Decoupage (part 1 of several) what've we got: pg-13, typical violence and death stuff, Haymitch & OCs, halfway through this remembered something old I'd written on this topic and worked part of it in there... ----
"You haven't exactly passed the torch until a new victor is crowned. They'll probably want you to greet the new victor," Beetee said.
"Brutus didn't meet me until the Tour," he countered.
"You know you're a special case, right, Haymitch?" Beetee's mentor alleged. The look Beetee gave him supported this. There was this twinkle in his eyes, but Haymitch wasn't up for any mischief. Look what good mischief had done him.
"…I'm going to get some lunch," he excused himself.
The male mentor from Nine (Hombre? Ombry? Something like that) had a photograph of his husband sitting on at his station. This husband was a man with a full beard wearing a colorful woven, uh, poncho or something.
Still, Haymitch had looked at that picture and felt a sad, sick tremor run through his body. He needed a drink. Was it what the man meant to his fellow victor or did those soulful brown eyes just scream of his girl? Whose ass had Ombry kissed to keep him?
There was no one who deserved his undivided attention left. Haymitch drank a lot that third day of the 51st Hunger Games.
Whenever he was left in peace he seemed to find a bottle. It was all a blur (well, he could've sorted it out if he'd wanted, but it was bad so he decided he'd rather leave it that way) until he was at a party offering the newest victor his hand. He didn't tell her "Congratulations." He gave her, instead, his best advice based o his single year as a victor: "Make sure you make your life one worth living."
She was one year younger than him. "Thank you, Haymitch," she said, her voice much smaller than it had seemed on television.
Around them, a dozen cameras flashed at once. Haymitch saw her mentor standing beside President Snow. He was taller than the president and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The president smiled.
Song Wen stepped off the train, breaking through a late-lasting fog. A possible benefit to beginning the Victory Tour in District Twelve was that it was unlikely to prove overwhelming. Though, after going through the Games and the Capitol, it was hard to imagine many places could have that effect. While the flurry of excitement that surrounded her broke up the still, cold air, cameramen and such moving this way and that, Song giving that same stiff wave of her hand with her arm kept in close, her mentor, Odysseus, sending his black olive eyes skimming across the terrain in search of some nonexistent threat, and all the other fuss and trappings that accompanied a Victory Tour, a different sort of mist condensed around the newest victor in Haymitch's mind.
"Song!" her district partner had called, holding up the first two weapons he got his hands on: a flail in his right hand; a machete in his left.
"Left!" she caught up to him and took the blade. "Thank you, Abel," she smiled with her eyes, but not her mouth.
They were agile and brutal and volunteers in direct succession with the four that had come before them. They knew those kids in his Games. The mouthy one, Tito Garland, had told him so in training: "There's practically never a volunteer from outside the club. We'd all be really shocked and stuff." He had hung out with the boy that Brutus had killed. He had dated the sister of the girl that Brutus hadn't had to.
The three that had been killed by the volcano (Tito and the girls)- didn't that scare them off? or was it more heartening than if they had been bested by stronger tributes?- and the one that Maysilee had got.
Pepper had been Song's second kill. Her first with what would be her emblematic weapon.
Her mentor had favored blades too, Haymitch learned later. He'd gotten his hands on a cleaner cutting one than that machete though. He had a collection of wooden replica swords at home (when he was mad he used them to break the pottery that was his talent, Mags said).
Pepper hadn't lasted five minutes. She had been fourteen. That manicured hand Song waved now had grabbed Pepper by her long but scraggly braid.
There was little comfort in knowing the odds were stacked even more than usual that year- only Careers managed back-to-backs (and not all of them, because Four hadn't done it).
He had sat at the end of the row, between Chaff and an empty chair. Eve must've sat in that same chair a long time ago. At least he thought so. When Haymitch tried to picture her, he didn't see her as standoffish enough to want to keep a spot between her and whoever'd been sitting there in those days before Chaff and Seeder. Then again, maybe she had become stuck up before the end. She'd married her stylist. He wasn't sure he could ever understand that.
Though they saw he was there, Song and Odysseus walked right by. They were practically eager to stick to the script. Haymitch hated them a little for it, but it wasn't as if he wanted to see Song repeat his mistakes and martyr her family of father and three older brothers.
She was a Career. She was smart enough. While after his stunt with the forcefield on some level Haymitch realized the 51st was bound to crown a Career, but it hadn't had to be her.
