on." He chuckled ruefully. "She had mirrors on her ceiling…" He stared contemplatively down at his bottle. "I don't know. She didn't try to sell me out, like Ray. Though he only tried once. I got drunk and threw up all over my buyer."

The goose made a disgusted hahhnk, but carried on a string of quieter, rhythmic noises which Haymitch was convinced were laughs.

"Yeah, yeah," he smiled, shaking his head. "That story got around everywhere. No one wanted me after that." He raised his bottle in a grateful gesture to whatever determined his life events. "Trinket could quite easily have tried again once she dolled me back up. It was the 69th Games, all of the past victors were getting handed out like slabs of meat. The mentors included. That poor lad from District 4, what was his name… Odair, yeah." He raised his bottle again, this time in a salute. "He was getting special requests. Seems everyone wanted a certain piece of that poor boy. But…" He shrugged. Once again, he brought the bottle to his lips and drank from it. He could see the bottom. "Me, no," he slurred, wiping the dribble of alcohol from the corner of his mouth. "Maybe Effie wanted to keep me to herself. Some sort of exotic man-meat. I know she liked the attention. Liked any bloody attention, that one. I think she got a double-page spread in her favourite magazine or something. Just an interview asking about her and me. I dunno what she said, she never let me read it.

"And then, she comes here, to 12, at the start of the 72nd Games, with this rock on her finger." His brow furrowed, his eyes suddenly darkening. "Could've fed an entire district, that thing… It was too big for her, it… too flashy… too…" He made a guttural noise deep in his throat and sucked on the bottle. For a minute or so, there was silence, as Haymitch watched Peeta limp about after his siblings and fall over.

The goose, his quiet listener, made a noise like a rumble from deep in its throat. It gave Haymitch a look.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" Haymitch grumbled.

The goose carried on. The beady black little eyes met Haymitch's blood-shot brown, sunken and consumed by black circles.

"What are you talking about?" Haymitch snarled, "of course I wasn't jealous, you stupid bird! He just… the guy she was with, he had more money than sense. Like most Capitols, I guess. No wonder Effie liked him so much. She brought him to the Training Centre once, I don't know why. To flaunt him, I s'pose. He was dressed nice, good manners, blue hair, plastic face, the works. Effie must've warned him about me. He was trying hard to look at me like I was a normal human being – that is to say Capitol. You could tell. And no matter what I said he just… shrugged it off, flicked his hair, put his arm around…"

One side of his top lip raised in a snarl. Haymitch wiggled his toes as he stretched his legs out. They were aching from being crossed in front of him so long.

"Bastard. She told me his name once. It was something ridiculous. Cassius something… Some kind of berry. But not. Froggleberry or… No, no, Hollingberry. That was it. 'I'm going to be Mrs. Euphemia Hollingberry', she told me. Fucking stupid name, I said. I told her not to do it. Marry him, that is. Took the ring off her finger. Well, she wasn't complaining," he reasoned, to the goose's accusatory stare. "Not by the end of the night at lea- Okay, okay!" He moved his foot out reach of the goose's outstretched neck, since its beak had started snapping at his toes. "Are you channelling Effie or something?"

Again, the goose indignantly ruffled its wings and went to turn away, tail-feathers in the air.

"No, no, come back, sweetheart," Haymitch called, sighing, "I uh… sorry and… yeah."

The bird stopped by didn't turn back round, only angling its neck to give Haymitch a reproachful look.

This one must be a woman, he intoned to himself. Taking in a deep breath, Haymitch swallowed his pride in the way he had practised around Effie. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, for my bad manners. Please come back," he recited.

Goosey, or Gander, or Mama G, or whoever it was, turned slowly back around and came to stand back in front of Haymitch. It looked up at him expectantly.

"In case you're wondering, she told Hollingberry she'd changed her mind. I'm not really sure why. Either my influence or she actually realised he was a dickhead, one of the two. In any case, we carried on how we were going. 'Til the Quarter Quell. Heavensbee, he was telling me all this shit about 13, how we had to get there. Came up with a plan. I don't know, I was too drunk most of the time. Just told that I needed to keep Katniss' ass safe, and hide it from her and Peeta and Effie. Most of all Effie, apparently. Reckon he thought she'd blow our cover." He nodded. "He was probably right. I came pretty close to telling Katniss once, when she came and asked all about District 13. Does it exist, and all that. 'No no no,' says Heavensbee. So you know what I did? I stayed quiet, didn't I? To all of them. Now look where that's got us. Peeta's fucked up, Katniss is the same, Effie… Well, Effie hates me… I sometimes…" He shook his head, and drained most of the remaining liquor. "I sometimes wonder what she did when she saw the Games… They were live so, everyone saw Katniss shoot the forcefield, Peeta get carted away, the hovercrafts which shouldn't have been there… I wonder if she'd have run straight to the penthouse, maybe looking… Maybe looking for me. And no one's there. And then she's taken away for questioning when she knows nothing and…

