Planting Seeds in Vanquished Soil (9/11) (Haymitch/Beetee - R)
Title: Planting Seeds in Vanquished Soil
Author: millari
Characters: Haymitch Abernathy, Mags, Beetee, Chaff, President Snow, Haymitch's Dad, Haymitch's Girl, OCs
Pairing: Haymitch/Beetee
Rating: R
Beta: The incomparable trovia
Warnings: Implied references to forced prostitution, canonical character deaths
Summary: On his victory tour, Haymitch soon finds out that the real Games have only just begun, and survival means learning to spin out a web of lies, compromises and self-destruction. The Games' oldest living victor and arguably its most intelligent one show him that even in the tainted life of a Victor, there are still ways to prevail.
A/N: This is a finished multi-chaptered work.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
CHAPTER 9
At the victory banquet, they seat Haymitch at a table placed at the head of the reception room. He sits there like President Snow himself, with everyone coming to him to offer congratulations, to present tokens from the district, to request autographs, which he still finds incredibly weird - that anyone would suddenly value his signature.
Everyone important in the district is there, with one glaring exception that no one is talking about - District Three’s most recent victor.
“What?” he groans, as Lucilla turns in her seat and calls his name out of the blue, after a couple hours of pretty much ignoring him in favor of catching up on District Three gossip or something. Haymitch hadn't bothered to pay attention, still thinking about his conversation earlier with Beetee and the way that he stared at Haymitch during the interview.
“Nevil Laurenti is waving at you, go talk to him,” she orders, her bright pink fingernail pointing in a southeasterly direction after making a slight adjustment to her wig, which is dyed in exactly the same shade as her nails. It’s all the color of this emetic Haymitch once saw people drinking in the men’s room at a sponsor’s party that Lucilla made him attend. It had made them all throw up in less than thirty seconds.
“I already talked to him for two hours on camera, tonight,” he complains, still burning over Laurenti’s crack about District Twelve and Swagger. “What else could we possibly have to say to each other?”
She sighs heavily. “He's been the District Three interview host for years, and the victors here have him solidly in their corner, so for him to make overtures to you while in their district is a huge compliment. If you don't go over there now after he's called you publicly like that, you'll make an enemy out of him.”
He must look as unconvinced as he feels, because she feels compelled to add, “And unlike Caia Moulton, he actually listened to me when I mandated that he not ask you about your girlfriend, so you at least owe him thanks for that. Plus, he likes you,” she concludes. “You'll need him next year when you're a mentor and you're networking for sponsors. He knows a lot of people in the Capitol you could afford to be introduced to.”
His lips press together in a taut, thin line of acquiescence, cursing Lucilla for having reminded him of mentoring, the last thing he wants to be thinking about. But he drags himself out of the mammoth chair that was starting to make his legs go numb anyway and tries to reconfigure his face into something presentable before turning to his escort. “Do I look happy?” he asks her genuinely, although there's still enough buried anger in his voice that Lucilla's expression screws up with displeasure.
“Just try not to insult him,” she sighs, like she's given up on him. He keeps the smile plastered on his face anyway as he sits down next to Laurenti, because he's got nothing better.
“Mister Laurenti,” he tries to say with a hint of that lilt in his voice all Capitol residents seem to have in spades. He feels like an incompetent whore.
“Please,” the man replies, making it look easy. “Do call me Nevil. All my friends do.”
Haymitch just stops himself from raising a dubious eyebrow in front of the man.
“Friends?” he manages weakly, hating himself already. “So I can call on you during next year's Games as a sponsor?”
“Oh, you can call, my dear Haymitch,” he replies jovially. “But let's not get the horse out of the paddock before the race has started, all right?”
Shit. Now he thinks I’m desperate. Which, of course, he is.
“I can call you Haymitch, right?” It’s clear from Laurenti’s inflection that there was never any doubt in his mind that he could.
“Of course you can.” He then adds self-consciously, “Nevil.”
This fake familiarity seems like a small concession to make, if this man is the key to getting District Twelve some sponsorship money. He wishes for the millionth time that Swagger were around to help him figure out this mentoring thing. What is he going to do next year when he’s competing for sponsors against all those other mentors who know what they’re doing?
“Well, Haymitch,” Laurenti concludes with a meaningful smile, “I'd certainly be interested in discussing our options when you're in the Capitol next year. Perhaps over drinks?”
This is going far better than expected. He hasn't really done anything, hasn't even been paying full attention. He suppresses the urge to shrug awkwardly. “Uh, sure,” he says, kicking himself for sounding like the backwater kid from District 12 he is. But he’s determined to start next year with at least one useful notch on his mentor belt. “Of course, Nevil,” he revises, the man's odd name rolling off his tongue a little easier. “I'd like that.”
“Excellent,” Laurenti smiles. “I'll just arrange it all through Victor Affairs once you get into the Capitol. I look forward to it. I think with a little work, the two of us could become friends, couldn’t we?”
Haymitch nods uncertainly, knowing he should probably make more small talk, but he's shit at such things, and has no idea what to say next. Laurenti is at ease enough for both of them however, and starts talking again about something that Haymitch can’t help but tune out.
Friends. He’s never really had a friend, other than Jackson, who was his brother so that didn't count, and then well, Alsey, who was a lot like a friend, because she knew everything about him. But Haymitch kissed her sometimes, and that made it different. He remembers when his mom found out and started referring happily to Alsey as “your girl.”
He sometimes has wished for a male friend like Alsey, someone who knew everything about him like that. A guy to spend a lot of time with, like old Mal and Declan back home do.
Mal and Declan grew up together - best friends, their families neighbors on the edge of the Seam. You almost never saw those two apart, ever. They'd even moved in together when they'd hit their fifties, having outlived both their families and their capacity to work in the mines anymore. People always used to joke that any woman who married Mal or Declan would have to get married to both of them, for no woman would ever get between that friendship anyway.
They showed up regularly in the Hob, shopping together, finishing each other's sentences as they’d bicker over buying food and supplies. As a boy, he'd sometimes wonder what it was like to be that connected to another male like that.
But now, thoughts of Beetee fresh in his mind, the realization suddenly hits him: Mal and Declan aren't friends. Well, they're friends, definitely, but they're also a damn couple. Like Flax and Melio in District Eleven. It's perfectly obvious, now that he thinks about it. In fact, it's undeniable if you just look. But he's never allowed himself to.
He can’t want that, can he? Is that why he feels his nerves jangling every time Beetee looks at him? The question occurs to him with amazement and maybe a tinge of fear?
What does it mean about Alsey?
He has to work to stop himself from jumping a mile straight up when Laurenti breaks his thoughts, with an unexpected hand grabbing his. Haymitch doesn't want to touch this peacock, but he can tell that he has to, or else risk insulting him. He unconsciously bites his lip as he lets the man invade his space.
“You know,” he can’t help saying, hoping it’ll make Laurenti laugh instead of angry, “we victors didn’t win by letting someone take us unawares.” He shrugs at Laurenti’s warm, moist hand meaningfully, but he doesn’t shake it off like he really wants to.
“Point taken!” he says with indulgent delight, like Haymitch is a housecat that’s just shown its claws. “Don’t worry,” he adds, his tone still rife with amusement, as his hands stay right where they are. “I plan for you to be quite aware the next time I do that.”
In fact, Laurenti’s fingers move suggestively around Haymitch’s hand, and Haymitch feels a shot of alarm go through him, but then he realizes that Laurenti is not feeling him up, but pressing something very discreetly into his palm.
“A gift for you,” he whispers, his face altogether too close to Haymitch’s. “From someone who couldn’t be here. I should be jealous, but I suppose you're allowed a couple of flings before your schedule gets entirely filled up.”
His voice is still so conspiratorially low, Haymitch doubts for a second that any of this moment was even real. But then, as if to prove to him that it was, Laurenti squeezes Haymitch's hand closed into a fist around the note, leans back in his chair. He flicks his eyes suggestively towards the room's entrance. “A little naughtiness every now and then is needed in these times,” he concludes.
Haymitch blinks at him, eyes narrowed with bewilderment.
“Top secret,, Laurenti mouths at him, followed by a wink, then a magnanimous wave. “Go have fun, now. I'll see you in six months.”
So Haymitch stumbles away, his fist still closed tight on the paper, dying of curiosity as he heads back towards his table, where Lucilla is in some animated conversation with Lenta. He wants no part of it. Searching the room for ideas, he eventually turns on his heel and walks up to the buffet table and pretends to have trouble choosing which dish to sample next as he discreetly opens the small note in his palm.
To follow the trail, start by looking outside the arena.
That's all it says. His gaze searches the room for the man he knows must not be here anymore, but has escaped to the bugs-free place he'd referred to earlier this afternoon.
Follow the trail. What trail? How is he supposed to find it? And trail to what?
He thinks for a moment about Beetee's use of the word “arena”. Obviously there's no arena here, so what would he mean by that? He shuffles back towards his table to Lucilla and plops down in his seat with a distracted air.
“Well?” Lucilla interrogates him. “What did he say?”
“Who?” Haymitch asks, fingering the note hidden in his palm.
“Laurenti, of course!” Lucilla exclaims, her voice quickly ratcheting down to an exasperated hiss. “What did he want?”