While in the Capitol on some unwanted business in the later part of the summer, he had seen there was a pin-up calendar all of pictures of her. Posing in the surf in Four- a bikini and a machete. Your dream Career girlfriend.
Tag hadn't survived the first day either. It hadn't been the Careers who got him though. Five's boy did him in, but made so much noise in doing it he'd called Career Pack wrath down on him in return.
It was a pretty scary Career Pack. Definitely a revenge and/or reclamation of honor agenda there. It was his fault. It felt like everything was his fault.
He had met Hamlet Seff then. From Five. "There's always a part that's last year's victor's fault," Hamlet had sort of comforted him without saying any of it in a very comforting, or even coherent really, way. He was about thirty and, sure, Haymitch had taken to drinking a bit since the not-an-accident accident, but he definitely planned on never smelling as constantly boozy as that. There were some snacks and things on a table in the back for convenience, though you could put in an order for an Avox to bring you up anything you liked. Hamlet mixed him a drink of his own creation he called a "Solar Panel Twist."
"Careers make sure you're really dead if you fall to the ground because of Sunny," the sullen-looking, Morphling-eyed Simeon volunteered. Both of Six's tributes were already out. This was typical for Six. They'd had one victor more than Twelve (dead: overdosed), but their tributes had an abysmal time in the bloodbath.
"…That didn't happen the year after," Sunny fretted, wanting the record to be straight even while tears were still running down her face for Six's lost tributes. She gripped her white skirt with gnarled brown hands. "There weren't Careers until the teens."
No Careers were dead yet or their mentors-the veteran Careers would've surely chimed in with some Games history of their own. No district citizen liked Games history like a Career (the Twos were amazing at rattling off statistics; Haymitch doubted he was the only one who found it disturbing).
"We got a party started here?" Chaff sidled up. So far he was the victor Haymitch liked the best. "You mixing for everyone, Ham?"
"I'm happy to," he beamed.
With what would be the last cannon of the night, Jeymes Grim threw down his headset and joined them, "Better be happy to, Hamlet," he gritted his teeth, "It's the only damn thing you're good at."
Part of Haymitch arose in anger, wanting to rebuke him- why kick a sorry drunk when he was down?- but the side that won out was the one that said he just couldn't be bothered. He didn't know Hamlet. He didn't know Jeymes. They were all losers this Games and would probably be losers in the next Games too. Life sucked for all them. Sunny said something instead, weak and wobbling and hardly meaningful to Jeymes, but he didn't respect anyone in the room anyway.
Haymitch awoke hungover to the demands of a different schedule.
He wondered what Song thought of his district. Did she think of the girl she killed when she saw so many similar, dark, thin faces?
Did she see Pepper when she looked at his face- or perhaps she had seen his when she murdered Pepper?
Her smile would've been as unconvincing as her wave if Haymitch hadn't pegged them as sincere. She wasn't a good actor, but her mentor wasn't making her act much. He could probably trace some of that back to himself too. He had come off too smug. Song Wen wasn't taking any of this for granted (not that he done that, but- well, she knew about what had happened or him or maybe they told Careers better from the start).
Haymitch took the seat they'd set aside from him and Song took the stage. From these discrepancies in height he was granted a good look at her rather strange heels. There was some kind of pattern on their sides, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Fashion was beyond him anyway.
She read her speech. She didn't sound sorry, but she wasn't rubbing their noses in it or anything. Haymitch wondered how she could possibly be comfortable in those enormously tall shoes. They probably rose her up to about his height.
She received the polite applause that was her due. 'We're miserable, this makes us more miserable and you know it, but your job is to say those things and our job is to applaud for the television audience.' It was that kind of thing. Everybody played the game.
Or maybe Song Wen didn't play games as much as most of them. She played a very straightforward Games after all- that boy from Nine who helped her against those other Careers had only exchanged a few sentences with her the best that Haymitch could tell (maybe they spoke in training?)-- any enchantment related to her, the Nine boy cast on himself.
Haymitch found himself suddenly wondering if Song and Brutus would like one another. He might have been an amusing diversion to the viewers in the Capitol, but now that he was bracketed on both sides by Careers it was all too clear to him what kind of victors President Snow preferred.
