The fifth of the six days the tributes would spend in the Capitol before the Games brought nothing but anxiety, with an hour or two of interview coaching in between.
It had felt like an eternity before it reached the sixth and final day, though, as it did, Haymitch wished it had taken longer. The tribute interviews, hosted by Caesar Flickerman and broadcasted out to the entirety of the Capitol, were held in the evening, and Haymitch found himself attacked by Mathilde again about an hour beforehand.
Luckily, she must have pulled her head in since the opening ceremony, however, as she presented both Haymitch and Quince in respectful suited attire. Haymitch's hair had been combed previously to accommodate its natural wave, this time, though Quince out-looked him by a mile. His suit was perfect on his tall frame, and Mathilde gelled back his nearly-black hair away from his face as he plastered on a broad grin.
But Haymitch didn't care much about his appearance – and, as he'd already decided, being 'charming' was a stupid way to win sponsors, anyway. The interviews of the first few tributes sickened him enough.
Caesar Flickerman took to the stage first, dressed obscurely in twinkling midnight blue suit and dark green hair, lips, and eyelids. Haymitch watched in disbelief as each tribute crossed the stage for their interview, noting the plain nuisance most of them appeared to be.
The very first, Lux Maverick, from District 1, even placed a hand on Caesar's shoulder at one point, saying, 'Caesar, what these games need is a little bit of love. And I have to admit that some of my opponents might be my cup of tea.'
Haymitch almost gagged in his seat backstage. The following tribute, Sterling Munrow, was slightly more arrogant than his district partner, already frustrated with Caesar only two minutes in.
'How am I supposed to talk if you keep asking me questions all the time?' Sterling had demanded frustratedly, much to the audience's dismay. But the fourth tribute interviewed, Glitz Lurox, of District 1, was the one Haymitch most looked forward to watching.
Glitz pranced onto the stage in a shimmering, silver dress, which, as Haymitch hated to admit, actually looked phenomenal. Her bright blonde hair was perfectly curled over her left shoulder, and it was already obvious she'd won ninety percent of the Capitol's hearts before she'd even spoken a word. As it turned out, Glitz was the only volunteer in this year's games, which Caesar addressed almost immediately.
'So, Glitz, what made you volunteer this year?' Caesar enquired, holding his microphone to Glitz's grinning lips as he awaited her response.
'You know, I wasn't actually planning to volunteer. But when I heard about the new concept of sending more people into the Games, I didn't want to miss the opportunity of making history. So I said to myself: 'Challenge accepted!'' Glitz exclaimed energetically, earning herself a roar of applause from the Capitol audience.
At the end of her interview, she bounded off stage with a smile, and Haymitch felt slightly threatened. Dangerous and likeable. There was no way he was match for someone who was both.
As the time rolled around, and the final female tribute from District 11 exited the stage, Haymitch tensed in sudden anxiety. His name echoed off of Caesar Flickerman's lips, and his legs walked themselves on stage before his brain did. Haymitch took a seat in the chair opposing Caesar's, regaining himself.
Keep calm, he thought silently, the last person the Capitol would sponsor is a nervous little weakling.
'Ah, so Haymitch, how do you feel right now?' Caesar questioned.
'Bored. It takes so long to get us,' Haymitch quipped immediately, regretting his bitterness for a second, before chuckles began to ring through the Capitol audience, and he bit back a smile. Even Caesar laughed, glancing at the camera, before turning back to Haymitch with a smile.
'It seems like you're enjoying yourself,' Caesar answered with another chuckle. 'Anyway, let's get down to the important business. I can't speak for everyone here, but I know at least I am desperate to find out – how are you keeping your cool?' he questioned, offering the microphone in Haymitch's direction once again.
'Well, it's a little hotter than this in District Twelve,' Haymitch answered sarcastically, pursing his lips as Caesar paused to give both himself and the audience a chance to laugh. After a good ten seconds, he leant back toward Haymitch, clearing his throat.
'So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?' Caesar inquired, and Haymitch's mind flashed to Quince Everly and his senseless remarks.
