𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 ᐅ 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙞𝙧

𝙁𝙊𝙐𝙍

⌌⊱⇱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊰⌍
Finnick and I were
anything but
his puppets.
⌎⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⇲⊰⌏

The two days following the exorbitant party that would be the harrowing source of my nightmares consisted of Cassandra, my Capitol escort, instructing me on the etiquette and attitudes in each District, and how my behaviour on the tour should mirror that of the District I am in. It was not only a  dull experience, but an anxiety-inducing one — while Jameson was devising a pitch to present to Snow, I was sat twiddling my thumbs and listening without truly hearing.

The soft colour palette of the morning sunrise shone through the enormous windows of the Training Centre apartment, washing the living room and kitchen with warm watercolour. It was as though an artist had used the finest pinks, oranges and yellows to create what I was staring upon, and I basked in the fleeting relaxation I felt.

Harsh knocking rattled the door.

A bell.

I rolled my eyes, discarding my coffee on the marble countertop and ambling over to the door with no haste — whoever it was that was constantly hammering on the door could fuck off this early in the morning. I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the previous night, too afraid of the nightmares sleep induced and so the hard knocking sent an ache trailing through my head and rested above my eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I snapped, although the aggravating person behind the door probably couldn't hear me.

I yanked open the door to come standing face to face with a man I really did not need to converse with at seven o'clock in the morning. He looked absolutely wretched, as per usual, his gruff beard sticking out at awkward angles and his beige hair tousled on his head. It seemed like I wasn't the only one who didn't get any sleep.

"Haymitch?"

"I'm not here for you, sweetheart," he said gruffly, pushing past me and heading straight for the kitchen.

"No, please. Come in, won't you? Make yourself at home."

"Don't get your pants in a twist," he called over his shoulder as he rummaged through the cupboards, swearing under his breath. The pungent stench of alcohol consumed the air. 

"Is it the comment I made in the games? Come on, Haymitch," I teased lightly, "you know that was just for the cameras."

"Listen, I'm not in the mood to converse with anyone. Its 10 am and I haven't had my morning drink."

I scoffed. "I aspire to be you."

"Hmm," he said as he took a sip of whatever beverage he got his hands on. "I'll bet you do."

I chuckled before sipping my coffee, and decided I might as well make Haymitch one to sober him up, though I doubt anything could make that man sober. I don't blame him, though. He was the only victor from District 12, and he lost two tributes each year... it was the sort of loneliness that couldn't even be drowned out with liquor. That sort of a exclusion would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

"Abernathy, get out of my wine parlour!" Jameson's voice hollered from his room.

"I'm not in your wine parlour!"