“Oh, um, I don't know exactly. He invited me to have drinks with him next year during the Games.”
Lucilla doesn't quite manage to suppress an excited gasp. “Haymitch, that's wonderful!”
“Yeah?” He keeps the conversation going, but he's searching the room, trying to understand what Beetee meant.
“Of course!” she retorts, with a tone that suggests either she's insulted or he's inconceivably clueless.
“Don't you see? He's making a very overt show of favor, and he's basically promising to promote you next year during the Games. Why else would he want to talk to you then?”
Haymitch finally turns his head to her again. “Maybe. I dunno. He just invited me for drinks. I mean, we didn't even make a plan. He just said he'd call some people, some office, I think, to set it up. I wouldn't get your hopes up; he might not have really meant it.” He might be drunk right now.
“Victor Affairs,” she supplies the name in a clipped tone. “You need to know these things, Haymitch, if you're going to succeed next year.”
She gazes at him thoughtfully. “You know, we have two more districts to visit. I think we should probably start to have some tutoring sessions on the train rides. You don't have a mentor living with you in Twelve, which means once I'm gone, you'll have no one to prepare you for next year when you start guiding tributes. I don’t know everything about it, but I can give you some guidance on the basics …”
Haymitch shuts his brain off as she starts to lecture him about his new “learning curve” -whatever that means. He just doesn't want to even think about mentoring. And he really doesn't need Lucilla harping on the topic right now, not after yet another day of being surrounded by people who have to hear just the right thing all the time and whom he can't ever get mad at. And they all want something from him. It's all a little like being in the arena, where people pretend to be your allies and then without warning, can suddenly become …
The arena.
Of course. That's what the note meant. This is the arena. Get out of the arena. The excitement sets his heart pounding. And then, more abruptly than he meant to, Haymitch bolts up out of his chair.
“Where are you going?” Lucilla protests. “I'm talking to you!”
“I suddenly don't feel well.” His voice is quick, and distracted and probably not all that convincing. But he is moving too fast out of the room for her to make an effective countermove. “I'm going to find a place in here to get some air.” He turns away so she can't engage him. “I'll see you back in the room, all right?”
Before Lucilla can do anything substantial, he's already outside the banquet room and back in the entrance hall, looking around everywhere for the sign he knows must be there somewhere, telling him where to go. It takes him a few moments to notice the out-of-place Peacekeeper on the wide marble staircase, a few steps up, rubbing at something on the white walls with a rag and a bucket. He walks over to examine what she's doing. He sees from her profile how the woman's face is carved with supreme annoyance.
“What's going on?” he inquires.
The Peacekeeper whirls around, startled. She can't be more than a year or two older than Haymitch.
“Nothing, sir,” she says grimly, seeming to have fallen back on the rule that refusing to explain anything much is always the best policy. “It's nothing a little soap and water can't take away.”
“Who drew that?” The Peacekeeper is making slow progress at what looks like a chalk drawing of a huge arrow that points right and curves upward, as if to point the way up those marble stairs.
“Heck if I know,” the guard shrugs, eyes settling back onto her task. “But whoever did it, they didn't use chalk, I'll tell you that much.” She examines the gray, swirling mess she's made with the water staining the walls. “It's like they used charcoal or something.”
At that, a smile overtakes Haymitch's entire face. He says nothing further, but begins running up the stairs, eyes peeled for the next sign on the trail, jittery with both excitement and uncertainty He doesn't know what the fuck he is doing.
He makes it up to the landing on the top floor of the building before he spots another one, this time, an absurd stick figure with slits for eyes that make it look sleepy, smoking a very thick cigarette, or possibly a cigar. Haymitch gazes at it puzzled for a moment, until it occurs to him that what he took at first to be a rendering of sparking ashes from the thing in its mouth actually is a series of small arrow heads, all pointing in the same direction, to the left. He follows it, hoping he's understood correctly.
The signs come again, much more quickly now. This time, it's a nonsensical bunch of letters and numbers, painted on a door in the same black dust. He stares at the mumbo-jumbo for a second, confused, but opens the door anyway and he sees an exit to a set of ugly, white concrete stairs that lead further upward. Huh. He thought he was already as high up as this building goes.
It's only as he's climbing the stairs that he finally remembers where he's seen that jumble of letters and numbers before, and he shakes his head, chuckling. He had to memorize that string of letters and numbers in school when he was ten. In a rare streak of almost fun, his teacher, Miss Hawthorne, had made them learn a song to help them commit it to memory:
It's the chemical formula for coal.
The rest of the signs are even funnier. The first, on a door out the stairwell that leads Haymitch back again into the heart of the building and into a much smaller hallway that only takes up half the floor space, is the most intricate drawing yet, of a stick figure wearing something on its head and standing inside some rectangular thing with crudely-drawn wheels. He laughs out loud this time: he's looking at Beetee's representation of Haymitch in his chariot and stupid miner's headlamp in the Tribute Parade.
He presses on, his anxiety over this meeting diminishing.
A drawing of him on a wall in the ridiculous cape they'd made him wear for his victory interview with Flickerman is only slightly less funny than the stick figure of Flickerman himself, who is looking dramatically at the ceiling in a strangely accurate rendering, his childishly-drawn, wide-open mouth taking up more than half his face. Stick-figure Haymitch's long cape, as if fluttering in a non-existent wind, is shaped in an obvious arrow pointing the way around the corner and down the hall.
The final door bears a last stick figure, this one of Haymitch with the victory crown around his head, arms raised up in the air, as if in triumph. At his feet, another stick figure lies on the ground, with two X's for eyes. His grin falls away, though, as soon as he sees the tiny representation of an ax embedded in the dead stick figure's chest, which is also wearing a crown, one much larger than Haymitch's.
He's pretty sure he knows who that figure is supposed to be. If anyone ever finds it, they'll probably both be dead.
He creaks the door open and steps halfway inside.
“Forget crazy,” he tells the District 3 victor waiting for him inside, on an old wicker chair towards the back of the modest, windowless room. “You just left crazy a thousand kilometers ago,” he grunts. “You’re downright insane.”
“Eh, don't worry about it,” Beetee smirks, looking pleased with himself. “It'll be a day or two before anyone would notice all the drawings up here. By then, I'll have washed them off.”
“What is this room, anyway?”
Beetee shrugs. “A room nobody remembers, just under the attic. Most importantly,” he spreads his arms wide, “a room no one has ever thought to bug.”
Haymitch's eyebrows rise. “But someone lives here?” he asks, casting an eye towards the rough-hewn wooden chest of drawers, the matching tiny wardrobe, the writing desk and the bed stripped of sheets. The dark-stained floor is made of wide, scuffed, wooden planks with deep grooves on them that have warped the floor over time, so that it creaks as Haymitch walks fully inside and closes the door.
“Nah, not anymore,” Beetee says, unconcerned. “I think this used to be the janitor's quarters or something, but nobody's used it in years now. Nor bugged it.” He shrugs. “Whiskey?” He pulls out a bottle from under his chair and extends it towards Haymitch with a smirk.
Haymitch shakes his head. “I don't drink,” he says, and Beetee makes a chagrined face, but then shrugs and puts it back under the chair.
“So listen,” Haymitch begins abruptly, before the other victor can say something again, “I don't know why you've led me here, but ...”
“You know exactly why,” Beetee cuts him off with mock reproach. “We talked about it in Snow's quarters. Don't act like you don't remember that.” He grins, his voice turning just a bit sultry. “I’m counting on you remembering that.”
Startled, Haymitch defaults to a scowl, and turns his gaze to the wall. After a few very long moments of silence, he declares, “you want to fuck.” He's hoping to scare the other man off. But Beetee merely answers without embarrassment:
“Yes. That was the general idea.”
Haymitch exhales, as if he's been holding his breath for who knows how long. He struggles for something to say, then finally gives up. “Why?” he asks. He still won't look; it’s too awkward to look.
“Why?” Beetee echoes, his voice pitching upwards, like it's the last question he expected.
“Because it'd be fun?” he offers. “They do have fun over there in Twelve, right? Or has Snow taken that privilege away from you poor folk too?”
When he looks, Beetee is staring at him with a shit-eating grin. He has no right to look so damn confident in this situation when Haymitch feels so lost.
“Oh, listen: why don't you go fuck yourself?” he snarls, secretly enjoying how the smug expression on Beetee's face falls away, like he wasn't expecting Haymitch to snap back at him like that. It's nice to get the jump on this guy for once.
“I'd rather fuck you,” Beetee recovers quickly.
Haymitch blinks and stares at him a long moment. “Aw, shit, Corelli ...” he begins, but Beetee is already up in his personal space, warm breath on his skin, a possessive grip on his shoulders. The unexpected physical contact makes his heartbeat feel like it's pounding out of his chest. It's a little like a moment back home, when you know a guy is just about to throw a punch at you; but obviously, that's not what Beetee has in mind here.
“Why are you even ...” he trails off with a growl, but it's a bit of a helpless gesture. He doesn't move either.
“Why do you think?” It's actually fun the way Beetee rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, even though Haymitch can tell everything the man does is always in part to amuse himself. “Because you're hot. I've thought so since your Games.”