Maybe her mentor, Odysseus, was the one who bothered him more. It wasn't like Haymitch hadn't worked his ass off for Pepper and Tag. And with time to come back and observe the other mentors at work on and off after the loss of his tributes he was in a good position to see that Odysseus barely seemed to have worked up a sweat. He coordinated with Mags and called sponsors and sort of half-smiled at Song's various doings onscreen. Song wasn't the kind of tribute who needed too much done for her, especially considering the allies she started out with. Or maybe all the things she most needed Odysseus had provided for her before she ever even volunteered. Haymitch still wasn't sure what sort of relationships the Career tributes had with their mentors or if it were different from district to district.
Whatever it was, when Song had volunteered, the way she had looked at Four's victors showed they weren't complete strangers to her. There were four of them (there'd been a fifth who died) and for whatever reason, Odysseus had chosen to mentor her. It wasn't just whatever kids that got picked and whatever mentors existed. She'd stepped up and he'd aligned with her. They made some sort of team.
As badly as Haymitch had wanted it, what he'd had with Tag and Pepper was, at best, a pale shadow of that dynamic. They weren't Careers, he wasn't a Career, they had to play a different game. The difficulty curve was sharpening for them, but it wasn't like there hadn't technically been more non-Career victors. So he would have to play to his strengths. To his tributes' strengths. But even if he were handed a tribute who thought like him, could he really encourage them to win like he had?
Song was ushered to sit down beside him.
Her platform heels, he could now see, were plastered over with tiny pictures of machetes, each shined up by hand with a touch of silver paint. How macabre. How strange. "I like your weird shoes," were his first words to Song since the Victory Banquet. "Did you get those in the Capitol?"
"No. Well, not as they are. I bought them plain and decorated them myself."
That was different.
"My stylist," Song continued, "Sitka, said I had to wear different shoes to each event because I have different outfits for each of them so if I was going to do this, I'd need to work up thirteen separate pairs. I don't think she expected me to go through with it."
But Sitka was wrong. She should've known Song would be stubborn. "She doesn't understand victors very well, does she?" Haymitch smirked.
"I'm the first one she's styled. She started with Four right off the bat last year. Some kind of nepotism thing."
"You'll school her quick."
"I'm trying."
The mayor interrupted them for some required inanity.
"How did you do it then?" Haymitch resumed their previous conversation when given a chance, "Decorate your shoes like that, I mean?"
"It's called decoupage. It's my talent."
"I wouldn't have pegged you for the artsy type."
Song shrugged. The loop of her silver scarf loosened and slipped down her shoulder. "Not really, but I don't have any interesting skills. It's just my hobby."
"Doesn't your mentor-"
"I make ceramics," Odysseus spoke for himself.
"Is he good at it?" Haymitch ignored him in favor of Song.
"He brings the mistakes to training and lets us break them, but he keeps all the good stuff locked up in his house, so it's hard to say." She looked from Haymitch to Odysseus and back again, as she tried to gauge their reactions.
"Artists should be allowed their eccentricities," Odysseus accepted their comments with a calm dignity.
She didn't like the cold, but she kept on appearing onscreen in fancy shoes instead of boots. At least they were tall enough to keep her toes raised up from the dusting of snow in Seven and several of the other districts.
The escort's transparent heeled boots had sparkled with glitter trapped within plastic when she had pulled the names. Pepper Lee and Tag Ashmurton. There had been nothing Haymitch could do but watch. It was the same now, but there wasn't that need to act at least.
There were pomegranates in Eleven, snowflakes in Ten, umbrellas, gingko leaves, fishing lures, and so on. Thirteen different pairs, from Twelve to the Capitol. Her hands, which had served out vicious violence in public now worked neat design in private, her machete exchanged for a tiny pair of scissors. Both were insanity of a sort. He drank a bit more than usual when she showed up in the Capitol and on her stilettos were his year's deadly butterflies.
He wouldn't wear shoes like that, all cut and pasted and painted with paper, but maybe she would make him up a flask.
--- (complete, ah, should've posted somewhere else probably but wanted to get this up fast instead of muddling through that 'to AO3 or not to AO3' decision)
Oh, this is lovely! Nice way to incorporate your backstory and wider headcanon here, and exploring Haymitch's mindset as he's basically taking the first steps into perpetual hell. (Oh, Haymitch....)
Thank you!! Yeah, it was a nice blend of 'write more Haymitch!' and 'write more of my headcanon!'
I'd actually had the part about Song's decoupage shoes from back in April and nearly forgotten about it until I started writing this and had deja vu- 'didn't I write Song and Haymitch talking before around this time in their respective histories?' ...can I dig it up and use it? (I've been giving Song a hard time about that talent since the moment I learned about it...)
