𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐄 ━━ finnick odair ✓

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧. ( static )

            It's been at least an hour of waiting when two people slide into the empty chairs next to me and Finnick. A tall gentleman with a shiny silver suit occupies the seat to Finnick's left. Haymitch Abernathy takes the spot on my right. "This is Chaff, District 11." Finnick takes care of the introduction. The name rings a bell. My recognition is solidified when he waves an arm ending in a stump in my direction as a greeting. He'd won the 45th Hunger Games and lost the hand as a result.

"What brings you boys by?" Finnick asks, putting an arm behind the chair Chaff occupies. His openness suggests that he trusts the two, so I try to let down my guard a bit.

"We've got to welcome the new victor to our ranks of course." Chaff exclaims, throwing up his intact hand to the air. "None of the other victors stay more than an hour here, so rude." He tuts.

"And you two attend out of the kindness of your hearts I'm sure." Finnick's tone implies he doesn't believe a word of it.

"I'm offended that you'd think otherwise. The bottomless drinks are only the cherry on top." Haymitch shows his yellowed teeth in a smile akin to a grimace.

"The champagne was nice," I contribute, feeling that my small voice does little to fill the conversation. The two older men erupt into fits of laughter.

"You let her first drink be champagne?" Haymitch aims the jab at Finnick. Finnick shrugs.

"You can blame the new gamemaker for that. He wanted to be responsible for all of her Capitol firsts ." The men quiet their laughter at this, settling into a string of insulting banter about the man.

"Here, this is a proper first drink." Haymitch finally addresses me once again, pouring a glass of clear liquid from a flask inside his suit jacket.

This time I do eye Finnick for permission, he gestures me onwards with a flick of the wrist. The exaggerated smirk tells me that I'll probably not like what I taste. Unwilling to appear weak in front of the men, I pull the glass to my lips. There's a few mouthfuls of liquid in there, so I'll have to drink fast. I take it in quickly, not stopping when it feels as if it burns a hole in the back of my throat. I try to remain composed but, as soon as I take a breath in, I'm left sputtering. I keel over, my lungs threatening to hack out of my body. Haymitch's broad hand thwaps against my back.

I feel a flicker of anger at the three men as they laugh at me. Finally one procures a glass of water, which I down in a few greedy gulps. I clear my throat once more and finally regain my self control.

"Home brew?" Finnick asks.

"From the market back home," Haymitch affirms, "I didn't think she'd drink the lot. I'd've never poured that much. Good luck getting her up the stairs." He claps Finnick on the shoulder as he rises. Chaff follows him and we're left alone once again.

"Let's get going before that hits you." Finnick says, pushing himself out of his chair. I rise sourly, not yet over his betrayal. We thank the important people on the way out.

"Shall we walk back?" I ask, hoping not to be stuffed into a car. My stomach feels thoroughly upset by the fiery moonshine and I worry that a ride in a vehicle would push me over the edge.

"Sure." He procures his elbow and I take it.

The urge to flee the site has once again filled me, so I set off at a brisk pace. Before long I feel much calmer. I unravel my hand from his arm and skip ahead to examine the pristinely decorated street lamp. I almost fall forward as I lean to see it. I have to steady myself with a hand against the cool metal. I take a large breath in and pull myself to a standing position.