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Haymitch Abernathy is an addict. He's been an addict for years - and not a particularly functional one, either. He dragged himself through the Games each year, barely managing to stay conscious during mentoring sessions and fancy sponsorship parties, a drink in his hand and his mind always dripping with liquor and pleasantly detached from reality. It wasn’t living, not really, but who amongst the Victors could say that they were actually living? Not just surviving? He could think of a single one.
So he uses the bottle to cope. So what? Everyone has their vices, their coping mechanisms, so why is he the only one frowned on for dealing with his past the only way he knows how? Fuck District 13 and their stupid fucking no alcohol policy.
It’s been days since he’d left his room. His sheets are all tangled and near-soaking wet with sweat, disturbed each time Haymitch had a withdrawal nightmare, or the shakes came back, or he had to throw himself to the side of his bed to retch up nothing. His head pounds fiercely with every movement, and he’s haunted by the faces and voices of people who are a lifetime away. Mags. Romulus. Maysilee. His mother.
Haymitch thinks he wouldn’t mind dying so much. Anything to make this stop.
***
Effie is concerned, to say the least.
She, along with Haymitch, had been informed of District 13’s strict no-alcohol policy the second they set foot on their soil. It isn’t particularly a problem for Effie; yes, she was partial to a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the evenings, and she drank like everyone else during the Capitol’s lavish parties, but overall she found much more pleasure in other things. Stunning clothes. Decadent food. Sex with Haymitch. She had plenty of other ways to keep herself content back then, and a few of them remain for her in District 13.
But Haymitch worries her. She has only ever known him as an alcoholic - he has his highs and lows, like any addict, but the drink has always been a part of him. She’d seen how he’d paled when he’d found out; he started picking at his hands in an anxious flurry, and Effie had had to take them in her own until he’d taken a deep breath and settled.
It’s been nearly three days since they touched down, and Haymitch locked himself in his room, claiming that if he was going to go into withdrawal, it wouldn’t be in the hospital where doctors could poke a prod at him whenever they liked. Effie hadn’t wanted to argue and upset him further. But it’s mid-afternoon on the third day, and she can’t quell the anxiety swirling in her stomach.
She nods to herself, her mind made up. She won’t leave him to suffer alone anymore. No matter how much of a fight he puts up.
The halls twist and turn, and for one embarrassing moment, she thinks she might have to stop and ask somewhere where to go. But after a few minutes of marching through endless identical corridors, she finds what she’s looking for. Haymitch’s room. Her heart stutters a little in her chest as she swings the door open.
Her heart breaks at the sight in front of her. Haymitch is shivering, hard, and completely uncovered by the duvet that is crumpled at the foot of the bed. He’s asleep, she thinks, but his eyes are screwed tightly shut and the low, keening moans of a wounded animal leave his lips with alarming frequency. The smell is so thick in the air that it almost makes her gag. Sweat, and vomit, and goodness knows what else. Oh, her poor sweetheart.
“Haymitch?” She tries to keep her voice as quiet as possible, slow and soothing, as she steps over discarded clothes and shredded books to get to his bedside. “Sweetheart? Can you hear me?”
The whimpering grows louder, and something in her aches at the sound. He’s having a nightmare, there’s no doubt about it now. But should she try to wake him? Or would that make things worse? She worries at her lip, indecision freezing her to the spot, before closing the distance between her and the edge of the bed. She perches next to Haymitch as he tosses and turns, and bites her tongue when she sees the state of him up close. There are clear tear tracks on his face, and his nails have been bitten down to the bed. His head sticks to his forehead, wet through with sweat, and she takes a moment to push it out of his face.
“Haymitch, you’re alright. Wake up, it’s alright.” She hopes this will work - she really hasn’t a clue what she’s doing. He rolls towards her, pushing up into her touch, and for a moment, relief sings in her chest. “There you are. You’re okay, sweetling.”
His eyes open, and they’re so red and bloodshot that it looks like he’s been crying for days. He looks at her without seeing.
“Mama?”
The question is spoken with such cautious hope that Effie feels a lump form in her throat. Her brow furrows and she coos at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. There’s still vomit around his mouth. She truly can’t find it in her to care.
“Not Mama, sweetheart. It’s your Effie.” He closes his eyes, shaking his head, and she brushes gentle fingers over his eyelids until he opens them again. “It’s me, angel. See? Your Effie is here to look after you now. No more dealing with this by yourself.” He seems to register her words, nodding once and moving closer to rest his head on her soft, thick thighs.
They stay like that for a little while, Haymitch floating in and out of consciousness, Effie running her fingers over his face and through his hair, until the forehead beneath her hands starts to grow worryingly warm again. She shifts slightly, eliciting a panicked groan from the man in her lap.
“It’s alright, Haymitch. I’m not going anywhere.” He settles down at that, and Effie hates herself for how good that makes her feel. “But I was… I was wondering if you’d like to get cleaned up a little? It might make you feel better, dear.” She feels his hands tighten in the skirt of the ugly, makeshift dress she’s sewn out of the uniform she was given.
“Not- n-not alone? Effie s-stays? Want y-you, pl- please-” His teeth are chattering so violently it’s a wonder he can speak at all.
“Shhh, that’s right. I’m staying with you the whole time, I won’t leave you alone.”
“Effie’s st-staying?”
