Fallen From Flight: The Tale of the 2nd Quarter Quell

Part I: The Nest

Through the thin veil of summer rain, Haymitch could see her, curled neatly like a nesting dove in the creaky, old rocking chair on her family's front porch. For as long as he could remember he could always expect to find her in that very spot, legs tucked beneath her and bright eyes awaiting his arrival, but this day was not like other days. Today the darling blonde that sat in front of the rickety house did not rise to greet him, nor bring herself to smile as he drew closer to the warped wooden stairs. Instead, her head hung downward whilst she rocked back and forth, and whatever joy normally permeated their reunions was nowhere to be found. Luckily, this was not something that Haymitch took personally. He knew better than to count on such a greeting this day, for no one with a shred of gratitude for the breath in their lungs could bring themselves to smile on the day of the reaping.

With his boots weighed down by a thick coating of fresh mud, the young man halted just before the first porch step, hands clutching the loose bundle of flowers in his grasp like his life depended on the half-wilted things. His thoughts raced, for all he knew a majority of the lilac-colored blooms were actually weeds and the intended sentiment would be lost the moment she saw them, but ever the charmer it was a risk he was still willing to take. He told himself there was nothing to it, if they were weeds they were pretty weeds, much finer than any of the flowers he saw in the window of the florist's shop in the center of town and much more special because he scavenged for them himself. She'd appreciate them, surely, and it'd be better to be a girl with a bouquet of nice-looking weeds on Reaping Day than a girl with empty hands and no boy to give her anything at all. She'd enjoy his thoughtfulness as she always had and it would take her mind off what awaited them, even if it was only for a fleeting second.

Feeling his nerves rise more and more the longer he stood there unannounced, Haymitch finally brought himself to clear his throat, just loud enough to send the girl in the rocking chair jolting upright. With a turn of her head she finally acknowledged his presence, her eyes taking in what must have been the pitiful sight of him standing alone in the rain. It didn't matter to him how he looked; what mattered to him was that they spent the remaining hour they had before they began their journey to the town square in each other's company.

"Why so sad, little dove?" Haymitch greeted, allowing himself to step up onto the first step, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight. What he asked was the definition of a pointless question, he knew that, but from where he stood he swore he could see the corners of her lips twitch upward in the faintest of smiles. Before he knew it she was adjusting herself in the chair, pressing out the folds in her brown skirt as she did so.

"You're late, you know, Haymitch." She decided to reply, ignoring his question outright and instead ridiculing him with what he could only guess was a playful sternness. She was right- and ever the more responsible of the two of them- nevertheless her comment rolled off of him like the raindrops tumbling off his back. Taking it as his silent cue he held out the bundle of mystery flowers in front of him, grinned, then made his way up the remaining steps.

"I do apologize, Madam Sylvie," His apology came out laced with a pompous, sarcastic gusto, "Might this beautiful arrangement make up for lack of haste?"

Only after he finished his flattery with a theatrical bow did Sylvie accept the blossoms from his hand, immediately raising them to her nose to take a sniff. From the looks of it, she was pondering over his statement, trying to assess whether or not his attempt to make up for his delay was acceptable enough. She'd forgive him, she always did, yet no matter what Haymitch had already decided that he wouldn't dare tell her the true reason for his tardiness. Never would she know that just minutes before he was darting around his house like mad trying to find absolutely anything suitable to wear for the upcoming reaping, flinging what few articles of clothing he had all across his mattress and examining each and every garment for holes or frayed ends. She was never to be told that the shirt he had to settle upon was missing its bottom two buttons, and that was why he stood before her with the hem of his ivory colored button-up tucked into his pants. On Reaping Day, one was meant to wear their most formal attire, but that simple instruction was rather difficult to adhere to when not a single piece of clothing in the whole of the Seam hadn't been passed between hands on more than one occasion. Though, if he were being truly honest with himself he didn't struggle to pick a shirt because of the ceremony- he couldn't care less about following protocol- instead his sudden attention to detail was solely to impress the girl who sat before him.