He reaches out to pull Haymitch's chin towards him. “Not many people impress me. I find it kind of a turn-on.”
That does it. Haymitch can feel the heat prickling up his neck, flushing his cheekbones.
He feels himself being led the last inch or two left to cross, straight into a hard, possessive kiss. He doesn't even remember giving in to Beetee's exploratory tongue pushing apart his lips, doesn't remember responding with his own tongue, just realizes he's there, the two of them are going at each other like a couple of kids in the bushes.
Their mouths are hot and frantic, each trying to take control of the kissing, caught in a stalemate that neither of them seems to mind. In between gulps of air, Haymitch feels Beetee hard against his thigh and notices that he's just as turned on by this, when he should be scared out of his mind, and somehow, it is this that awakens him to what they are doing.
He yanks away his mouth, and they just stare at each other, their faces close enough to still hear each other's breathing.
“What?” Beetee's eyebrows raise, as if daring Haymitch, as if he think this is all hilarious. “Never kissed a guy before?”
Haymitch looks at him, incredulous. “With who?” His voice is more husky than he'd intended. “Thirteen's smoking ashes, Latier, we just don't do that sort of thing in Twelve.”
“Well, somebody does, obviously,” Beetee says matter-of-factly.
“No!” Haymitch practically shouts at him. “Nobody does!” But his mind flashes to images of Mal and Declan, and the newfound realization that this is in fact a lie.
“Oh come on,” Beetee challenges. “Are you telling me there's no one in all of Twelve who prefers sex with their own gender? You know that's statistically impossible, right? ”
Haymitch's legs back him away from the man until his body finds the nearest wall for support. What he just did felt good, sure, he can't deny that, but he’s never had to consider whether he might ever be interested in this.
“Admit it,” Beetee interrupts his thoughts. “You liked it. Come on, I felt your hard-on against my leg.”
Haymitch feels his body freeze. It would be a hell of an accusation in Twelve, and he has to remind himself that he’s not about to get the shit kicked out of him right now.
“Yeah, and I felt yours!” he snaps, with residual defensiveness he can’t quite suppress. “What of it?” He waves his hand around in a helpless, confused gesture. “Look,” he tries, “just because I got ...” But he can't say the words turned on or hard to Beetee and have them hanging in the air between them; it's just too weird. He and Alsey never used words like that.
“I …” he trails off, unable to lie. “Fuck.”
A beat passes.
“Well, give me some time, Haymitch. Nobody's that good.”
“Oh, will you cut the crap for just a fucking minute, Latier?” he roars. His shoulders curl inward. What the fuck? He just was kissing a guy, by choice.
“I need to figure this out,” he growls.
“Hey …” This time, Beetee’s tone is softer, as if being cautious with him, but out of kindness, not out of fear or awkwardness.
“Haymitch,” he probes, “I'm sorry, all right? I really thought you'd like it.” When Haymitch doesn't answer, he adds, “You okay?”
But Haymitch is thinking about old Mal and Declan again. Inside their home, where no one could see, they were kissing like this? Touching each other, getting hard off each other, like he and Beetee just did? He tries to picture them lying in a bed together.
“Haymitch?” he repeats, but Haymitch just slides down to the ground with his back against the wall, knees pulled up in front of him.
“Of course I liked it,” he says in a small voice, forcing himself to keep the man's eye now. He at least owes him that, he supposes, after the guy put himself out there like that. “But … my girlfriend.” He almost chokes on it.
Beetee's eyes grow pensive.
“Are you afraid you'll be betraying her memory by being attracted to me?” he asks quietly.
He smiles wanly. “No, it’s not like that. She’s … she's dead. He swallows an abrupt sob.
“She's dead,” he repeats quietly. “She wouldn't get mad about me sleeping with you after she's gone. She'd want me to be happy. Besides, she always thought you were the bee's knees.”
“She what?” Beetee says, apparently not recognizing the Twelve expression.
“She saw your Games,” Haymitch explains. “Was a big fan of how you won with your extra special brains.”
He realizes too late he's given Beetee an opening for another round of annoying boasting about his genius brain. But Beetee just turns his back to the same wall as Haymitch and slides down onto the floor next to him. He raises his arm slowly towards Haymitch’s shoulders, a courteous warning. “Do you mind?”
Haymitch just shakes his head as he lets Beetee’s arm curl around him. They sit there in silence.
“Actually, she'd laugh her ass off at the idea.” he says.
“What idea?”
“Of us. Us sleeping together.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Don’t tell me that’s the best seduction line you’ve got?”
But there's not the same heat behind Beetee’s gaze as before, just an amused twinkle in his eyes. Haymitch can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth, but he says them anyway:
“Could we just lie on the bed together a while?” he asks, a bit terrified, but telling himself, You survived nearly getting your fucking intestines ripped out of your body, you can handle this. He really wants to touch Beetee.
The silence as Beetee examines him is so long, Haymitch has to fight off a rising wave of slight, panicked embarrassment. What if he’s changed his mind? But then the arm around him tightens and prods him onto his feet, and Beetee leads him over to the bed without a word. He seems to be waiting for Haymitch to make the first move onto the bed itself, but Haymitch can't make himself, just stands there looking down at the bare mattress, Beetee's arm still around him.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Beetee asks him, the calm patience in his voice belied by an undertone of uncertainty, as if this wasn't at all what he bargained for when he lured Haymitch here tonight. And of course, how could it be?
“Yeah, I want this,” he grunts, closes his eyes in embarrassment and all in one movement, pulls Beetee down onto the bed, the way he used to jump straight into the lake back home, instead of wading in and gradually getting used to the icy-cold water. He hears a chuckle muffled into the mattress as Beetee adjusts his body into alignment with Haymitch, who is lying on his back.
“Good.” Already Haymitch can’t remember whose voice it was that said that - his or Beetee’s. But Beetee is carefully putting Haymitch's hand in his and the two of them then stare at the ceiling a while, not saying anything at all, and it’s somehow exactly what Haymitch needs right now. Eventually, Haymitch turns to look at Beetee, who must notice that he’s done so, but continues to look up at the ceiling, and for once, makes no snappy comments.
While he's not a Capitol fashion model or anything, Haymitch can't deny that Beetee is attractive, still fit from his Games - arms that are muscular, modest bulges showing through the arms of his suit jacket, a slim face, but it doesn't look half-starved like so many people in the Seam. His hair is dark and straight, but it hints at curls like Haymitch’s if only he would let his hair grow out more. His skin is much darker than Haymitch’s.
When it becomes undeniable that Haymitch is openly staring at him, Beetee looks down and locks their eyes together, like he did on stage with Laurenti. But this time, Haymitch is drawn into those deep brown, almost black pools fastening onto him, and he turns fully on his side too, meeting Beetee with a steady gaze.
“What?” Beetee eventually asks, more tentative than he usually does. Instead of answering, Haymitch surprises himself by reaching out to touch Beetee's chest. He doesn't dare do any more than experimentally run his fingers along the buttons of his shirt, but then Beetee grabs Haymitch's hand and takes a finger into his mouth, sucking with a lightness that feels strange and electric. He feels himself melt with it, and utters a completely unplanned grunt, until he realizes he's had his eyes closed for the last several seconds. When he opens them, Beetee is holding the fingers of his left hand in mid-
air and searching his face for confirmation.
Is this all right?, his expression asks, and Haymitch nods his head yes, because he's already finding himself addicted to the idea of Beetee touching him more.
“Do the kissing thing again,” he says gruffly, to break the spell, and because he can't get himself to say it any other way without it sounding strange in his own ears.
Beetee chuckles, and some of his teasing lilt is back. “Well, if it's an order, then.” His voice has a slight, lazy slurring quality, and Haymitch feels the back of Beetee's knuckles trail along his cheek in an affectionate way. Then he's pulling his right arm out from under himself, a bit awkwardly, and makes a soft semi-circle around the crown of Haymitch's head, fingers landing on the back of his neck. His arm is soon fully around his body, and Haymitch is being tugged in closer, until Beetee's tongue is parting Haymitch's lips, taking possession of his mouth for several seconds until Haymitch even remembers that he can respond.
It's not all that different than what he's experienced with Alsey, actually, except that Alsey was never this aggressive, never this obviously experienced; Haymitch isn't this experienced either, and he struggles to keep up, afraid of looking stupid, because his body is telling him that he really, really wants this to continue. He experiments with seeking out places in Beetee's mouth, trying to spark the same desire Beetee is making him feel, but the man is so determined, so sure about what he wants from Haymitch, that Haymitch eventually gives up and starts to relax under the kisses, and instead, starts investigating the rest of the man's body, possibilities occurring to him through the slow molasses of arousal his brain has become. He frees both his arms and wraps them around Beetee's back, tugging at the tail of his soft, cotton shirt, tucked neatly into his pants. He craves the feel of warm skin under his fingers, craves touch.
He runs his hands under Beetee's liberated shirt, and lets his fingers wander along the man's spine, pausing to feel the outline of his back muscles, exploring as far down as he can in this position, daring to grab the man's ass and press their groins together, something he never, ever dared try with Alsey. He hears a satisfying, small gasp from Beetee, muffled by their mouths pressed together. Beetee pulls away for a moment to utter a throaty, whispered plea.
