Hello hello! This is my brand new hayffie story which also happens to be a modern AU. It is loosely (very loosely) inspired by Silver Lining Playbook in the sense that I got the idea while watching the movie but it's probably the extent of the inspiration. Happiness Therapy is actually the French title of Silver Lining Playbook.

This is a relatively short story. There are only five chapters in all but I hope you will enjoy them. As usual, it will be updated every Sunday until it's completed.

I proofread this myself so any mistake is mine and mine alone and I have to apologize in advance.

I hope you enjoy this!

Happiness Therapy

1.

Haymitch was staring at the huge pink neon sign completed with twinkling lights.

It seemed like a good time to regret his life's choices more than ever.

Effie Trinket's Dance Studio, the sign was proudly proclaiming underlined and framed by a hundred of those fairy lights thing, please proceed to the back.

His eyes darted from the sign to the house it was put up next to. It was a classic suburban house in a classic suburban district where every fences were identically white, the growth of the grass examined with a ruler and mowed with a certain idea in mind, where everyone had the latest sports car they were forbidden to use after a certain hour because god forbid there was noise in the street, where the people all smiled at each other and gossiped behind each other's back as soon as they could. Suburbs are smoke screens, his mother used to say.

Haymitch hated suburbs.

A dog barked down the street and he was a little too aware that people were spying on him from behind their curtains, no doubt waiting to see what he would do, the phone already clutched in their hand in case calling the police was necessary. His old truck wasn't exactly matching the decor.

Who established their dance studio in the middle of the suburb?, he asked himself one last time before doing as the sign said and proceeding to the back of the house.

With each step, he felt a renewed sense of doom like he hadn't known in a long while.

Why dancing?, Chaff had asked, chortling in the glass of disgusting orange juice that now permanently resided in his fridge.

The question had its merits. Why dancing? Because he had tried almost everything else and had gotten more and more frustrated with each new attempt. He had tried painting, he had tried origami… The supposedly calming hobbies had left him ready to tear his hair off his scalp.

A square building twice bigger than your usual garage loomed behind the house. There was another pink neon sign on the door so Haymitch headed there, thinking for the third time that he should just turn around and leave.

You need a physical activity, his shrink had claimed. It will help you, he had promised, you will feel better in your own skin.

Let's be honest, Haymitch looked and felt like a weak kitten that someone had just plucked out of the river. It had been a month and a half since he had last felt the deep bite of withdrawal now but the weeks of purging himself from liquor had exhausted him and left him depleted. Building back his strength seemed like a good way to pass time if only because it might just help him stop thinking for a while. He wasn't one for going to the gym though and he certainly didn't have the motivation to start by himself and keep to it.

He hesitated in front of the – also pink, what was it with pink in that place? – door. There was no doorbell and it was, after all, a dance studio, so he turned the handle and stepped in without any more consideration. A dance studio was like any other shop, wasn't it?

Apparently not.

There was no convenient bell announcing his arrival or sale assistant ready to wish him a good day and ask how he could help him – he hated it when people did that but he would have welcomed it at the moment. The door gave on a small lobby crammed with two – oh, surprise – pink couches and two matching armchairs, there was a coffee table with a few issues of several magazines and an impressive shelf on the opposite wall that was covered with trophies, medals, and pictures of people on podiums or caught in movement. They all mainly featured a petite blond woman whose smile was blinding. He supposed she was the infamous Effie Trinket.

The number of awards was impressive.

He wavered between sitting down and continuing his exploration and chose the latter. In for a penny…

There was only one door in the waiting area that didn't lead to a changing room doubling with lavatories so he went through it and stopped dead in his tracks. It gave on a huge luminous dance room with clear floorboards, an entire wall was covered from floor to ceiling with a mirror, there were training barres on the three other walls and an impressive stereo system. It wasn't what held his attention, though. His attention was caught by the woman in the middle of the room wearing shorts and a matching blue sports bra who was so focused on what she was doing she seemed completely oblivious to the world.

There was no music, she was dancing to an inner rhythm and he found himself hypnotized by the way she moved. It was elegant and powerful all at once. It was several minutes before she stopped dancing and slightly bent at the waist, panting for breath, her hand on her hips. She still hadn't realized he was standing there, and he had played voyeur long enough, he figured.

"So, how did someone with so many awards ends up in the back end of Virginia?" he asked.

