once upon a time • finnick odair

xxiv. and your head on the ground

Haymitch stood in the shadows, feeling like a ghost, his thoughts swirling in a fog of guilt, regret, and fear. He couldn't escape the image of Lucian's eyes—the raw hatred burning in them. That was not the man he had once known, the man he had loved, the man he had married, and the man he had to let go of.

Lucian had been through so much, and now, after everything, Haymitch couldn't shake the feeling that he had destroyed him beyond recognition.

Haymitch knew that the Capitol had done something to Lucian if he was saying that Haymitch was a "dead man"—something that still shook Haymitch, but he couldn't—no, he didn't want to, deal with what that meant. He didn't want to know what the Capitol had done to Lucian, although he knew that he needed to know. He needed to know to at least have a chance at saving Lucian.

The faint sounds of celebration echoed from the square beyond, the distant hum of a crowd basking in their supposed victory. But Haymitch couldn't bring himself to join them. What were they celebrating? The hollow success that meant nothing? This so-called "rescue" that had been approved by the Capitol to do? The "rescue" where, logically, the soldiers should've all died but the Capitol let them go through? To Haymitch, it all felt hollow. The rebellion's triumph wasn't even a triumph, and it had come at a cost he couldn't ignore—a cost measured in lives destroyed and souls fractured beyond repair.

His hands trembled as he searched fo a flask from his coat pocket, but groaned as he realized he didn't have any. Haymitch wanted the familiar burn for ages, but right now, it was getting worse. Absurdly worse. Without the alcohol, the image of Lucian's face, twisted with rage and betrayal, and the sound of his voice, broken yet defiant, came flooding in, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget.

"How dare you try to make a fool out of me? Using a dead man's skin to get into my head?"

The words echoed in his mind, cutting deeper with each repetition. Haymitch had thought he was doing the right thing when he convinced Lucian to join the rebellion. He had believed in the cause, believed that together they could fight for liberation from the Capitol that had haunted them their entire lives. Haymitch knew Lucian was reluctant, hesitant to join, worried about what it would mean if they were to be exposed. But Haymitch had asked, and Lucian never denied him.

Like how Lucian didn't deny Haymitch of a divorce.

But now, in the cold aftermath of his choices, Haymitch wasn't so sure. Had he truly been fighting for freedom, or had he been using the rebellion as a means to assuage his own guilt?

Lucian had been his anchor once, a steady presence in a world that seemed intent on tearing them both apart. But Haymitch had dragged him through the mud, bringing his reputation down alongside Haymitch's, and now, he hadn't learned his lesson and years later, dragged Lucian into this nightmare, promising that it would be worth it, that their sacrifices would matter. And now, standing alone in the shadows, Haymitch couldn't escape the truth: he had lied. To Lucian, to himself, to everyone. He had asked Lucian to endure unspeakable pain, to fight battles that weren't his to fight. Lucian could've lived comfortably in his home back in District 2, living the life of a successful Career victor.

And for what? A broken promise of a better future?

A promise that Haymitch had already broken before?

Haymitch's hand trembled as he thought of the moment Lucian had lashed out, his voice filled with venom and despair. The fury in his words had been matched only by the anguish in his eyes. Haymitch had seen it before, in the eyes of the victors who lost everything, in the faces of those who had been used and discarded by the Capitol.

Haymitch knew the endings to those victors were always the same.

So seeing it in Lucian, the man he loved, was almost too much to bear, especially the hatred that was directed toward him.