“Oh, do that again. Please.”
Haymitch grunts, because the onslaught of kisses has been making his whole body feel weak with desire, and it’s work to not feel awkward about grabbing the man’s ass, as very much as he’s enjoying that. He pushes them together, this time his crotch grinding into Beetee's, riding out the kisses that way, feeling such an increase of pressure in his groin, so fast, it's almost staggering when Beetee starts undoing the collar of Haymitch's shirt, moving his lips downward, kissing his chin, then his neck, as the rest of the buttons of Haymitch's shirt come undone under Beetee's deft fingers. He shimmies the rumpled thing off Haymitch's arms and onto the bed as he runs his hands up the sides of Haymitch's body, sending more jolts of electricity coursing through him. Haymitch's head falls back and he lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched moan, but it's all getting too much, too fast, for him to care. He's a bundle of pinpointing desire all over, and he's never felt turned on like this before, never with his whole body like this.
Which is probably why he hasn't noticed until now that Beetee has managed to undo his belt and his pants, and has got them half off his ass. It takes him only a second later to panic.
“No, I can't!” he shouts, placing a firm hand onto Beetee's shoulder to push him away. “Wait, wait!”
To his credit, Beetee stops immediately. In fact, he freezes, his hands still fisted in a piece of the satin black trousers Haymitch’s team made him wear tonight. They both sit up on the bed, Beetee's eyes oddly wide with what looks to Haymitch like fear, or maybe worry.
“What is it? Something I did?” He really does sound like Haymitch has scared him half to death as he jumps off the bed, like he’s trying to give Haymitch space. “Did I do something wrong? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” Haymitch exhales deeply, feeling terribly embarrassed now. He stands up to be closer to Beetee, to reassure him, even though his pants are still hanging off his body in a fairly undignified way. “You didn't do anything wrong. It's just … when you opened up my pants, I ...started thinking about ...” He doesn't know how to say it.
Beetee's eyes search his with obvious concern that quickly turns to chagrin. “Oh, Haymitch,” he breathes. “Shit, already? Seriously? I'm really sorry. I had no idea.”
“Had no idea about what?” Haymitch's confusion for the moment damps down his embarrassment.
Beetee's eyes narrow. “So when you panicked,” he begins slowly, in an interrogatory tone. “That was because ...”
“Because I don't know at all what I'm doing,” Haymitch admits, running a nervous hand over his head, through the stiff hairspray in his curls. “I mean, I've never had sex with a guy before. I don't know what comes next, or what to do.”
The laughter falls out of Beetee like a tray of glasses smashing on the ground, discordant and with jagged gasps of amazement. “That's why you got upset?”
“Look, I'm not an idiot,” Haymitch grumbles. “I’ve just never done this before. How am I supposed to know what to do?”
There's a weak grin on Beetee's face now, like he still hasn't quite recovered. “No, no, you're right. Of course! That's perfectly sensible thinking, Haymitch. How would you know?”
He pauses and takes Haymitch's face between his hands and examines him. “Let's be really clear on this, shall we? I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, got it? Anything you don't want, you tell me stop, and we stop, all right? That's very important to me.”
“Well, of course,” Haymitch says, bewildered at the question. “Why wouldn't I tell you?”
Now it's Beetee's turn to look bewildered, but Haymitch can see him moving fast to cover. “Of course,” he agrees a little too strongly. “Of course you'd tell me. Because this is supposed to be fun, right?”
Haymitch nods. “Well, yeah,” he says, since nothing could be more obvious. There's something definitely odd about Beetee's reaction. “A9re you getting at something?”
He watches him take in a deep breath, then turn and exhale it. “Later, all right? At the moment, I don't want to distract from this lovely time we're having.” The smug, bantering Beetee is already making a quick comeback. “And as for your inexperience in these matters ...” The teasing grin on his face has already completely smoothed over any rough edges in his demeanor a minute ago. “I'll explain as we go, right?”
Haymitch raises his eyebrows at him as he stands up. “Only if your pants are off too.”
“Excuse me?”
Haymitch grunts under his breath with embarrassment, but on this point, he's adamant: “I'm not gonna be the only one with his pants down,” he declares.
The way the man is pursing his lips, it's clear that he's trying to suppress a laugh. But then he stands up straight, radiating a sober expression that Haymitch doesn’t quite believe. “An excellent principle in this sort of situation,” he affirms.
“Are you making fun of me?” Haymitch accuses, ready to be annoyed.
He blinks in surprise. “No, not at all. Not at all.” And he’s so genuine, Haymitch does believes that right away. “Indeed, you make a very good point.”
“Well, then?” he casts a meaningful glance downward at Beetee’s pants. He's treated to another of Beetee's chuckles, but without another word, the man is making off with clothes. Once Haymitch can see that he's serious, he takes off the rest of his own clothes, and in less than a minute, the two of them are facing each other, naked as the day they were born.
“So, now what?” Haymitch almost says, when the silence between them turns good and awkward, but new to this or not, he's not going to let himself look completely like a helpless idiot, so he makes the first move and gets good and close to Beetee again, trying out on him the one thing he knows he likes doing to himself.
Still, he can't help how tentatively he reaches out to take the man's erect dick in his hand. But as he starts to stroke it back and forth, learning the curves of it, finding the spots that make Beetee respond with something between a moan and a sigh, Haymitch feels his mouth curve into a pleased smile. He uses his other hand to grab Beetee's ass again, deciding he definitely likes that. As he'd hoped, Beetee makes a hissing sound of enjoyment.
“I think you lied to me,” Beetee says, taking Haymitch's dick in his hand too, “about never having done this before.” It’s a blatant lie, but Haymitch doesn’t care. The two of them stand there, their clothes in piles around them on the floor, stroking each other until it starts to feel so good, they slump into each other, too weak to stand upright.
“Come on,” Beetee suggests. “Let's take this to the bed.”
They expand into new territory, mixing the hot, sloppy exploration of each other's mouths with hands learning all the spots on each others' bodies - which to graze lightly or which to manhandle, which to suck on or to grab. They make each other cry out, moan, demand more. Haymitch learns fast that Beetee likes having his nipples rubbed with Haymitch’s index finger and that he likes it when Haymitch grinds their hips together. He wraps a leg around Haymitch's groin and pulls the lower half of his body in close and squeezes them together, their dicks rubbing up against each other in very satisfying friction. As they thrust at each other, Beetee hisses, “yesss” over and over in his ear, and that elicits desperate moans from Haymitch himself. At some point, he realizes he’s stopped thinking about the fact that this is a guy getting him off like this, and he revels in all the naked skin there is for him to touch.
And the certainty that the two of them are going to come very, very soon.
When they do come, only a minute later, Beetee sighs deeply, face buried in Haymitch's chest.
“I don't think technically, two guys giving each other handjobs is supposed to feel that good. Fuck, Haymitch.”
Haymitch's snort conveys surprise, amusement, but also a touch of pride. “Yeah, that was the general idea,” he deadpans.
Beetee's head darts up with just a flicker of wide-eyed surprise, then gives him one of those grins that Haymitch is just starting to feel comfortable with calling 'hot’ in his head. When the man laughs, Haymitch feels infinitely powerful, to have brought that sound out of him.
“Quoting my own words back at me, eh?” he teases. “ 'Clever Haymitch' indeed.”
He feels warm and sweaty and blissfully exhausted. He hasn't felt this good in months, in fact. But the moniker threatens to ruin all of it.
“Call me that again, and I'll clock you,” he mock-warns, reluctant to ruin the moment with a real warning.
Beetee grins. “Done,” he says, then adds mischievously, “Clever Haymitch.”
Haymitch pushes away the growing discomfort. “You smug bastard,” he grouses, and lunges for Beetee, pinning him down under him, but the other victor squirms and tries to wriggle completely free, sending the two of them off the bed and crashing onto the floor.
They both freeze.
“Shit,” Haymitch says in a whisper. “Do you think anyone heard that?”
Beetee's eyes dart nervously from side to side. “Nah. Probably not.” But his voice is less carefree now.
“Still, Snow specifically warned all us victors not to make contact with you. So I'm pretty sure if I get caught fucking you, he'll have my ass, and I really don't want to be in that position again.”
“Again?”
Beetee looks away, grabbing his clothes from off the floor, wiping himself clean with a sock. “Never mind,” he says, throwing on his outfit. “Let me go check that the coast is clear. Get dressed, just in case anyone’s coming.”
Haymitch hurriedly stumbles into his rumpled, hopelessly wrinkled formal wear, just barely keeping himself from falling in his haste. “We’re not going to be fooling anyone if they’re out there,” he hisses after Beetee, who is already standing impatiently at the door, waiting for Haymitch to finish.
Beetee waves off his protests, and opens the door in a tentative gesture, then throws himself out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Haymitch stands in the middle of the sparse room, legs shifting back and forth, waiting. He knows rationally that only about sixty seconds have passed, but it feels a lot longer when Beetee pokes his head back in.
“Yeah, we're fine,” he assures Haymitch. “But come up on the roof with me anyway.”
Part of him is so sleepy from his orgasm, he just wants to crawl into bed. But he’s gone this far with the man already, and he isn't ready yet to stop being around him.