She shrieked in fright and startled so badly she jumped, a hand on her heart. Her blue eyes widened in fear and she took several steps back, watching him like he was about to murder her right here in her studio.

"I'm Haymitch." he said quickly, before she could put herself in a right state of panic. "We have an appointment?"

He hoped they had. His therapist had called her for him and he hadn't bothered noting down the details. Had his memory deceived him? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time since the withdrawal.

She seemed to recognize the name though because her whole demeanor changed. She pursed her lips, tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him as someone would with an unruly child due for a scolding.

"Have you never heard of manners?" she hissed. "Couldn't you have knocked like civilized people do?"

Haymitch had never liked being told off.

"I did." he lied.

If possible her eyes narrowed down to slits although they were also sparkling with irritation and it was a strangely riveting sight. "No, you didn't."

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" he smirked.

She gritted her teeth – which he took as an admission that she had been so lost into her own world she had no idea if he had knocked or not – and clicked her tongue.

"I don't stand for pet names." she retorted.

"Too bad." he snorted.

For the first time since his truck had entered the suburb, he relaxed. That might be fun after all.

He knew he must have been infuriating her but instead of kicking his ass – like he suspected she was very capable of doing – she stepped forward, forced a commercial smile on her lips and outstretched her hand. "Effie Trinket."

Her fingers looked delicate despite the long fake nails and he was careful not to crush them when he shook her hand. Her grip was firm though, and she seemed to enjoy trying to hurt him.

"Haymitch Abernathy." he offered although she must have already been aware of that. "You were recommended to me by…"

"Yes, Caesar sends me some of his patients now and then." she cut him off, turning around to rummage in a bag near the stereo system. The color matched her outfit perfectly. "Now, now… Caesar said you wanted three private lessons per week, is that correct?"

He stared at her crouched figure as she looked through her bag and wondered in what strange place his therapist had sent him. He rather liked Caesar, he knew how to listen without giving him the impression to be nuts or to be judged. Caesar always managed to get things out of him without seeming to insist.

"Yeah, I guess." he shrugged.

"Private lessons are more expensive than group lessons." she said, still searching for he didn't know what. "If you…"

"Money's not a problem." he cut her off.

She held out a notepad successfully in the air and stood up, scribbling down the information he was giving.

"Will it be your first time?" she hummed, her eyes glued to the page.

"No." he laughed. "I'm plenty good at that. 'Got a few ladies you can ask, sweetheart…"

"Effie." she corrected. "Good, it will be easier than beginning from scratch. What sort of dancing did you…" She lifted her head at that second, caught his smirk, probably thought back to her wording and rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated with him. "Oh, would you take your mind out of the gutter! No manners at all, this is quite distressing to me, you know."

"Yeah, I can see." he chuckled.

She glared.

He smirked wider.

"So, no previous experience in dancing, then?" she scowled.

"'M afraid not." He crept closer to the stereo system, curious to see what kind of music she would be listening to. There were no CDs laying around though, just one of those fancy ipod things plugged in. He didn't dare touch it.

"Snooping is rude." she pointed out without looking up from her notes. "What kind of dancing are you interested in learning?"

"I don't know." He hadn't thought that far. That morning, when he had gotten out of bed, he had still been deliberating going to this appointment at all. Chaff's barks of laughter were still ringing clearly in his ears. "No ballet."

She tossed him a mocking glance. "I wouldn't have suggested ballet. I am not sure the tights and the cup would suit you."

His mouth twitched in amusement. "You could be surprised, sweetheart."

"Effie. Do you have memory problems?" she asked.

"I call everyone sweetheart, don't take it personally." he explained.

"And I thought I was special…" she deadpanned, the tip of her pen ready to fly on the page. "My question was serious though. I do not need to know why Caesar is treating you but I do need to know if you have particular health problems so I can adjust training difficulty accordingly."

She was all business but he could detect the polite curiosity behind it. He would have bet she was a huge gossip.

Well…

"I'm a drunkard." he spat outright.

She seemed startled by the blunt honestly.

"Oh… You really don't need to…" she winced, flustered.

"I'm told admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery." he chuckled bitterly. "Lots of crap, if you ask me."

He waited for the pity or disgust to show up – he had learned a long time ago those were the two usual reactions faced with a drunk – but she flashed him a small smile instead.