I wanted to write something that fit with my other writing, but as far as Haymitch would pretty ambiguous to be able to match up your headcanon re: his girl, his prostitution, his public talent, etc. (And since I've leaned heavily to my D4 stuff that wasn't too hard, heh). I feel like this is part of the beginning of 'Haymitch knows everybody!' (one of many reasons he'll be important to the rebellion) along with being sad and drinking and other more negative things. (He'll meet Shad the next year while Odysseus rests on his laurels)
what've we got: pg-13, typical violence and death stuff, Haymitch & OCs, halfway through this remembered something old I'd written on this topic and worked part of it in there...
----
"You haven't exactly passed the torch until a new victor is crowned. They'll probably want you to greet the new victor," Beetee said.
"Brutus didn't meet me until the Tour," he countered.
"You know you're a special case, right, Haymitch?" Beetee's mentor alleged. The look Beetee gave him supported this. There was this twinkle in his eyes, but Haymitch wasn't up for any mischief. Look what good mischief had done him.
"…I'm going to get some lunch," he excused himself.
The male mentor from Nine (Hombre? Ombry? Something like that) had a photograph of his husband sitting on at his station. This husband was a man with a full beard wearing a colorful woven, uh, poncho or something.
Still, Haymitch had looked at that picture and felt a sad, sick tremor run through his body. He needed a drink. Was it what the man meant to his fellow victor or did those soulful brown eyes just scream of his girl? Whose ass had Ombry kissed to keep him?
There was no one who deserved his undivided attention left. Haymitch drank a lot that third day of the 51st Hunger Games.
Whenever he was left in peace he seemed to find a bottle. It was all a blur (well, he could've sorted it out if he'd wanted, but it was bad so he decided he'd rather leave it that way) until he was at a party offering the newest victor his hand. He didn't tell her "Congratulations." He gave her, instead, his best advice based o his single year as a victor: "Make sure you make your life one worth living."
She was one year younger than him. "Thank you, Haymitch," she said, her voice much smaller than it had seemed on television.
Around them, a dozen cameras flashed at once. Haymitch saw her mentor standing beside President Snow. He was taller than the president and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The president smiled.
Song Wen stepped off the train, breaking through a late-lasting fog. A possible benefit to beginning the Victory Tour in District Twelve was that it was unlikely to prove overwhelming. Though, after going through the Games and the Capitol, it was hard to imagine many places could have that effect. While the flurry of excitement that surrounded her broke up the still, cold air, cameramen and such moving this way and that, Song giving that same stiff wave of her hand with her arm kept in close, her mentor, Odysseus, sending his black olive eyes skimming across the terrain in search of some nonexistent threat, and all the other fuss and trappings that accompanied a Victory Tour, a different sort of mist condensed around the newest victor in Haymitch's mind.
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"Left!" she caught up to him and took the blade. "Thank you, Abel," she smiled with her eyes, but not her mouth.
They were agile and brutal and volunteers in direct succession with the four that had come before them. They knew those kids in his Games. The mouthy one, Tito Garland, had told him so in training: "There's practically never a volunteer from outside the club. We'd all be really shocked and stuff." He had hung out with the boy that Brutus had killed. He had dated the sister of the girl that Brutus hadn't had to.
The three that had been killed by the volcano (Tito and the girls)- didn't that scare them off? or was it more heartening than if they had been bested by stronger tributes?- and the one that Maysilee had got.
Pepper had been Song's second kill. Her first with what would be her emblematic weapon.
Her mentor had favored blades too, Haymitch learned later. He'd gotten his hands on a cleaner cutting one than that machete though. He had a collection of wooden replica swords at home (when he was mad he used them to break the pottery that was his talent, Mags said).
Pepper hadn't lasted five minutes. She had been fourteen. That manicured hand Song waved now had grabbed Pepper by her long but scraggly braid.
There was little comfort in knowing the odds were stacked even more than usual that year- only Careers managed back-to-backs (and not all of them, because Four hadn't done it).
He had sat at the end of the row, between Chaff and an empty chair. Eve must've sat in that same chair a long time ago. At least he thought so. When Haymitch tried to picture her, he didn't see her as standoffish enough to want to keep a spot between her and whoever'd been sitting there in those days before Chaff and Seeder. Then again, maybe she had become stuck up before the end. She'd married her stylist. He wasn't sure he could ever understand that.