“Okay.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets and follows Beetee out into the hallway.
Author: millari
Characters: Haymitch Abernathy, Mags, Beetee, Chaff, President Snow, Haymitch's Dad, Haymitch's Girl, OCs
Pairing: Haymitch/Beetee
Rating: R
Beta: The incomparable trovia
Warnings: Implied references to forced prostitution, canonical character deaths
Summary: On his victory tour, Haymitch soon finds out that the real Games have only just begun, and survival means learning to spin out a web of lies, compromises and self-destruction. The Games' oldest living victor and arguably its most intelligent one show him that even in the tainted life of a Victor, there are still ways to prevail.
A/N: This is a finished multi-chaptered work.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
CHAPTER 9
At the victory banquet, they seat Haymitch at a table placed at the head of the reception room. He sits there like President Snow himself, with everyone coming to him to offer congratulations, to present tokens from the district, to request autographs, which he still finds incredibly weird - that anyone would suddenly value his signature.
Everyone important in the district is there, with one glaring exception that no one is talking about - District Three’s most recent victor.
“What?” he groans, as Lucilla turns in her seat and calls his name out of the blue, after a couple hours of pretty much ignoring him in favor of catching up on District Three gossip or something. Haymitch hadn't bothered to pay attention, still thinking about his conversation earlier with Beetee and the way that he stared at Haymitch during the interview.
“Nevil Laurenti is waving at you, go talk to him,” she orders, her bright pink fingernail pointing in a southeasterly direction after making a slight adjustment to her wig, which is dyed in exactly the same shade as her nails. It’s all the color of this emetic Haymitch once saw people drinking in the men’s room at a sponsor’s party that Lucilla made him attend. It had made them all throw up in less than thirty seconds.
“I already talked to him for two hours on camera, tonight,” he complains, still burning over Laurenti’s crack about District Twelve and Swagger. “What else could we possibly have to say to each other?”
She sighs heavily. “He's been the District Three interview host for years, and the victors here have him solidly in their corner, so for him to make overtures to you while in their district is a huge compliment. If you don't go over there now after he's called you publicly like that, you'll make an enemy out of him.”
He must look as unconvinced as he feels, because she feels compelled to add, “And unlike Caia Moulton, he actually listened to me when I mandated that he not ask you about your girlfriend, so you at least owe him thanks for that. Plus, he likes you,” she concludes. “You'll need him next year when you're a mentor and you're networking for sponsors. He knows a lot of people in the Capitol you could afford to be introduced to.”
His lips press together in a taut, thin line of acquiescence, cursing Lucilla for having reminded him of mentoring, the last thing he wants to be thinking about. But he drags himself out of the mammoth chair that was starting to make his legs go numb anyway and tries to reconfigure his face into something presentable before turning to his escort. “Do I look happy?” he asks her genuinely, although there's still enough buried anger in his voice that Lucilla's expression screws up with displeasure.
“Just try not to insult him,” she sighs, like she's given up on him. He keeps the smile plastered on his face anyway as he sits down next to Laurenti, because he's got nothing better.
“Mister Laurenti,” he tries to say with a hint of that lilt in his voice all Capitol residents seem to have in spades. He feels like an incompetent whore.
“Please,” the man replies, making it look easy. “Do call me Nevil. All my friends do.”
Haymitch just stops himself from raising a dubious eyebrow in front of the man.
“Friends?” he manages weakly, hating himself already. “So I can call on you during next year's Games as a sponsor?”
“Oh, you can call, my dear Haymitch,” he replies jovially. “But let's not get the horse out of the paddock before the race has started, all right?”
Shit. Now he thinks I’m desperate. Which, of course, he is.
“I can call you Haymitch, right?” It’s clear from Laurenti’s inflection that there was never any doubt in his mind that he could.
“Of course you can.” He then adds self-consciously, “Nevil.”
This fake familiarity seems like a small concession to make, if this man is the key to getting District Twelve some sponsorship money. He wishes for the millionth time that Swagger were around to help him figure out this mentoring thing. What is he going to do next year when he’s competing for sponsors against all those other mentors who know what they’re doing?
“Well, Haymitch,” Laurenti concludes with a meaningful smile, “I'd certainly be interested in discussing our options when you're in the Capitol next year. Perhaps over drinks?”
This is going far better than expected. He hasn't really done anything, hasn't even been paying full attention. He suppresses the urge to shrug awkwardly. “Uh, sure,” he says, kicking himself for sounding like the backwater kid from District 12 he is. But he’s determined to start next year with at least one useful notch on his mentor belt. “Of course, Nevil,” he revises, the man's odd name rolling off his tongue a little easier. “I'd like that.”
“Excellent,” Laurenti smiles. “I'll just arrange it all through Victor Affairs once you get into the Capitol. I look forward to it. I think with a little work, the two of us could become friends, couldn’t we?”
Haymitch nods uncertainly, knowing he should probably make more small talk, but he's shit at such things, and has no idea what to say next. Laurenti is at ease enough for both of them however, and starts talking again about something that Haymitch can’t help but tune out.
Friends. He’s never really had a friend, other than Jackson, who was his brother so that didn't count, and then well, Alsey, who was a lot like a friend, because she knew everything about him. But Haymitch kissed her sometimes, and that made it different. He remembers when his mom found out and started referring happily to Alsey as “your girl.”
He sometimes has wished for a male friend like Alsey, someone who knew everything about him like that. A guy to spend a lot of time with, like old Mal and Declan back home do.
Mal and Declan grew up together - best friends, their families neighbors on the edge of the Seam. You almost never saw those two apart, ever. They'd even moved in together when they'd hit their fifties, having outlived both their families and their capacity to work in the mines anymore. People always used to joke that any woman who married Mal or Declan would have to get married to both of them, for no woman would ever get between that friendship anyway.
They showed up regularly in the Hob, shopping together, finishing each other's sentences as they’d bicker over buying food and supplies. As a boy, he'd sometimes wonder what it was like to be that connected to another male like that.
But now, thoughts of Beetee fresh in his mind, the realization suddenly hits him: Mal and Declan aren't friends. Well, they're friends, definitely, but they're also a damn couple. Like Flax and Melio in District Eleven. It's perfectly obvious, now that he thinks about it. In fact, it's undeniable if you just look. But he's never allowed himself to.
He can’t want that, can he? Is that why he feels his nerves jangling every time Beetee looks at him? The question occurs to him with amazement and maybe a tinge of fear?
What does it mean about Alsey?
He has to work to stop himself from jumping a mile straight up when Laurenti breaks his thoughts, with an unexpected hand grabbing his. Haymitch doesn't want to touch this peacock, but he can tell that he has to, or else risk insulting him. He unconsciously bites his lip as he lets the man invade his space.
“You know,” he can’t help saying, hoping it’ll make Laurenti laugh instead of angry, “we victors didn’t win by letting someone take us unawares.” He shrugs at Laurenti’s warm, moist hand meaningfully, but he doesn’t shake it off like he really wants to.
“Point taken!” he says with indulgent delight, like Haymitch is a housecat that’s just shown its claws. “Don’t worry,” he adds, his tone still rife with amusement, as his hands stay right where they are. “I plan for you to be quite aware the next time I do that.”
In fact, Laurenti’s fingers move suggestively around Haymitch’s hand, and Haymitch feels a shot of alarm go through him, but then he realizes that Laurenti is not feeling him up, but pressing something very discreetly into his palm.
“A gift for you,” he whispers, his face altogether too close to Haymitch’s. “From someone who couldn’t be here. I should be jealous, but I suppose you're allowed a couple of flings before your schedule gets entirely filled up.”
His voice is still so conspiratorially low, Haymitch doubts for a second that any of this moment was even real. But then, as if to prove to him that it was, Laurenti squeezes Haymitch's hand closed into a fist around the note, leans back in his chair. He flicks his eyes suggestively towards the room's entrance. “A little naughtiness every now and then is needed in these times,” he concludes.
Haymitch blinks at him, eyes narrowed with bewilderment.
“Top secret,, Laurenti mouths at him, followed by a wink, then a magnanimous wave. “Go have fun, now. I'll see you in six months.”
So Haymitch stumbles away, his fist still closed tight on the paper, dying of curiosity as he heads back towards his table, where Lucilla is in some animated conversation with Lenta. He wants no part of it. Searching the room for ideas, he eventually turns on his heel and walks up to the buffet table and pretends to have trouble choosing which dish to sample next as he discreetly opens the small note in his palm.
To follow the trail, start by looking outside the arena.
That's all it says. His gaze searches the room for the man he knows must not be here anymore, but has escaped to the bugs-free place he'd referred to earlier this afternoon.
Follow the trail. What trail? How is he supposed to find it? And trail to what?
He thinks for a moment about Beetee's use of the word “arena”. Obviously there's no arena here, so what would he mean by that? He shuffles back towards his table to Lucilla and plops down in his seat with a distracted air.
“Well?” Lucilla interrogates him. “What did he say?”
“Who?” Haymitch asks, fingering the note hidden in his palm.
“Laurenti, of course!” Lucilla exclaims, her voice quickly ratcheting down to an exasperated hiss. “What did he want?”
“Oh, um, I don't know exactly. He invited me to have drinks with him next year during the Games.”
