You Think This Is Hard? - A Hunger Games/ Glee crossover fanfiction

Chapter 5: Meeting Haymitch

Chapter 5: Haymitch

I lay in my large bed aboard the train to the Capitol. After boarding, Rachel and I had both gone straight to our respective bedrooms. Everything here is so… rich. Thick blue drapes hang from my window and my bed is large enough to fit about five people.

Everything still seems so unreal. It feels like a dream… or a nightmare. It’s like I could wake up any second in my bed at home, with my father on the other side of the room, getting ready for work.

I hear a knock at my door,

“Kurt!” Effie calls, “Come have some dinner! You will just love the food!”

“Coming” I answer.

I stand up and walk over to the large full length mirror that hangs from the wall. I still wear the clothes I wore to the reaping. I open the massive cupboard that sits against the wall and gasp at the huge amount of clothes, shoes and accessories that are inside. We are only going to be on this train for what, a few days? Yet there are enough clothes to last weeks, only wearing each item once.

I choose a simple white shirt, black pants and a blue blazer, the exact same colour as my eyes. I walk to the mirror and take in my appearance. These clothes are so much nicer than those available in District 12, with the material being soft and silky, much unlike the cheap course fabrics that we buy back in 12. After combing my hair, I make my way toward the dining car, to find everyone else there already.

I take a seat next to Rachel who is absolutely silent, which is, in itself, a shock, as the Rachel I know is constantly talking; complaining about one thing or another, or making some ridiculous demand.

The dark mahogany table is laden with more food than I have ever seen in one place. I have no idea where to start, so I take a small helping of a number of dishes, over-filling my plate.

I am about to begin eating when Effie coughs, as if to grasp my attention.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“We must remember our manners, Kurt.” She says, “And it would be good manners to wait for everyone to arrive before we start eating!”

“But everyone’s…”

My sentence is cut short by a man stumbling into the room, clearly very drunk. This must be Haymitch, I realise. I had completely forgotten about our mentor. He collapses onto a chair at the head of the table, spilling his drink all over the expensive wood.

“THAT IS MAHOGANY!” Effie snaps.

I glance toward Rachel; she looks just as disgusted by the man who is supposed to help us survive these games as I am. Her classic Seam features, dark eyes and olive skin, are twisted into an expression that I suspect is mirrored on my own pale face. Haymitch takes a swig from the nearly empty bottle and then throws it across the room.

“They get worse ever year,” He slurs, glaring at us.

I see Rachel’s fists clench at her sides. If there is one thing she can’t stand, it’s being told there are others who are better than her.

“Well excuse me!” She snaps “One glance at us and you blow us off! For all you know, we might be the best fighters you’ve ever had!”

Her voice increases in volume and speed, a clear sign that she is getting worked up. Because I know Rachel, I can see that this is about more than just Haymitch’s insult. She is taking out her anger about this whole situation on him.

“Well looks like we have a feisty one this year!” Haymitch says with a chuckle, “Well sweetheart, I’ve got some news for you; I do know you aren’t fighters because one: look at you. You’re about as tall a six year old and this one here looks like he hasn’t seen sunlight in ten years, and two: you’re from twelve. Let’s leave it at that. Accept the fact that you’re going to die, and that there is nothing I can do about it.”

He gets up and turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, Rachel says something that stops him in his tracks,

“What about Katniss?”

He turns, suddenly seeming a whole lot more sober.

“What’d you say?” He growls

“What about Katniss?” She repeats her eyes steely, “She was a fighter, and she was from twelve. And Peeta, he lasted until the very end, and then killed himself. He was about as tough looking as Kurt.”

Haymitch walked forward and grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t. Mention. Them. Again!” He shouts.

Rachel flinches away from him. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from where I stand. For her, the smell must be overpowering. And not only is that, despite his drunkenness, Haymitch is extremely intimidating. He is the only person in the whole of Panem who has survived the Hunger Games twice.

“You helped them,” Rachel whispers,

Haymitch’s anger increases. I can see the fury on his wrinkled face. He raises his hand to hit her.

“HAYMITCH!” Effie screams, but he ignores her.

His hand flies toward Rachel’s face. I can’t stand it. I jump forward, pushing him away from my friend. He falls to the ground, his greasy grey hair falling in strands over his face.

“Don’t you touch her,” I snarl, overcome with anger.

“You don’t know what its like,” he whispers, his voice suddenly filled with sadness.

“What?” I ask my anger fading.

“You don’t want to win. The faces of the other tributes… They never leave you. Every night, I will wake up, covered in sweat, screaming, because I dreamed I was back in the arena. For twenty-five years that happened, every night. And then there was the Quarter Quell, and my nightmare came true. It was worse because I knew them all. I knew all twenty-three of them that died. I would be able to tell you their names. Chaff, Woof, Seeder, Blight, Cecilia, Johanna, Finnick, Mags, Wiress, Beetee, Katniss… Katniss… So young, and despite her bravery and ability to fight, she still didn’t win. She was hope. She brought hope to the Districts. We could have rebelled. We were going to.”

Effie’s eyes widen, clearly this is the first time she has heard about this, but she stays silent and lets Haymitch continue to ramble.

“I should have died!” He shouts. “Why should I be here, now? I’m not worth anything!”

His whole body seems to collapse. We all stand, speechless at Haymitch’s sudden outburst.

I tear my hand from Rachel’s and approach our mentor. I kneel down, lifting his head and looking into his eyes, eyes the exact same blue as mine.

“If that’s really how you feel,” I say quietly, in what I hope in a comforting voice, “Then help us win. I know what you said, about winning, how it destroys you, but I plan on going home alive, and I would be honoured if you would help.”

And with that, he collapses drunkenly onto the thickly carpeted floor.