[The Hunger Games] On the Problems with Survival
Title: On the Problems with Survival
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Haymitch/OC, essentially
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 642
Notes: Written for the fic prompt.
Summary: A glimpse into Haymitch's past, and the life and love he once had.
Her name was Tassa Hayden, and the other teenagers of District 12 bullied her because she looked like she came from the Seam but didn't. If she'd really been from the Seam, she wouldn't have put up with any of that, and if she hadn't looked like it, she wouldn't have been different enough to push around. But she hit that unfortunate middle.
Haymitch never had a lot of patience for bullies. He was always a direct young man when he could get away with it, and something of a devious one when he couldn't. He managed to scare off most of Tassa's tormentors; the ones who wouldn't stop when threatened directly, he found ways to get in trouble at school. For things other than the bullying, of course. That wouldn't have earned them more than a slap on the wrist.
He liked Tassa. So she looked like she was from the Seam. That didn't matter. He thought she was pretty. He liked the way she wrung her hands when she couldn't think of something to say; he liked how expressive her face was. He could be expressive too, but never as gracefully as she was.
He wanted to protect her. Not like he wanted to protect his brother, or like he'd once, as a young boy, expected his parents to protect him. He wanted to be special to her.
She didn't wring her hands when he tried to explain this to her, a little more gruffly than he'd intended to. She just smiled radiantly and hugged him. That was a month before reaping day. When she met him in that room in the Justice Building to say goodbye, she wrung her hands a lot before finally confessing that she'd always had it bad for him, and she wished more than anything she'd had the courage to say something sooner.
"Doesn't matter. I'll come back," he told her.
"No one else will believe you when you say that," she said.
"Good thing you will," he said, smiling for the first time since they'd read his name out there in the square.
"Of course I will," she said. "Do you have a token yet?"
"Couple people tried to offer me one," he said. "Like I'd take it from anyone but you."
She gave him a pendant on a leather strap. Her parents were smiths, so she'd learned how to do pretty things with scraps of metal. This one looked like a teardrop.
"Because I'll cry if you don't come back," she said, "and I know you hate to see me cry."
"That's just manipulative," he said, but he was smiling again.
His family was already grieving him. Only Tassa believed he'd come back. She didn't say it openly, of course, because there were three other families grieving or hoping, and she wouldn't want to hurt them. But she believed. And he came back. He came back, still exultant from beating the system. Still hearing the axe passing by over his head two times, once heading for the strange force field, once coming back from it.
It was his family who saw him first, shedding their grief for joy. For once, he didn't bother pretending not to be glad to see them. It had hurt to know they were mourning him. He promised them, although he didn't say it out loud, that they wouldn't ever have to mourn again.
Then he found Tassa, and he just hugged her. "Take this thing back, will you?" he said, pushing the pendant at her. "It makes me think of you crying."
"I will," she said. "But I'll wear it every day. Because it makes me think of you surviving."
(That was why he let them bury her in it. When his family was dead, when she was dead, he didn't want to think about his survival anymore.)
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Haymitch/OC, essentially
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 642
Notes: Written for the fic prompt.
Summary: A glimpse into Haymitch's past, and the life and love he once had.
Her name was Tassa Hayden, and the other teenagers of District 12 bullied her because she looked like she came from the Seam but didn't. If she'd really been from the Seam, she wouldn't have put up with any of that, and if she hadn't looked like it, she wouldn't have been different enough to push around. But she hit that unfortunate middle.
Haymitch never had a lot of patience for bullies. He was always a direct young man when he could get away with it, and something of a devious one when he couldn't. He managed to scare off most of Tassa's tormentors; the ones who wouldn't stop when threatened directly, he found ways to get in trouble at school. For things other than the bullying, of course. That wouldn't have earned them more than a slap on the wrist.
He liked Tassa. So she looked like she was from the Seam. That didn't matter. He thought she was pretty. He liked the way she wrung her hands when she couldn't think of something to say; he liked how expressive her face was. He could be expressive too, but never as gracefully as she was.
He wanted to protect her. Not like he wanted to protect his brother, or like he'd once, as a young boy, expected his parents to protect him. He wanted to be special to her.
She didn't wring her hands when he tried to explain this to her, a little more gruffly than he'd intended to. She just smiled radiantly and hugged him. That was a month before reaping day. When she met him in that room in the Justice Building to say goodbye, she wrung her hands a lot before finally confessing that she'd always had it bad for him, and she wished more than anything she'd had the courage to say something sooner.
"Doesn't matter. I'll come back," he told her.
"No one else will believe you when you say that," she said.
"Good thing you will," he said, smiling for the first time since they'd read his name out there in the square.
"Of course I will," she said. "Do you have a token yet?"
"Couple people tried to offer me one," he said. "Like I'd take it from anyone but you."
She gave him a pendant on a leather strap. Her parents were smiths, so she'd learned how to do pretty things with scraps of metal. This one looked like a teardrop.
"Because I'll cry if you don't come back," she said, "and I know you hate to see me cry."
"That's just manipulative," he said, but he was smiling again.
His family was already grieving him. Only Tassa believed he'd come back. She didn't say it openly, of course, because there were three other families grieving or hoping, and she wouldn't want to hurt them. But she believed. And he came back. He came back, still exultant from beating the system. Still hearing the axe passing by over his head two times, once heading for the strange force field, once coming back from it.
It was his family who saw him first, shedding their grief for joy. For once, he didn't bother pretending not to be glad to see them. It had hurt to know they were mourning him. He promised them, although he didn't say it out loud, that they wouldn't ever have to mourn again.
Then he found Tassa, and he just hugged her. "Take this thing back, will you?" he said, pushing the pendant at her. "It makes me think of you crying."
"I will," she said. "But I'll wear it every day. Because it makes me think of you surviving."
(That was why he let them bury her in it. When his family was dead, when she was dead, he didn't want to think about his survival anymore.)