Lucilla doesn't quite manage to suppress an excited gasp. “Haymitch, that's wonderful!”
“Yeah?” He keeps the conversation going, but he's searching the room, trying to understand what Beetee meant.
“Of course!” she retorts, with a tone that suggests either she's insulted or he's inconceivably clueless.
“Don't you see? He's making a very overt show of favor, and he's basically promising to promote you next year during the Games. Why else would he want to talk to you then?”
Haymitch finally turns his head to her again. “Maybe. I dunno. He just invited me for drinks. I mean, we didn't even make a plan. He just said he'd call some people, some office, I think, to set it up. I wouldn't get your hopes up; he might not have really meant it.” He might be drunk right now.
“Victor Affairs,” she supplies the name in a clipped tone. “You need to know these things, Haymitch, if you're going to succeed next year.”
She gazes at him thoughtfully. “You know, we have two more districts to visit. I think we should probably start to have some tutoring sessions on the train rides. You don't have a mentor living with you in Twelve, which means once I'm gone, you'll have no one to prepare you for next year when you start guiding tributes. I don’t know everything about it, but I can give you some guidance on the basics …”
Haymitch shuts his brain off as she starts to lecture him about his new “learning curve” -whatever that means. He just doesn't want to even think about mentoring. And he really doesn't need Lucilla harping on the topic right now, not after yet another day of being surrounded by people who have to hear just the right thing all the time and whom he can't ever get mad at. And they all want something from him. It's all a little like being in the arena, where people pretend to be your allies and then without warning, can suddenly become …
The arena.
Of course. That's what the note meant. This is the arena. Get out of the arena. The excitement sets his heart pounding. And then, more abruptly than he meant to, Haymitch bolts up out of his chair.
“Where are you going?” Lucilla protests. “I'm talking to you!”
“I suddenly don't feel well.” His voice is quick, and distracted and probably not all that convincing. But he is moving too fast out of the room for her to make an effective countermove. “I'm going to find a place in here to get some air.” He turns away so she can't engage him. “I'll see you back in the room, all right?”
Before Lucilla can do anything substantial, he's already outside the banquet room and back in the entrance hall, looking around everywhere for the sign he knows must be there somewhere, telling him where to go. It takes him a few moments to notice the out-of-place Peacekeeper on the wide marble staircase, a few steps up, rubbing at something on the white walls with a rag and a bucket. He walks over to examine what she's doing. He sees from her profile how the woman's face is carved with supreme annoyance.
“What's going on?” he inquires.
The Peacekeeper whirls around, startled. She can't be more than a year or two older than Haymitch.
“Nothing, sir,” she says grimly, seeming to have fallen back on the rule that refusing to explain anything much is always the best policy. “It's nothing a little soap and water can't take away.”
“Who drew that?” The Peacekeeper is making slow progress at what looks like a chalk drawing of a huge arrow that points right and curves upward, as if to point the way up those marble stairs.
“Heck if I know,” the guard shrugs, eyes settling back onto her task. “But whoever did it, they didn't use chalk, I'll tell you that much.” She examines the gray, swirling mess she's made with the water staining the walls. “It's like they used charcoal or something.”
At that, a smile overtakes Haymitch's entire face. He says nothing further, but begins running up the stairs, eyes peeled for the next sign on the trail, jittery with both excitement and uncertainty He doesn't know what the fuck he is doing.
He makes it up to the landing on the top floor of the building before he spots another one, this time, an absurd stick figure with slits for eyes that make it look sleepy, smoking a very thick cigarette, or possibly a cigar. Haymitch gazes at it puzzled for a moment, until it occurs to him that what he took at first to be a rendering of sparking ashes from the thing in its mouth actually is a series of small arrow heads, all pointing in the same direction, to the left. He follows it, hoping he's understood correctly.
The signs come again, much more quickly now. This time, it's a nonsensical bunch of letters and numbers, painted on a door in the same black dust. He stares at the mumbo-jumbo for a second, confused, but opens the door anyway and he sees an exit to a set of ugly, white concrete stairs that lead further upward. Huh. He thought he was already as high up as this building goes.
It's only as he's climbing the stairs that he finally remembers where he's seen that jumble of letters and numbers before, and he shakes his head, chuckling. He had to memorize that string of letters and numbers in school when he was ten. In a rare streak of almost fun, his teacher, Miss Hawthorne, had made them learn a song to help them commit it to memory:
It's the chemical formula for coal.
The rest of the signs are even funnier. The first, on a door out the stairwell that leads Haymitch back again into the heart of the building and into a much smaller hallway that only takes up half the floor space, is the most intricate drawing yet, of a stick figure wearing something on its head and standing inside some rectangular thing with crudely-drawn wheels. He laughs out loud this time: he's looking at Beetee's representation of Haymitch in his chariot and stupid miner's headlamp in the Tribute Parade.
He presses on, his anxiety over this meeting diminishing.
A drawing of him on a wall in the ridiculous cape they'd made him wear for his victory interview with Flickerman is only slightly less funny than the stick figure of Flickerman himself, who is looking dramatically at the ceiling in a strangely accurate rendering, his childishly-drawn, wide-open mouth taking up more than half his face. Stick-figure Haymitch's long cape, as if fluttering in a non-existent wind, is shaped in an obvious arrow pointing the way around the corner and down the hall.
The final door bears a last stick figure, this one of Haymitch with the victory crown around his head, arms raised up in the air, as if in triumph. At his feet, another stick figure lies on the ground, with two X's for eyes. His grin falls away, though, as soon as he sees the tiny representation of an ax embedded in the dead stick figure's chest, which is also wearing a crown, one much larger than Haymitch's.
He's pretty sure he knows who that figure is supposed to be. If anyone ever finds it, they'll probably both be dead.
He creaks the door open and steps halfway inside.
“Forget crazy,” he tells the District 3 victor waiting for him inside, on an old wicker chair towards the back of the modest, windowless room. “You just left crazy a thousand kilometers ago,” he grunts. “You’re downright insane.”
“Eh, don't worry about it,” Beetee smirks, looking pleased with himself. “It'll be a day or two before anyone would notice all the drawings up here. By then, I'll have washed them off.”
“What is this room, anyway?”
Beetee shrugs. “A room nobody remembers, just under the attic. Most importantly,” he spreads his arms wide, “a room no one has ever thought to bug.”
Haymitch's eyebrows rise. “But someone lives here?” he asks, casting an eye towards the rough-hewn wooden chest of drawers, the matching tiny wardrobe, the writing desk and the bed stripped of sheets. The dark-stained floor is made of wide, scuffed, wooden planks with deep grooves on them that have warped the floor over time, so that it creaks as Haymitch walks fully inside and closes the door.
“Nah, not anymore,” Beetee says, unconcerned. “I think this used to be the janitor's quarters or something, but nobody's used it in years now. Nor bugged it.” He shrugs. “Whiskey?” He pulls out a bottle from under his chair and extends it towards Haymitch with a smirk.
Haymitch shakes his head. “I don't drink,” he says, and Beetee makes a chagrined face, but then shrugs and puts it back under the chair.
“So listen,” Haymitch begins abruptly, before the other victor can say something again, “I don't know why you've led me here, but ...”
“You know exactly why,” Beetee cuts him off with mock reproach. “We talked about it in Snow's quarters. Don't act like you don't remember that.” He grins, his voice turning just a bit sultry. “I’m counting on you remembering that.”
Startled, Haymitch defaults to a scowl, and turns his gaze to the wall. After a few very long moments of silence, he declares, “you want to fuck.” He's hoping to scare the other man off. But Beetee merely answers without embarrassment:
“Yes. That was the general idea.”
Haymitch exhales, as if he's been holding his breath for who knows how long. He struggles for something to say, then finally gives up. “Why?” he asks. He still won't look; it’s too awkward to look.
“Why?” Beetee echoes, his voice pitching upwards, like it's the last question he expected.
“Because it'd be fun?” he offers. “They do have fun over there in Twelve, right? Or has Snow taken that privilege away from you poor folk too?”
When he looks, Beetee is staring at him with a shit-eating grin. He has no right to look so damn confident in this situation when Haymitch feels so lost.
“Oh, listen: why don't you go fuck yourself?” he snarls, secretly enjoying how the smug expression on Beetee's face falls away, like he wasn't expecting Haymitch to snap back at him like that. It's nice to get the jump on this guy for once.
“I'd rather fuck you,” Beetee recovers quickly.
Haymitch blinks and stares at him a long moment. “Aw, shit, Corelli ...” he begins, but Beetee is already up in his personal space, warm breath on his skin, a possessive grip on his shoulders. The unexpected physical contact makes his heartbeat feel like it's pounding out of his chest. It's a little like a moment back home, when you know a guy is just about to throw a punch at you; but obviously, that's not what Beetee has in mind here.
“Why are you even ...” he trails off with a growl, but it's a bit of a helpless gesture. He doesn't move either.
“Why do you think?” It's actually fun the way Beetee rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, even though Haymitch can tell everything the man does is always in part to amuse himself. “Because you're hot. I've thought so since your Games.”
He reaches out to pull Haymitch's chin towards him. “Not many people impress me. I find it kind of a turn-on.”