"Caesar is an excellent therapist and you wouldn't be here if he didn't believe in you." she offered, before hiding behind her professional mask again. "So, no health problem in particular I should know about?"

"Not really." he answered, trying not to be uncomfortable. He had just met her, after all, it was a little early to start exposing his medical history. "My hands aren't steady and I have more fat than muscles."

He had intended that as a joke but her eyes were already studying him in a clinical way.

"You have not much fat to speak of." she pointed out. "In fact, I would say you are underweight."

"That's from withdrawal." he explained before folding his arms. "Look, all I'm really looking for here is a hobby, okay? Something that will leave me too tired to think about drinking myself into oblivion."

She chewed on her bottom lip and looked him up for head to toes.

"We could start with a few sessions of basic stretching and then we can try a few styles and see what you like best." she suggested. "And you shouldn't worry about being tired, Haymitch. When I am done with you, you will barely have enough energy to crawl into bed."

He should have trusted her on that front.

She insisted on starting immediately – as a free sample of what she had in store for him, that way, he could chose to subscribe to her program or not – and since he had nothing better to do, he agreed.

"May I ask you a personal question?" she hesitated, while looking through her ipod for the right playlist.

"There's something personal you haven't asked already?" he scoffed, wriggling his toes against the floorboard. It was odd to be bare feet elsewhere than in his home.

"You don't have to answer." she offered. "I was just wondering how long you have been sober."

"Three months." he said without any particular pride to it. He had heard recovering alcoholics announcing how long they had been sober as if it was a huge feat of their will everyone should bow to – that was one of the reasons he avoided AA meetings as much as he could. He couldn't relate to those people. His sobriety was a practical decision born out of need, not out of a grand realization on his part. There was nothing to be proud about. "You never answered my question, sweetheart. How does someone with that many awards end up so far up Virginia's ass?"

"Are you always that vulgar?" she hummed along to the soft music coming from the speakers.

"Still eluding." he accused.

"Focus now." she chided him.

He tried to keep taunting her, he was enjoying the banter much more than he ought to. It had been some time since he had met someone capable to match wits with. He tried. But he failed.

The first exercise was easy enough even though his attempts at copying her graceful moves were probably ridiculous – he ruled out watching his own reflection in the mirror – but after the few basic stretching moves, it started getting awfully difficult really fast. The peak of his humiliation came when she bent in two, her stomach pressed against her thighs and her hands casually placed on the back of her ankles.

Flexible, he thought, thinking of entirely too inappropriate situations in which that could come in handy.

She was attractive and it had been some time.

He tried to copy her and found himself stuck. His hands barely reached his knees, he was already hurting all over and it was just ridiculous that his fingers couldn't at least touch the floor… He strained his neck to watch her, trying to figure out was he was doing wrong…

"Don't do that." she chided him. "You will hurt yourself. Relax your neck." She moved before he could do anything – not that he would have had any hope of doing anything, he didn't think he had enough energy left to move a finger. Her fingers landed softly on his nape and rubbed lightly until he relaxed and stopped trying to watch her in the mirror. She walked behind him, placed her hands on his hips and nudged his legs apart with her foot. "Open your legs a little."

"Never thought you would be the kind to talk dirty." he joked, as much because his mind was plummeting to the gutter as to remind himself that it was professional and nothing else.

What had Caesar been thinking when he had sent him to her? She was way too attractive to be trusted.

"Wouldn't you like to know…" she retorted. "You are going to straighten up, now, but slowly, alright? And your head comes last."

She guided his movement with her hands until he was standing upright again. A glance in the mirror showed him to be red in the face. He felt slightly shaky but wasn't ready to admit he was done for. His pride was getting in the way.

She was obviously very good at her job though because she figured it out all on her own.

"I think it will be enough for today." she declared, walking to the stereo system to turn the music off. She grabbed a bottle of water and drank some before offering him another one. He took it gratefully and downed half of it in one go. "What do you think?" she asked. "Is it suitable to your needs?"

He thought this was torture and she was Satan. He also thought his every limbs were hurting and it might very well be possible that his body would give in to sheer exhaustion and he would manage to fall asleep that night without having a nightmare. That was his main problem since he had stopped drinking: he couldn't sleep properly.

"I think you're hired." he declared, already sensing he would regret it.