“Effie’s staying, sweetheart.”
It’s a struggle to get the both of them to the bathroom attached to Haymitch’s lodgings. Effie ends up half-carrying, half-dragging him across the floor, resting his back against the cold tiles on the wall. His eyes are closed as his head lolls back against the wall, his chest heaving with the effort of moving.
Effie was planning on tugging him into the shower with her, propping him up and washing him. She sends a silent thank you to Plutarch and Coin for the fact that Haymitch’s bathroom comes with washcloths.
She wets one with lukewarm water and leaves it in the sink as she turns back to a now-sleeping Haymitch. He used to look so peaceful when he slept; it was the only time she’d even seen him look young. But he looked anything but peaceful now. He was trembling.
Before she can crouch next to him to take his shirt off, his eyes fly open, and in seconds he’s throwing up into the toilet bowl that Effie had the good sense to place him near. His knuckles are white as he grips the bowl, and before she knows it she’s on her knees next to him, dragging his hair up away from his face and rubbing his back, whispering comforting nonsense to him as whatever was left in his stomach make its way through the plumbing. After a minute or two, he sits back against the wall, and she dabs at his mouth and forehead with the cloth.
“There you are. Better out than in, dear, no matter how unpleasant it is. There we are, let me just-”
The cloth is snatched from her hands before she can finish her sentence. She startles at the sudden movement and barely has time to dodge as it’s thrown back at her.
“What was that for?!”
“Get ‘way from me!” Haymitch’s voice is guttural, and Effie has no idea what’s happening. Is he hallucinating? Is this part of the withdrawal? What is she supposed to do? “Don’t touch me, g-get the fuck- fuck away fr’m me! Don’t- I’ll kill- I’ll f-fucking kill you!”
She stands, backing away from him slightly. She won’t leave - she knows that isn’t what he wants, not really. He’s just frightened. But he must notice her drawing back, because in a split second his face slides from white-hot anger to utter despair. He looks like someone has just killed his family in front of him. Effie tries not to dwell on the fact that she knows that has actually happened to him.
“M’sorry, ‘Ffie, I d-didn’t- didn’t mean to, I- I-”
“Haymitch.”
“M’sorry, sorry, I- please- please don’t-”
“Haymitch.”
“Ple- please don’t leave me. Effie.”
A tear slips down her cheek and she hurriedly swiped it away before he can see. She’s never seen him so vulnerable - no doubt he’ll be embarrassed and surly for days when he’s through the worst of it. But for now, he’s completely torn open, raw and bleeding at her feet. She has the sudden, odd thought that she would burn down the Capitol and everyone in it if it would make him feel better.
She’s on the floor, pulling him to nestle between her legs and wrap his arms and legs around her before she even registers the desire to do so. He’s trembling worse than before, and she can feel his tears as he presses his face to her shoulder, desperate to forget everything but her.
“M’sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologise to me.” Effie’s voice is firm, but not unkind. “I want to be here, understand? There isn’t anywhere else in the entirety of Panem I’d rather be.” Her nails feel good against his back through his shirt, and he shivers, holding tighter through the tremors. He’s just as agitated, but he feels cooler, and his face is clean, at least. She doesn’t want to risk upsetting him further. Haymitch lets out a sigh, and the warm air tickles her neck. It’s intimate, and she can’t stop herself from pressing a kiss to his forehead. Despite it all… she’s grateful they’re here, and together.
After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Effie strokes a firm hand down his back and plants a kiss against his forehead.
“Time to sleep, I think, sweetheart.” She has no idea what time it is - she knows it was mid-afternoon when she went to find him, but she can’t tell if it’s been minutes or hours since then. It could be the middle of the night or the middle of the day, so she doesn’t know if settling down to sleep is the right thing. Still, her father used to say a little bit of rest and some TLC could solve any ailment, so she’ll stick with what she knows.
Several minutes pass, and she eventually has him tucked under fresh covers (she found the spares on top of his wardrobe, and quickly swapped them out - she did an awful job of it, but she supposes it doesn’t really matter under the current circumstances).
“There we are. That’s better, isn’t it?” She tries to inject some of her usual positivity and verve into her voice, but it falls rather flat. The lump that lodged itself in her throat when she first opened his door was still there, firmly and annoyingly making itself known, and she bit back her tears. They wouldn’t do either of them any good.
“Hm.” The hum is non-commital, but sounds a lot less upset than before. She’ll take that as a win.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check on you, alright? You need your rest, and-” A hand shoots out and takes hold of her wrist. The grip is weak, but there’s a desperation in it that makes Effie pause. “Haymitch?”
“Don’t go.” It’s a last-ditch effort. It’s him, ripping open his own chest and bearing his soul.
She toes off her shoes, undoing her hair wrap and placing it neatly on his bedside table. He tries to lift the covers, a chivalrous gesture, but just about manages to shift it down slightly. It’s sweet nonetheless, and she curls up against him, tugging the duvet to cover the both of them.
“I love you,” Haymitch says. It’s plain, and simple, and real.
“I love you too.” Effie opens her arms and lets him tuck himself against her.
They’re not out the other side yet. And when they are, there’s a whole war raging around them. But for now, just the two of them, Effie lets herself fall asleep to dreams of a cottage somewhere, far from death and destruction, where they’re both safe. Safe, and together.