'I don't see it makes much of a difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same,' Haymitch answered quickly, allowing himself to shoot the camera a half smile as the audience erupted into laughter, then applause.
'Haymitch Abernathy, from District Twelve, everyone!' Caesar announced finally, standing and reaching for Haymitch's wrist, before lifting his arm up in the air to invite the final applause.
Much to Haymitch's dismay, Quince Everly took to the stage directly after, blabbering on to Caesar about his average-at-best accomplishments. Thankfully, he invited little laughter, and Haymitch was grateful that he could at least beat Quince in one thing, other than training.
Second-to-last, Maysilee Donner was called. Haymitch was suspicious the audience had grown tired, after two hour's worth of interviews, although Maysilee answered strongly and confidently, anyway.
Towards the end of her interview, Caesar leant forward towards Maysilee, likely about to conclude with a personal topic.
'So, Maysilee, is there anyone at home you're missing dearly as we speak?' Caesar enquired, watching as Maysilee nodded sadly.
'My twin sister, Marigold,' she murmured quietly, gaining several 'aw's from the audience, 'I'm so afraid that I won't make it out of the Games and will never get to see her again.'
Caesar paused in consideration for a moment, pursing his forest-green lips in sympathy.
'And... is there anything you'd like to say to your sister, just in case? A... final message, so to speak?' Caesar questioned.
Maysilee nodded meekly, clearing her throat. 'I hope that, in case I don't make it, I would still leave a lasting impression on everybody. I would want the future generations to remember me, to know that once there was a girl from 12.'
A wave of applause followed Maysilee's words, and she exited the stage soon after, taking a bow on her way out.
She had officially won the Capitol's hearts – it was clear.
Night came, and as a wave of silent blackness swept over the city, Haymitch, much alike the other three District 12 tributes, lay awake in his bed, his mind running over every possibility.
Say he won, and could finally go home. He'd be the only living District 12 victor. But how could he spend the rest of his life mentoring tributes who were bound to die?
Maybe it'd be better to be killed first day, to just get it over and done with. Surely in the Bloodbath. Hopefully it'd be nice and quick and as painless as weapons of torture could be.
Worst case scenario, he never managed to retrieve a weapon, and hid in the woods until he was killed or outlived everyone. It seemed the most sensible choice, though Haymitch considered the numerous other tributes probably considering the same option, right now. Even if he made it into the trees, he wouldn't be there alone. And how humiliating, to run from the Cornucopia and be killed anyway? If he was going to die, it was going to be noble.
At least then the Capitol citizens mightn't feel ashamed to have supported him, if they even decided he was worthy. He hoped his interview had been enough. The audience had laughed, right?
So they found you funny, Haymitch reminded himself, big deal. It's not going to win you the Games, and it's not going to win them money.
But maybe there were a few wealthier ones out there, who betted for mere enjoyment, rather than the money. Who were amused by his little quips at the interviews and would be willing to see just how far a District 12 weakling would go.
A small whimper tugged Haymitch from his thoughts, and he rolled over to face the bed beside him, where Quince Everly lay. He was crying, his shoulders shaking visibly, which Haymitch could see, even with Quince's back to him. And not silently crying, either. Painful, bitter, sleep-interrupting sobs.
Haymitch, rolling his eyes, sat up, clearing his throat as to aware Quince of his attention. The whimpering stopped abruptly, and Quince gave a sharp inhale, rolling over to face Haymitch's less-than-comforting stare.
Think of something. Say something. You're not that much of a prick, Haymitch thought to himself.
'Thinking about... tomorrow?' Haymitch finally murmured, deciding uttering the words, 'the Games' would not have a positive effect on the current situation.
Quince was completely silent for a moment, before sitting up, sighing.
'I guess so. It's not that I don't think I can win,' Quince murmured – of course the guy didn't think so, he made it very obvious – 'it's that... I don't know if I could really kill someone.'
'As in you don't think you'd be strong enough?' Haymitch questioned quietly. He knew full well that wasn't what Quince meant, but he couldn't believe the only other option.
And also maybe wanted to humble him, just a little bit.