Though they saw he was there, Song and Odysseus walked right by. They were practically eager to stick to the script. Haymitch hated them a little for it, but it wasn't as if he wanted to see Song repeat his mistakes and martyr her family of father and three older brothers.
She was a Career. She was smart enough. While after his stunt with the forcefield on some level Haymitch realized the 51st was bound to crown a Career, but it hadn't had to be her.
While in the Capitol on some unwanted business in the later part of the summer, he had seen there was a pin-up calendar all of pictures of her. Posing in the surf in Four- a bikini and a machete. Your dream Career girlfriend.
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It was a pretty scary Career Pack. Definitely a revenge and/or reclamation of honor agenda there. It was his fault. It felt like everything was his fault.
He had met Hamlet Seff then. From Five. "There's always a part that's last year's victor's fault," Hamlet had sort of comforted him without saying any of it in a very comforting, or even coherent really, way. He was about thirty and, sure, Haymitch had taken to drinking a bit since the not-an-accident accident, but he definitely planned on never smelling as constantly boozy as that. There were some snacks and things on a table in the back for convenience, though you could put in an order for an Avox to bring you up anything you liked. Hamlet mixed him a drink of his own creation he called a "Solar Panel Twist."
"Careers make sure you're really dead if you fall to the ground because of Sunny," the sullen-looking, Morphling-eyed Simeon volunteered. Both of Six's tributes were already out. This was typical for Six. They'd had one victor more than Twelve (dead: overdosed), but their tributes had an abysmal time in the bloodbath.
"…That didn't happen the year after," Sunny fretted, wanting the record to be straight even while tears were still running down her face for Six's lost tributes. She gripped her white skirt with gnarled brown hands. "There weren't Careers until the teens."
No Careers were dead yet or their mentors-the veteran Careers would've surely chimed in with some Games history of their own. No district citizen liked Games history like a Career (the Twos were amazing at rattling off statistics; Haymitch doubted he was the only one who found it disturbing).
"We got a party started here?" Chaff sidled up. So far he was the victor Haymitch liked the best. "You mixing for everyone, Ham?"
"I'm happy to," he beamed.
With what would be the last cannon of the night, Jeymes Grim threw down his headset and joined them, "Better be happy to, Hamlet," he gritted his teeth, "It's the only damn thing you're good at."
Part of Haymitch arose in anger, wanting to rebuke him- why kick a sorry drunk when he was down?- but the side that won out was the one that said he just couldn't be bothered. He didn't know Hamlet. He didn't know Jeymes. They were all losers this Games and would probably be losers in the next Games too. Life sucked for all them. Sunny said something instead, weak and wobbling and hardly meaningful to Jeymes, but he didn't respect anyone in the room anyway.
Haymitch awoke hungover to the demands of a different schedule.
He wondered what Song thought of his district. Did she think of the girl she killed when she saw so many similar, dark, thin faces?
Did she see Pepper when she looked at his face- or perhaps she had seen his when she murdered Pepper?
Her smile would've been as unconvincing as her wave if Haymitch hadn't pegged them as sincere. She wasn't a good actor, but her mentor wasn't making her act much. He could probably trace some of that back to himself too. He had come off too smug. Song Wen wasn't taking any of this for granted (not that he done that, but- well, she knew about what had happened or him or maybe they told Careers better from the start).
Haymitch took the seat they'd set aside from him and Song took the stage. From these discrepancies in height he was granted a good look at her rather strange heels. There was some kind of pattern on their sides, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. Fashion was beyond him anyway.
She read her speech. She didn't sound sorry, but she wasn't rubbing their noses in it or anything. Haymitch wondered how she could possibly be comfortable in those enormously tall shoes. They probably rose her up to about his height.
She received the polite applause that was her due. 'We're miserable, this makes us more miserable and you know it, but your job is to say those things and our job is to applaud for the television audience.' It was that kind of thing. Everybody played the game.
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Haymitch found himself suddenly wondering if Song and Brutus would like one another. He might have been an amusing diversion to the viewers in the Capitol, but now that he was bracketed on both sides by Careers it was all too clear to him what kind of victors President Snow preferred.