That does it. Haymitch can feel the heat prickling up his neck, flushing his cheekbones.
He feels himself being led the last inch or two left to cross, straight into a hard, possessive kiss. He doesn't even remember giving in to Beetee's exploratory tongue pushing apart his lips, doesn't remember responding with his own tongue, just realizes he's there, the two of them are going at each other like a couple of kids in the bushes.
Their mouths are hot and frantic, each trying to take control of the kissing, caught in a stalemate that neither of them seems to mind. In between gulps of air, Haymitch feels Beetee hard against his thigh and notices that he's just as turned on by this, when he should be scared out of his mind, and somehow, it is this that awakens him to what they are doing.
He yanks away his mouth, and they just stare at each other, their faces close enough to still hear each other's breathing.
“What?” Beetee's eyebrows raise, as if daring Haymitch, as if he think this is all hilarious. “Never kissed a guy before?”
Haymitch looks at him, incredulous. “With who?” His voice is more husky than he'd intended. “Thirteen's smoking ashes, Latier, we just don't do that sort of thing in Twelve.”
“Well, somebody does, obviously,” Beetee says matter-of-factly.
“No!” Haymitch practically shouts at him. “Nobody does!” But his mind flashes to images of Mal and Declan, and the newfound realization that this is in fact a lie.
“Oh come on,” Beetee challenges. “Are you telling me there's no one in all of Twelve who prefers sex with their own gender? You know that's statistically impossible, right? ”
Haymitch's legs back him away from the man until his body finds the nearest wall for support. What he just did felt good, sure, he can't deny that, but he’s never had to consider whether he might ever be interested in this.
“Admit it,” Beetee interrupts his thoughts. “You liked it. Come on, I felt your hard-on against my leg.”
Haymitch feels his body freeze. It would be a hell of an accusation in Twelve, and he has to remind himself that he’s not about to get the shit kicked out of him right now.
“Yeah, and I felt yours!” he snaps, with residual defensiveness he can’t quite suppress. “What of it?” He waves his hand around in a helpless, confused gesture. “Look,” he tries, “just because I got ...” But he can't say the words turned on or hard to Beetee and have them hanging in the air between them; it's just too weird. He and Alsey never used words like that.
“I …” he trails off, unable to lie. “Fuck.”
A beat passes.
“Well, give me some time, Haymitch. Nobody's that good.”
“Oh, will you cut the crap for just a fucking minute, Latier?” he roars. His shoulders curl inward. What the fuck? He just was kissing a guy, by choice.
“I need to figure this out,” he growls.
“Hey …” This time, Beetee’s tone is softer, as if being cautious with him, but out of kindness, not out of fear or awkwardness.
“Haymitch,” he probes, “I'm sorry, all right? I really thought you'd like it.” When Haymitch doesn't answer, he adds, “You okay?”
But Haymitch is thinking about old Mal and Declan again. Inside their home, where no one could see, they were kissing like this? Touching each other, getting hard off each other, like he and Beetee just did? He tries to picture them lying in a bed together.
“Haymitch?” he repeats, but Haymitch just slides down to the ground with his back against the wall, knees pulled up in front of him.
“Of course I liked it,” he says in a small voice, forcing himself to keep the man's eye now. He at least owes him that, he supposes, after the guy put himself out there like that. “But … my girlfriend.” He almost chokes on it.
Beetee's eyes grow pensive.
“Are you afraid you'll be betraying her memory by being attracted to me?” he asks quietly.
He smiles wanly. “No, it’s not like that. She’s … she's dead. He swallows an abrupt sob.
“She's dead,” he repeats quietly. “She wouldn't get mad about me sleeping with you after she's gone. She'd want me to be happy. Besides, she always thought you were the bee's knees.”
“She what?” Beetee says, apparently not recognizing the Twelve expression.
“She saw your Games,” Haymitch explains. “Was a big fan of how you won with your extra special brains.”
He realizes too late he's given Beetee an opening for another round of annoying boasting about his genius brain. But Beetee just turns his back to the same wall as Haymitch and slides down onto the floor next to him. He raises his arm slowly towards Haymitch’s shoulders, a courteous warning. “Do you mind?”
Haymitch just shakes his head as he lets Beetee’s arm curl around him. They sit there in silence.
“Actually, she'd laugh her ass off at the idea.” he says.
“What idea?”
“Of us. Us sleeping together.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Don’t tell me that’s the best seduction line you’ve got?”
But there's not the same heat behind Beetee’s gaze as before, just an amused twinkle in his eyes. Haymitch can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth, but he says them anyway:
“Could we just lie on the bed together a while?” he asks, a bit terrified, but telling himself, You survived nearly getting your fucking intestines ripped out of your body, you can handle this. He really wants to touch Beetee.
The silence as Beetee examines him is so long, Haymitch has to fight off a rising wave of slight, panicked embarrassment. What if he’s changed his mind? But then the arm around him tightens and prods him onto his feet, and Beetee leads him over to the bed without a word. He seems to be waiting for Haymitch to make the first move onto the bed itself, but Haymitch can't make himself, just stands there looking down at the bare mattress, Beetee's arm still around him.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” Beetee asks him, the calm patience in his voice belied by an undertone of uncertainty, as if this wasn't at all what he bargained for when he lured Haymitch here tonight. And of course, how could it be?
“Yeah, I want this,” he grunts, closes his eyes in embarrassment and all in one movement, pulls Beetee down onto the bed, the way he used to jump straight into the lake back home, instead of wading in and gradually getting used to the icy-cold water. He hears a chuckle muffled into the mattress as Beetee adjusts his body into alignment with Haymitch, who is lying on his back.
“Good.” Already Haymitch can’t remember whose voice it was that said that - his or Beetee’s. But Beetee is carefully putting Haymitch's hand in his and the two of them then stare at the ceiling a while, not saying anything at all, and it’s somehow exactly what Haymitch needs right now. Eventually, Haymitch turns to look at Beetee, who must notice that he’s done so, but continues to look up at the ceiling, and for once, makes no snappy comments.
While he's not a Capitol fashion model or anything, Haymitch can't deny that Beetee is attractive, still fit from his Games - arms that are muscular, modest bulges showing through the arms of his suit jacket, a slim face, but it doesn't look half-starved like so many people in the Seam. His hair is dark and straight, but it hints at curls like Haymitch’s if only he would let his hair grow out more. His skin is much darker than Haymitch’s.
When it becomes undeniable that Haymitch is openly staring at him, Beetee looks down and locks their eyes together, like he did on stage with Laurenti. But this time, Haymitch is drawn into those deep brown, almost black pools fastening onto him, and he turns fully on his side too, meeting Beetee with a steady gaze.
“What?” Beetee eventually asks, more tentative than he usually does. Instead of answering, Haymitch surprises himself by reaching out to touch Beetee's chest. He doesn't dare do any more than experimentally run his fingers along the buttons of his shirt, but then Beetee grabs Haymitch's hand and takes a finger into his mouth, sucking with a lightness that feels strange and electric. He feels himself melt with it, and utters a completely unplanned grunt, until he realizes he's had his eyes closed for the last several seconds. When he opens them, Beetee is holding the fingers of his left hand in mid-
air and searching his face for confirmation.
Is this all right?, his expression asks, and Haymitch nods his head yes, because he's already finding himself addicted to the idea of Beetee touching him more.
“Do the kissing thing again,” he says gruffly, to break the spell, and because he can't get himself to say it any other way without it sounding strange in his own ears.
Beetee chuckles, and some of his teasing lilt is back. “Well, if it's an order, then.” His voice has a slight, lazy slurring quality, and Haymitch feels the back of Beetee's knuckles trail along his cheek in an affectionate way. Then he's pulling his right arm out from under himself, a bit awkwardly, and makes a soft semi-circle around the crown of Haymitch's head, fingers landing on the back of his neck. His arm is soon fully around his body, and Haymitch is being tugged in closer, until Beetee's tongue is parting Haymitch's lips, taking possession of his mouth for several seconds until Haymitch even remembers that he can respond.
It's not all that different than what he's experienced with Alsey, actually, except that Alsey was never this aggressive, never this obviously experienced; Haymitch isn't this experienced either, and he struggles to keep up, afraid of looking stupid, because his body is telling him that he really, really wants this to continue. He experiments with seeking out places in Beetee's mouth, trying to spark the same desire Beetee is making him feel, but the man is so determined, so sure about what he wants from Haymitch, that Haymitch eventually gives up and starts to relax under the kisses, and instead, starts investigating the rest of the man's body, possibilities occurring to him through the slow molasses of arousal his brain has become. He frees both his arms and wraps them around Beetee's back, tugging at the tail of his soft, cotton shirt, tucked neatly into his pants. He craves the feel of warm skin under his fingers, craves touch.
He runs his hands under Beetee's liberated shirt, and lets his fingers wander along the man's spine, pausing to feel the outline of his back muscles, exploring as far down as he can in this position, daring to grab the man's ass and press their groins together, something he never, ever dared try with Alsey. He hears a satisfying, small gasp from Beetee, muffled by their mouths pressed together. Beetee pulls away for a moment to utter a throaty, whispered plea.
“Oh, do that again. Please.”