'No. I think I could. I practice athletics, and... I'm alright.' Alright? Had Quince Everly just described himself as alright?
'So you...'
'Don't have the heart to kill. Yeah. It's pathetic, I know.'
Haymitch probably would've thought it pathetic, had he not been more shocked than mocking. How could Quince Everly, the guy Haymitch had been willing to kill just a couple of minutes beforehand, with the self-attitude of a peacock and the brains of a pea, possibly be a nicer person than Haymitch himself?
Haymitch hadn't had a second thought about killing any one of his rivals, minus maybe the fainter from 8, out of guilt.
'I... I'm gonna head to the kitchen for something. Do you want to come? It might... take your mind off it, I don't know,' Haymitch murmured, in slight disbelief he was offering
anything to the boy he'd hated not so long ago.
But Quince shook his head, exhaling softly. 'No. I should really sleep. I do my best charming when I'm well-rested,' he shot Haymitch a grin, who wondered where the Quince that had just appeared a second beforehand had just disappeared to. That version seemed more... real. Or maybe it was all a guilt trip to make Haymitch second-guess killing people. If that was the case, it definitely worked.
Haymitch emerged from the darkened boys' chamber with a flinch as he met corridor light. Clearly someone was out there, as every switch was usually automatically flicked once everyone was asleep.
He crept down the hallway quietly, unsure whether or not he was going to face someone he wanted to see, or someone he didn't. There was a faint line between the two, though.
But, as he crossed the last shadows of hallway into the kitchen area, he caught a glimpse of the very last person in the world that would comfort him right now, and hated himself for not peeking around the corner before coming waltzing out into the light.
Connell Silvanus' head flicked towards him immediately, a crystal glass of cool booze sitting in his fingers, which he swished around with no apparent distress.
For a moment, Haymitch considered simply turning back to his room. Or walking briskly to the sink, retrieving a cup of water in silence, and retreating immediately. But every possibility began to slip his mind as Connell brought forward a second glass, pushing it across the bench until it sat in front of the empty kitchen stool beside him. Was Connell... offering him a drink?
Haymitch's glance flicked around him on all sides for a moment, making sure Connell wasn't gesturing towards anyone else.
'Just sit, Haymitch,' came Connell's deep, tired voice, as if he'd read Haymitch's mind.
Did the Capitol mentor, who hadn't spoken a direct word to his mentee in the five days they'd known each other, know his name better than Euphemia did?
Slowly and carefully, Haymitch crept over to the kitchen countertop, pulling the second stool out from beneath and taking a seat. He wasn't entirely sure he was even allowed alcohol in the Capitol, but, then again, he'd never been informed of any rules of such.
Connell pulled the glass bottle, filled halfway with a rich-looking, honey-coloured liquor, towards the two of them, unscrewing the black cap and trickling only a few ounces into the bottom of Haymitch's glass. It didn't look like much, but he figured Connell knew what he was doing.
Haymitch, however, did not, and the thought had now crossed him that he wasn't even sure how to drink this. All at once? In little sips? Two swallows? For a good ten seconds, all he did was stare at it, before bravely grabbing the glass and taking a small sip.
Immediate flavour gushed over his lips and down his tongue, and he let out a gulp which was half-swallow, half-gasp-of-surprise.
The woody liquid trickled into his throat, filling every taste bud with a cool, numbing, fruity-like flavour as he swallowed. His eyes must've been watering just a little, because Connell allowed himself a smirk and guided Haymitch's drink-holding hand to place the glass back on the bench.
'Thanks,' Haymitch uttered eventually, shooting his mentor a half-smile. Clearly, Connell was useless at all things until it came to alcohol, as pathetic as it sounded.
Or... maybe he just really liked that girl; the Capitol one, Maysilee's mentor. Haymitch was sure that if he was assigned to a task with Etta, he'd be inclined to talk to her the whole time, too. He couldn't blame Connell.
'So, you like her?' he blurted suddenly, watching as Connell Silvanus' face morphed from smiling exhaustion to a curious eyebrow-raise.
'Who?' Connell demanded, staring his mentee down.