"Fabulous." she beamed.

Of course, it was hard to explain that sense of doom when she was smiling that brightly, her blue eyes twinkling with pride and pleasure at his committing.

A difficult gorgeous woman with a sharp sense of what bantering was about… How could he resist?

He signed whatever she wanted him to sign without really reading through – she came recommended by his shrink, he doubted she would make him sign a contract to sell his soul – and hoped back into his old truck, feeling so tired his grip kept slacking on the wheel.

It was early still so he stopped at the Mellark's bakery and bought a few donuts. He ate three of them while waiting and left four in the box on the passenger seat. It wasn't long before the passenger door opened and the girl appeared, her face lighting up when she saw the treat.

"Are there strawberry ones?" the twelve years old asked, tossing her schoolbag on the backseat and taking the time to sit down and buckle up before opening the box to find two strawberry donuts and two chocolate ones. "Thank you, Haymitch!"

"You're welcome, kiddo." he shrugged, always embarrassed when Prim acted so grateful for the smallest things. "How was school?"

He steered the car back into the traffic, more careful than usual. He was always more careful than usual when the kids were in the truck.

"Great!" she exclaimed. "I had biology today and do you know…"

Haymitch nodded to whatever she was saying, not really listening. Her big dream was to become a doctor and she was very dedicated to her biology class. Prim was shy at first but once she was at ease with someone, she certainly could talk their ear off.

"Is your sister working today?" he asked, taking advantage of a pause in her great speech.

He had trouble keeping up with Katniss' shifts. He had told her she didn't need to work as much, not while they were living with him and he had plenty of money to go around, but the girl was stubborn and even though she accepted every penny he threw at Prim, she was reluctant to accept anything for herself even a lift from school. She would probably have paid for the food if he had let her.

"I think so." Prim frowned. "Or maybe she's seeing Gale, I'm not sure."

He frowned but kept his misgivings to himself. The Hawthorne boy came from the girls' former neighborhood, the Hawthornes lived next to the Everdeens in one of the poorest area of the Seam, and moving in with Haymitch into a richer part of town – that was not a suburb but a nice comfortable house in a deserted area that assured him some peace – hadn't been enough to stop the two friends from seeing each other. Haymitch would have had nothing against that if Gale hadn't been two years older and twice as prompt to come up with stupid ideas like poaching in the woods behind the mines or the occasional shop-lifting.

Haymitch got it. He had certainly done the same in his youth. The area was poor, the living conditions were hard, and it was worse when you had a family to feed. He truly got it but that didn't make it more alright and he didn't know who was the head of their little team, if it was Katniss or Gale, but the fact remained that when they were together, they tended to get in trouble.

Yet it wasn't like he could exactly forbid her from seeing the guy.

His relationship with Katniss was tentative on the good days and explosive on the bad ones.

"Haymitch?" Prim asked, a little hesitant.

At least Prim was an easy kid, he mused, she was well-behaved and bright and rarely did anything wrong – and when she did it was accidental not on purpose. Really, the girl was a blessing because he wasn't sure he could have dealt with two Katniss.

"Yeah?"

He was focused on the car intending to pass in front of him but he didn't miss her discreet move to crack the window open.

She seemed to ponder how to ask her question for a few seconds and then shrugged and went for it. "Why are you smelly?"

He supposed it was a polite way to say he reeked of sweat.

"'Cause I exercised." he grumbled. "It's my new hobby thing. You know."

The girls were well aware of his drinking problems. They were so obvious anyway he had never tried to hide them. They knew why he had stopped too.

"Oh." she said, before a teasing smile found its way to her lips. It was good to see her smile. It had been too rare in the first few months but Haymitch felt they were slowly starting to find their footing. Life was looking up – so naturally, he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "You tossed the paint brushes in the fireplace." she pointed out.

"Yep." he confirmed.

"And the origami paper too." she insisted.

"It was supposed to be relaxing, there's nothing relaxing about folding paper that keeps creasing in the wrong way, sweetheart." he grumbled.

"You lasted a week at the book club." she went on.

"It was a stupid book." he argued. "Life is full of stupid people, I don't need to read stupid books too."

"And you abandoned wood carving after three days." she hummed.

It wasn't exactly his fault. He had enjoyed carving in his youth but with unsteady hands that kept shaking, it had been an impossible task.