Haymitch grunts, because the onslaught of kisses has been making his whole body feel weak with desire, and it’s work to not feel awkward about grabbing the man’s ass, as very much as he’s enjoying that. He pushes them together, this time his crotch grinding into Beetee's, riding out the kisses that way, feeling such an increase of pressure in his groin, so fast, it's almost staggering when Beetee starts undoing the collar of Haymitch's shirt, moving his lips downward, kissing his chin, then his neck, as the rest of the buttons of Haymitch's shirt come undone under Beetee's deft fingers. He shimmies the rumpled thing off Haymitch's arms and onto the bed as he runs his hands up the sides of Haymitch's body, sending more jolts of electricity coursing through him. Haymitch's head falls back and he lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched moan, but it's all getting too much, too fast, for him to care. He's a bundle of pinpointing desire all over, and he's never felt turned on like this before, never with his whole body like this.
Which is probably why he hasn't noticed until now that Beetee has managed to undo his belt and his pants, and has got them half off his ass. It takes him only a second later to panic.
“No, I can't!” he shouts, placing a firm hand onto Beetee's shoulder to push him away. “Wait, wait!”
To his credit, Beetee stops immediately. In fact, he freezes, his hands still fisted in a piece of the satin black trousers Haymitch’s team made him wear tonight. They both sit up on the bed, Beetee's eyes oddly wide with what looks to Haymitch like fear, or maybe worry.
“What is it? Something I did?” He really does sound like Haymitch has scared him half to death as he jumps off the bed, like he’s trying to give Haymitch space. “Did I do something wrong? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” Haymitch exhales deeply, feeling terribly embarrassed now. He stands up to be closer to Beetee, to reassure him, even though his pants are still hanging off his body in a fairly undignified way. “You didn't do anything wrong. It's just … when you opened up my pants, I ...started thinking about ...” He doesn't know how to say it.
Beetee's eyes search his with obvious concern that quickly turns to chagrin. “Oh, Haymitch,” he breathes. “Shit, already? Seriously? I'm really sorry. I had no idea.”
“Had no idea about what?” Haymitch's confusion for the moment damps down his embarrassment.
Beetee's eyes narrow. “So when you panicked,” he begins slowly, in an interrogatory tone. “That was because ...”
“Because I don't know at all what I'm doing,” Haymitch admits, running a nervous hand over his head, through the stiff hairspray in his curls. “I mean, I've never had sex with a guy before. I don't know what comes next, or what to do.”
The laughter falls out of Beetee like a tray of glasses smashing on the ground, discordant and with jagged gasps of amazement. “That's why you got upset?”
“Look, I'm not an idiot,” Haymitch grumbles. “I’ve just never done this before. How am I supposed to know what to do?”
There's a weak grin on Beetee's face now, like he still hasn't quite recovered. “No, no, you're right. Of course! That's perfectly sensible thinking, Haymitch. How would you know?”
He pauses and takes Haymitch's face between his hands and examines him. “Let's be really clear on this, shall we? I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, got it? Anything you don't want, you tell me stop, and we stop, all right? That's very important to me.”
“Well, of course,” Haymitch says, bewildered at the question. “Why wouldn't I tell you?”
Now it's Beetee's turn to look bewildered, but Haymitch can see him moving fast to cover. “Of course,” he agrees a little too strongly. “Of course you'd tell me. Because this is supposed to be fun, right?”
Haymitch nods. “Well, yeah,” he says, since nothing could be more obvious. There's something definitely odd about Beetee's reaction. “A9re you getting at something?”
He watches him take in a deep breath, then turn and exhale it. “Later, all right? At the moment, I don't want to distract from this lovely time we're having.” The smug, bantering Beetee is already making a quick comeback. “And as for your inexperience in these matters ...” The teasing grin on his face has already completely smoothed over any rough edges in his demeanor a minute ago. “I'll explain as we go, right?”
Haymitch raises his eyebrows at him as he stands up. “Only if your pants are off too.”
“Excuse me?”
Haymitch grunts under his breath with embarrassment, but on this point, he's adamant: “I'm not gonna be the only one with his pants down,” he declares.
The way the man is pursing his lips, it's clear that he's trying to suppress a laugh. But then he stands up straight, radiating a sober expression that Haymitch doesn’t quite believe. “An excellent principle in this sort of situation,” he affirms.
“Are you making fun of me?” Haymitch accuses, ready to be annoyed.
He blinks in surprise. “No, not at all. Not at all.” And he’s so genuine, Haymitch does believes that right away. “Indeed, you make a very good point.”
“Well, then?” he casts a meaningful glance downward at Beetee’s pants. He's treated to another of Beetee's chuckles, but without another word, the man is making off with clothes. Once Haymitch can see that he's serious, he takes off the rest of his own clothes, and in less than a minute, the two of them are facing each other, naked as the day they were born.
“So, now what?” Haymitch almost says, when the silence between them turns good and awkward, but new to this or not, he's not going to let himself look completely like a helpless idiot, so he makes the first move and gets good and close to Beetee again, trying out on him the one thing he knows he likes doing to himself.
Still, he can't help how tentatively he reaches out to take the man's erect dick in his hand. But as he starts to stroke it back and forth, learning the curves of it, finding the spots that make Beetee respond with something between a moan and a sigh, Haymitch feels his mouth curve into a pleased smile. He uses his other hand to grab Beetee's ass again, deciding he definitely likes that. As he'd hoped, Beetee makes a hissing sound of enjoyment.
“I think you lied to me,” Beetee says, taking Haymitch's dick in his hand too, “about never having done this before.” It’s a blatant lie, but Haymitch doesn’t care. The two of them stand there, their clothes in piles around them on the floor, stroking each other until it starts to feel so good, they slump into each other, too weak to stand upright.
“Come on,” Beetee suggests. “Let's take this to the bed.”
They expand into new territory, mixing the hot, sloppy exploration of each other's mouths with hands learning all the spots on each others' bodies - which to graze lightly or which to manhandle, which to suck on or to grab. They make each other cry out, moan, demand more. Haymitch learns fast that Beetee likes having his nipples rubbed with Haymitch’s index finger and that he likes it when Haymitch grinds their hips together. He wraps a leg around Haymitch's groin and pulls the lower half of his body in close and squeezes them together, their dicks rubbing up against each other in very satisfying friction. As they thrust at each other, Beetee hisses, “yesss” over and over in his ear, and that elicits desperate moans from Haymitch himself. At some point, he realizes he’s stopped thinking about the fact that this is a guy getting him off like this, and he revels in all the naked skin there is for him to touch.
And the certainty that the two of them are going to come very, very soon.
When they do come, only a minute later, Beetee sighs deeply, face buried in Haymitch's chest.
“I don't think technically, two guys giving each other handjobs is supposed to feel that good. Fuck, Haymitch.”
Haymitch's snort conveys surprise, amusement, but also a touch of pride. “Yeah, that was the general idea,” he deadpans.
Beetee's head darts up with just a flicker of wide-eyed surprise, then gives him one of those grins that Haymitch is just starting to feel comfortable with calling 'hot’ in his head. When the man laughs, Haymitch feels infinitely powerful, to have brought that sound out of him.
“Quoting my own words back at me, eh?” he teases. “ 'Clever Haymitch' indeed.”
He feels warm and sweaty and blissfully exhausted. He hasn't felt this good in months, in fact. But the moniker threatens to ruin all of it.
“Call me that again, and I'll clock you,” he mock-warns, reluctant to ruin the moment with a real warning.
Beetee grins. “Done,” he says, then adds mischievously, “Clever Haymitch.”
Haymitch pushes away the growing discomfort. “You smug bastard,” he grouses, and lunges for Beetee, pinning him down under him, but the other victor squirms and tries to wriggle completely free, sending the two of them off the bed and crashing onto the floor.
They both freeze.
“Shit,” Haymitch says in a whisper. “Do you think anyone heard that?”
Beetee's eyes dart nervously from side to side. “Nah. Probably not.” But his voice is less carefree now.
“Still, Snow specifically warned all us victors not to make contact with you. So I'm pretty sure if I get caught fucking you, he'll have my ass, and I really don't want to be in that position again.”
“Again?”
Beetee looks away, grabbing his clothes from off the floor, wiping himself clean with a sock. “Never mind,” he says, throwing on his outfit. “Let me go check that the coast is clear. Get dressed, just in case anyone’s coming.”
Haymitch hurriedly stumbles into his rumpled, hopelessly wrinkled formal wear, just barely keeping himself from falling in his haste. “We’re not going to be fooling anyone if they’re out there,” he hisses after Beetee, who is already standing impatiently at the door, waiting for Haymitch to finish.
Beetee waves off his protests, and opens the door in a tentative gesture, then throws himself out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Haymitch stands in the middle of the sparse room, legs shifting back and forth, waiting. He knows rationally that only about sixty seconds have passed, but it feels a lot longer when Beetee pokes his head back in.
“Yeah, we're fine,” he assures Haymitch. “But come up on the roof with me anyway.”
Part of him is so sleepy from his orgasm, he just wants to crawl into bed. But he’s gone this far with the man already, and he isn't ready yet to stop being around him.
“Okay.” He thrusts his hands in his pockets and follows Beetee out into the hallway.