"I was fine putting her in danger, y'know. Fine with her in harm's way. Fine with just leaving her. I thought 'yeah, sure. I'll just carry out this, get in a hovercraft and she won't know anything so they'll just let her go'. Shows how fucking drunk I was, I guess. It's the Capitol, I should've known they'd happily torture one of their own for information they don't even know. She never spoke about it after… But she… In Snow's mansion, she asked me why I didn't come and save her… They came for Peeta, she said. She recognised Gale's face, y'see, from interviews from the 74th Games. 'So why didn't they save me?' I think that's what got her more, y'know, more than the physical torture. The… thinking that no one… that I didn't… She cried then. Hit me. Called me all sorts of names and told me she never wanted to see me again." He closed his eyes and laughed humourlessly. "Can't say I blame her."

The bird, again, made a low rumbling sound, though this time it sounded more like sympathy. It approached with a few waddling steps.

"I don't know. I think she really got under my skin, that little Capitol broad… Last I heard she was back with Hollingberry, trying to build her life back up again… I heard that from Peeta. She hasn't spoken to me since…" He brought the bottle to his lips, tipped it up, and found it empty. After bringing it vertically to try and get every last drop out, he considered it a lost cause and flung it beside the other, creating a high-pitched whistle as the glass crashed together. Instead, he hung his head and buried his face in his hands, realising only now that the sun had completely set and he was sitting in a paddock surrounded by nothing by night and geese.

"Talking to a bird all bloody evening," he cursed, chuckling at himself. "You're a good conversationalist," he told his little feathery companion as he lifted his head, resting his chin on his arm. "Better than Effie in any case. Capitol this and purple that and 'Haymitch, that doesn't suit you' and…" He leant his head back on the fence, closed his eyes and brushed his hand over his cheek. It rasped. "She didn't even send me a wedding invitation, y'know, didn't even bother to –"

"It's probably in the pile of unopened mail in your kitchen, Haymitch Abernathy," came a soft, quiet and strangely familiar voice.

Haymitch stared at the goose. "I… Sorry, did you say something?" he slurred, squinting down at the bird.

From behind him, there was the soft clearing of a throat. He recognised the strange lilt of a Capitol accent in the speech at the same moment he scrambled to his feet, nearly falling over more than once in his drunken state of haste to straighten up. Ungraceful endeavour completed, he focused at squinting on the figure in front of him, just past the fence.

Sure enough, there she stood. All petite and slim and brown hair and delicate features and like a stiff breeze would blow her away. She was bathed in moonlight, dappled in shadows from the woods, and he had trouble making out if she was real or some vision to bestir his already racing mind. Forsaking the first thing which came into his mind to say, he blurted out instead, "Are you real?"

Afterwards, he wished he could have taken it back to try and reduce the slur first, but by the time he could think straight, it was already out and she was already laughing behind her hand.

"About as real as tomorrow's hangover," she nodded.

Haymitch glanced down at the two bottles. He kicked them idly and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah well, I –" Then it felt like a kick to the stomach. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and began again: "How long have you been standing there, sweetheart?"

Again, Effie smiled, more fondly this time. He noticed, even from the dim light, she wasn't wearing any lipstick, and the soft tint of peach colouring her mouth was her own. "Long enough," she answered, nodding again.

Haymitch drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and breathed out loudly, letting his head fall back to direct it upwards. "I blame you," he muttered, looking down for his feathery companion, only to find it had waddled off to join the rest of the group, milling about over on the other side of the paddock. "Little bastard, I'll get you," he cursed, while the geese haahnked in mirth at their own private joke, "and I'll cook all of you too."

Haymitch turned back to look at Effie while the geese laughed behind him. "Conniving little- …birds," he shrugged, stroking his cheek again and wondering how awful he looked to her. "So uh… Why're you here?"

"Never did believe in small talk, did you, Haymitch?"

"Guess that's why I never fit in your Capitol."

"My Capitol?"

He opened his mouth to reply, faltered, and shut it again. Instead, he stooped down to pick up the bottles on the floor. "Won't your new piece of meat be annoyed that you're here? I mean, he-"

"Haymitch Abernathy, did I teach you nothing at all? Where are your manners? Aren't you going to invite a lady in?"

A hundred scathing comments rose to Haymitch's mouth, any of which he could say and, he knew, send Effie Trinket reeling around to find some other refuge for the night. I would if I knew a lady; I don't see any ladies here; oh yeah, look where your Capitol manners have got you now, sweetheart. He felt like finding the one which would make the most damage and spitting it out like acid on his tongue.

Like I would have done before…

He licked his top lip and swallowed hard. It tasted like cheap alcohol and bitter. "Uh, yeah," he nodded finally, jerking his head in the direction of the back door. "Do you uh… do you fancy a drink?"