"Then there was the cooking class…" Prim chuckled.

"That wasn't so bad." he defended himself. "I would have stayed. They kicked me out."

"Because you started a fire…" she giggled.

"They said flambé." He rolled his eyes. "I flamblé it."

"Flambé doesn't mean putting fire to the curtains." she grinned.

"They should have been clearer, then." he muttered.

She laughed and he smirked, counting her good mood as a small victory.

She ate her two strawberry donuts and went on chatting about school and who had done what. The first thing she did when they finally reached the house was to put the chocolate donuts in the fridge for when Katniss would care to show up.

Haymitch sometimes felt as if he was spending his time waiting for that girl to come home. He would have grey hair before long.

"Do you think Mom will be allowed visits this week-end?" Prim asked, as she cuddle the monstrosity of a cat she had brought with her from the depth of the Seam.

"I don't know, sweetheart." he winced.

He pretended not to see how disappointed the girl was as she rushed upstairs to do her homework or read or whatever she filled her free time with. It wasn't so much that Aster wasn't allowed visits as that she didn't want them but neither he nor Katniss felt it was okay to tell Prim that.

He tried to scramble something approximating healthy for dinner in an effort to occupy his time – being idle was the surest way to contemplate a drink and only madness lied down that road, he was due for a blood test soon anyway, he couldn't afford a relapse, the girls couldn't afford for him to relapse.

They waited and waited but Katniss didn't show up for dinner. It wasn't unprecedented but it was annoying Haymitch to no end. Prim made an attempt at being cheerful but it wasn't convincing.

He waited long after she went to bed, sticking to a bed schedule she had set up herself, and lied to himself about being nervous when the phone started ringing. Don't be the police station, he begged silently as he picked up, don't be the police station…

It was Chaff.

He didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing because on the bright side, it meant Katniss hadn't been arrested – again – but on the less bright side, he still didn't know where she was.

"Did you put a tutu on?" his friend mocked.

"Shut up." he growled. "It's not that kind of dancing."

"Yeah, yeah, so you say…" Chaff snorted.

He heard the distinct clinking of ice against glass and he closed his eyes, his mouth suddenly parched. "You're drinking."

There was a touch of reproach in his voice.

"No, I'm not." his friend lied smoothly. Whiskey, Haymitch mused, Chaff always drank whiskey. It was his poison of choice too… "So, tell me, how was the lady? She's hot?"

"She's a pain." he scoffed, momentarily forgetting his thirst.

"But is she hot?" Chaff insisted.

He hesitated and then sighed. "Yeah."

"She's a pain and she's hot. 'Sounds like your type of girls, Haymitch."

"It's a hobby. I don't need it to get complicated." he argued.

"Sex is a pretty good hobby and you're in a desperate need to get laid." Chaff argued. "It's good what you're doing for those kids, buddy, and I'm proud you stopped drinking, but even father of the year gets a nice little…"

"Okay, I get the point." he cut him off, rolling his eyes. That was when the front door opened and closed quietly. "Father of the year has to go." he told Chaff before tossing the phone on the couch. "Where have you been?"

If Katniss was startled by his question, she didn't show it. She hung her leather jacket too big for her bony frame on the coat rack and dropped her bag on the floor before kicking off her boots.

"You could have called." he went on since she wasn't answering.

"Mom didn't care if I called or not." she muttered, slipping past him to the stairs.

He grabbed her arm before she could brush his concerns off again. He had tried to show patience, he had tried to be understanding, but enough was enough.

"I'm not your Mom." he spat.

"Then stop trying to act like it!" she retorted. "I can take care of myself, Haymitch, it's fine. I've been taking care of us for years."

"Yeah, ending up in a cell is not exactly what I call taking care of yourself." he sneered. "You came to me, sweetheart. You said you needed help."

A matching sneer appeared on Katniss' face. "And you stopped drinking for us and you took us in. How many more times do I have to thank you?"

"I don't want your thank you, I want you to make my life easier." he snapped, shaking her arm a little. "Think about your sister."

"It's all I ever do." she replied, shrugging herself free from his grip.

Five minutes later, he heard her bedroom door slamming shut.

And now, Haymitch was really, really frustrated and he really, really wanted a drink.

Teenagers, he grumbled unhappily, were not fun.

So, what did you think? Let me know!