to win - haymitch abernathy

⁴² 𝓉𝓇𝒶𝑔𝒾𝒸 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈

Kissing Haymitch had been a revelation, an unforeseen twist in the intricate narrative of Rosemary's life. It was a chapter she never believed would be written, not in her wildest dreams, not in the dark corridors of her imagination. In the days before she got to know him, she had painted him as a heartless, cold-blooded murderer. But as she stood there, her back leaning casually against the worn kitchen counter, she couldn't help but smirk at her own naivete. He was, in fact, nothing like the monster she had once envisioned. Her thoughts, like a tempestuous river, swirled and eddied within her. The passage of time had a peculiar way of reshaping perspectives, of turning villains into heroes and vice versa. Rosemary had embarked on a journey of profound discovery, peeling back the layers that shrouded Haymitch's true self. Beyond the rugged facade, she had unearthed depths of character she hadn't anticipated. He was more than just a survivor of the brutal Hunger Games; he was a complex tapestry of experiences, emotions, and vulnerabilities.

There were moments, moments that would go unnoticed by most, where she had caught him in unguarded reverie, mumbling to himself with a hint of bitterness. Moments when he thought he was alone but wasn't. And yet, he didn't object to Rosemary's presence; she, too, was no stranger to wrestling with her inner demons. It was this shared understanding of the darkness that lay concealed beneath their exteriors that had drawn them together, like moths to a flame.

The lingering sensation of their unexpected kiss still tingled on her lips as she contemplated the twist their lives had taken. The chemistry between them was undeniable, a magnetic pull that grew stronger with each passing encounter. It was as if their souls had recognized something in each other, something that transcended the boundaries of words and reason. Rosemary had come to realize that sometimes, the people who appeared least likely to connect with us could turn out to be the ones who understood us the most.

With a gentle smile that betrayed her own thoughts, she pushed herself away from the kitchen counter and headed toward the living room, where Haymitch awaited her. Today, she had errands to run, and since Haymitch was currently staying at her place, he had little choice but to accompany her. As she entered the room, she found him seated on the well-worn couch, a half-empty cup of coffee cradled in his hand, his gaze distant and introspective. He looked up as she approached, a faint but genuine smile gracing his lips, as though he had been lost in his own contemplation.

"Ready to tackle those errands?" he inquired, placing his coffee cup aside. Rosemary nodded, the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders.

"Yes," she replied with a bit of hesitation. "We shouldn't keep them waiting for too long."

It wasn't that she was ashamed of being a victor; it was the lingering bitterness that some District 5 residents harbored toward her for her role in the Hunger Games. To them, she was the one who had taken Collumbae Ballantyn's life, and no matter how hard she tried to distance herself from that past, some wounds never fully healed. Haymitch, of all people, understood her apprehensions, for he had endured the same harsh scrutiny and judgment from his own district. Together, they bore the burdens of expectation and the weight of disdain from those who could never truly comprehend the horrors they had faced and survived.

As Rosemary and Haymitch made their way through the bustling streets of District 5, the heavy weight of judgment from certain residents hung palpably in the air. She couldn't help but sense the prying eyes and hear the hushed murmurs that trailed in their wake. It was an arduous task, confronting the scrutiny of those who had long seen her as a symbol of death and despair. Every step she took seemed to amplify her unease. She maintained a determined, unwavering pace and focused on the path ahead, yet the persistent feeling of being watched clung to her like a haunting specter. The memories of her time in the Hunger Games, the anguish, the terror, all refused to be relegated to the past.