Maybe her mentor, Odysseus, was the one who bothered him more. It wasn't like Haymitch hadn't worked his ass off for Pepper and Tag. And with time to come back and observe the other mentors at work on and off after the loss of his tributes he was in a good position to see that Odysseus barely seemed to have worked up a sweat. He coordinated with Mags and called sponsors and sort of half-smiled at Song's various doings onscreen. Song wasn't the kind of tribute who needed too much done for her, especially considering the allies she started out with. Or maybe all the things she most needed Odysseus had provided for her before she ever even volunteered. Haymitch still wasn't sure what sort of relationships the Career tributes had with their mentors or if it were different from district to district.
Whatever it was, when Song had volunteered, the way she had looked at Four's victors showed they weren't complete strangers to her. There were four of them (there'd been a fifth who died) and for whatever reason, Odysseus had chosen to mentor her. It wasn't just whatever kids that got picked and whatever mentors existed. She'd stepped up and he'd aligned with her. They made some sort of team.
As badly as Haymitch had wanted it, what he'd had with Tag and Pepper was, at best, a pale shadow of that dynamic. They weren't Careers, he wasn't a Career, they had to play a different game. The difficulty curve was sharpening for them, but it wasn't like there hadn't technically been more non-Career victors. So he would have to play to his strengths. To his tributes' strengths. But even if he were handed a tribute who thought like him, could he really encourage them to win like he had?
Song was ushered to sit down beside him.
Her platform heels, he could now see, were plastered over with tiny pictures of machetes, each shined up by hand with a touch of silver paint. How macabre. How strange. "I like your weird shoes," were his first words to Song since the Victory Banquet. "Did you get those in the Capitol?"
"No. Well, not as they are. I bought them plain and decorated them myself."
That was different.
"My stylist," Song continued, "Sitka, said I had to wear different shoes to each event because I have different outfits for each of them so if I was going to do this, I'd need to work up thirteen separate pairs. I don't think she expected me to go through with it."
But Sitka was wrong. She should've known Song would be stubborn. "She doesn't understand victors very well, does she?" Haymitch smirked.
"I'm the first one she's styled. She started with Four right off the bat last year. Some kind of nepotism thing."
"You'll school her quick."
"I'm trying."
The mayor interrupted them for some required inanity.
"How did you do it then?" Haymitch resumed their previous conversation when given a chance, "Decorate your shoes like that, I mean?"
"It's called decoupage. It's my talent."
"I wouldn't have pegged you for the artsy type."
Song shrugged. The loop of her silver scarf loosened and slipped down her shoulder. "Not really, but I don't have any interesting skills. It's just my hobby."
"Doesn't your mentor-"
"I make ceramics," Odysseus spoke for himself.
"Is he good at it?" Haymitch ignored him in favor of Song.
"He brings the mistakes to training and lets us break them, but he keeps all the good stuff locked up in his house, so it's hard to say." She looked from Haymitch to Odysseus and back again, as she tried to gauge their reactions.
"Artists should be allowed their eccentricities," Odysseus accepted their comments with a calm dignity.
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The escort's transparent heeled boots had sparkled with glitter trapped within plastic when she had pulled the names. Pepper Lee and Tag Ashmurton. There had been nothing Haymitch could do but watch. It was the same now, but there wasn't that need to act at least.
There were pomegranates in Eleven, snowflakes in Ten, umbrellas, gingko leaves, fishing lures, and so on. Thirteen different pairs, from Twelve to the Capitol. Her hands, which had served out vicious violence in public now worked neat design in private, her machete exchanged for a tiny pair of scissors. Both were insanity of a sort.
He drank a bit more than usual when she showed up in the Capitol and on her stilettos were his year's deadly butterflies.
He wouldn't wear shoes like that, all cut and pasted and painted with paper, but maybe she would make him up a flask.
---
(complete, ah, should've posted somewhere else probably but wanted to get this up fast instead of muddling through that 'to AO3 or not to AO3' decision)
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I'd actually had the part about Song's decoupage shoes from back in April and nearly forgotten about it until I started writing this and had deja vu- 'didn't I write Song and Haymitch talking before around this time in their respective histories?' ...can I dig it up and use it? (I've been giving Song a hard time about that talent since the moment I learned about it...)
I wanted to write something that fit with my other writing, but as far as Haymitch would pretty ambiguous to be able to match up your headcanon re: his girl, his prostitution, his public talent, etc. (And since I've leaned heavily to my D4 stuff that wasn't too hard, heh). I feel like this is part of the beginning of 'Haymitch knows everybody!' (one of many reasons he'll be important to the rebellion) along with being sad and drinking and other more negative things. (He'll meet Shad the next year while Odysseus rests on his laurels)
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