'The other one. The mentor. Celiea, I think it is?' Haymitch smirked slightly.
'Oh,' Connell murmured quietly, placing his drink down and shrugging, his lips pursed over a sly grin.
Haymitch didn't say another word about it; he wasn't one to pry. He wasn't one to care, either. But as any hint of tiredness he once had left his body, he and Connell did the one thing they could do in a kitchen close to midnight, aside from drinking: talk.
As it turned out, Connell had mentored six District 12 tributes since graduating from the Academy, the Capitol's elite secondary school, each of which had been killed almost immediately.
It had taken a major toll on him, mentoring these children into something he knew they wouldn't survive, so he'd stopped trying to get to know them at all.
'But you're different,' Connell told Haymitch, as he poured him a second drink, 'I watched you, and you gave me a bit of hope that one of my mentees might finally win.'
Haymitch felt a strong, warm sensation at his mentor's affirming words, the sliver of hope he'd held in his heart of winning growing slightly. Connell believed in him. Maybe that meant other Capitol citizens might, too.
'Thanks, it... means a lot, coming from someone like you,' Haymitch grinned, taking another sip from of his drink, which he was slowly getting used to.
'Someone like me,' Connell chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief, 'what, a twenty-five year old alcoholic with a fear of getting to know a sixteen-year-old kid? I'm not a 'someone,' Haymitch.'
Haymitch shrugged. 'You're my mentor,' he disagreed, watching as Connell smiled a warm, grateful grin, which soon faded into an expression of curiosity.
'So, what makes you so practiced, Haymitch? I wouldn't have a thought a District Twelver like you had a chance to train for this,' Connell pointed out.
Haymitch pursed his lips, his insides crippling in embarrassment. How could he tell Connell – cool, strong, used-to-whiskey Connell – that his 'skills' came from chopping rabbit and berries in his tiny, little kitchen in District 12?
'I— I don't know. Lots of things, I s'pose,' Haymitch murmured in response, averting his gaze from Connell's, which searched his face for answers.
'Like...?' Connell prompted, raising his eyebrows.
'Like cooking,' Haymitch sighed finally, bowing his head in response. He waited for Connell to chuckle at him, or even just to allow himself an amused smile, but nothing came.
'Makes sense,' Connell responded, 'I'm impressed. But what about your ma? Or chefs? How come you cook, and not them?'
'My ma couldn't cook even if the pot stirred itself, and the day we get a chef is the day pigs can fly. That's why,' Haymitch smirked, shrugging. 'Luxury, I know.'
Connell chuckled, taking a swig of his drink. 'Wow. Maybe I'm going to have to pay you a visit when you win.'
When he won. The words off Connell's lips almost sounded like a guarantee, although Haymitch didn't want to call it too soon. 'Don't count your chickens before they hatch,' as his Ma would say. But before he could respond, the blinding big light was flicked on, and an angry-looking Euphemia lurked like a poofy, blue-haired nightmare in the corridor opposing the tributes' chambers.
Her mouth, which looked strange, at its lack of oddly-coloured lipstick, dropped open at the sight of Haymitch and Connell, and she trotted over, the hem of her pink, excessive, overly-fluffy robe draped on the floor like a wedding train.
'Haymitch! What on earth do you think you're doing? You have the Games tomorrow!' she scolded poshly, snatching the glasses from in front of both boys and dumping their remnants into the sink. 'How could you condone this, Connell? Goodness.'
Haymitch, who had mistakenly shared a glance with a face-pulling Connell during this slightly-amusing situation, had to stifle a laugh, shielding his mouth with the back of his hand so that Euphemia didn't notice.
He doubted he'd make it out alive if she caught him laughing at her.
'Now off to bed, the both of you,' snapped Euphemia dismissively, shooing the two down opposite hallways with an aggressive hand gesture.
Haymitch glanced over his shoulder at Connell as he exited the large, conjoined kitchen and living area, smirking as his mentor met his gaze, before reaching the door to his shared room with Quince and braving himself for any possibility.
But Quince lay just where Haymitch had left him, although this time, dead asleep. And Haymitch supposed he should be too.