For someone who survived.

No One Decent

Chapter One: The Slip in Her Hand, His Slip off Stage

He can't remember waking up, getting dressed, or making his way down to the square. This isn't a rare occurrence, coming-to in a strange place, especially today — the day of the reapings. It just means a shit-ton more alcohol the night before; to be perfectly candid, he is either terribly hungover or still drunk from the early hours of the morning.

It isn't that Haymitch doesn't like to sleep — if he could, he would sleep through today entirely. But when he isn't fraught with nightmares, he'll just lay awake in his bed, tossing and turning, groaning with frustration, and eventually give up and nurse a new bottle of scotch (nurse meaning chug, to clarify). Because the second he closes his eyes, he sees blood. Lots of it.

Anyways, they are waiting for him to come onstage. The mayor calls his name from the (very) short list of victors from District 12. His head is throbbing, and he feels dizzy, but he staggers up the stairs nonetheless — as Effie would say, the show must go on. Speaking of Effie, she waits for him at the top, her snowy wig piled on top of her head, magenta lips and dress striking against her accentuated pale skin. They lock eyes, but Haymitch looks away. The disappointment in her eyes at his blatant intoxication is too much for him to handle this early in the morning.

He's the only victor on the stage, just like every other year. Just another year of loneliness for Haymitch Abernathy.

Crossing his arms, he watches as the dynamic woman struts up to the bowls and delicately reaches inside. His facade is of boredom, indifference, but his heart thumps wildly in his chest, as if his name were still in the bowl. The feeling never goes away, apparently, not even after you've been in the games. Not even after you've won the games and been granted immunity. Not even when it's been twenty-three years and you're too old to even be considered.

Her long white fingers skit around the slips without commitment for a moment too long before she chooses one — it's almost as if she doesn't want to choose. But no, being chosen is an honour. She knows that. So she giggles and pries away the black tape that seals the slip shut (who has time to make all of these?) and clears her throat before stepping up to the mic.

"Primrose Everdeen," she announces in a syrupy voice. "Where are you? Come on up…" To Haymitch, the name is meaningless. Who is Primrose Everdeen? He's certainly never heard of her. But when the crowd of girls parts, and his eyes fall upon the little duck, his heart breaks. Because she is young, because she is innocent… and because she will not survive the games. His fingers clench, and he wishes with everything he has for a glass of scotch (with ice, of course).

Then, something unexpected happens. Someone steps out of line — an older girl, utterly plain-looking, but with a fire in her eyes. She cries out for the little duck; of course, the peace keepers swarm her. Haymitch thinks nothing of it, because no one in their right mind would stand against the Capitol, and no one loves anyone enough to volunteer for the games.

He's wrong about that. The fire-eyed girl volunteers, and while he is relieved that the little duck won't have to go, he feels for this girl as well. What's going on with him? He shouldn't feel this much… then again, he hasn't had a drink in at least twenty minutes.

She's District 12's first volunteer, ever.

"Well, bravo. That's the spirit of the games. Now, what's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen." She says it so quietly that he barely hears it. Everdeen. It doesn't take a genius to realize that she is the duck's sister. But by the way she looks now, hardened and emotionless, it's hard to imagine her loving someone so much that she would die for them. Then again, looks can be deceiving, and sometimes the ones who feel the most are the ones who seem the most indifferent. Cough, Haymitch, Cough.

"Well, I bet my buttons that was your little sister. Can't have her stealing all the glory now, can we?" Haymitch wants to throw up, and not from the alcohol. Even he knows that's an abhorrent thing to say. A bubble of hatred towards Effie rises inside of him.

"Let's have a hand for our very first volunteer, Katniss Everdeen," Effie attempts, her dainty hands forming delicate claps. She is the only one who does so.

In a show of solidarity, the entire district raises their hands, the three-fingered salute. The silence from their lips is deafening, powerful. Haymitch, from District 12 himself, knows that salute — it means thanks, admiration, good-bye to someone you love. He has to hold himself back from doing it as well, because he can't. That would be rebellion, and an entire district's salute is enough of that for one day. He doesn't need to add a victor.

One thing he knows — Katniss Everdeen is surely someone precious if she can inspire something like this.

"I like her," he blurts out, mouth forming words before his inebriated mind processes them. "She's got spunk, more than you." Ignoring Effie's hurt look, he steps forward… looses his balance, and tumbles off the stage.

Oof.

He lays there on the ground for the rest of the reaping, and no one comes to help him. His eyes are closed, and he's minutes away from falling asleep (or unconscious) when Effie's bombastic voice fills the square once again, ringing with the echo of the microphone.

"Peeta Mellark."

The boy is stunned, and for a moment, he just watches the crowd part for him. As he makes his way up, his eyes scan the crowd. Haymitch realizes he must be looking for his brothers, hoping that maybe someone… but no, no one volunteers to take his place, because no one else is Katniss Everdeen. Looking like he's about to burst into tears, he is escorted by four peace keepers and takes his place beside Effie.

Then, as the boy — Peeta — meets Katniss' eyes, a single tear drops down his cheek. And for some reason unknown to him, Haymitch can tell that this single tear shed is not for himself, but for the girl. He loves her.

Haymitch curses under his breath. He has a feeling that, this year, he might get too attached to the boy — but he is not a survivor. If one of his tributes is going to make it out alive this year, it will be the girl. Katniss Everdeen, the precious one.

Peeta Mellark never stood a chance.

No one decent ever wins the games.