Chapter Text
There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
“You came back to me. In this world!”
“And you managed not to get hung!”
“Are you okay? Are you really all right?’
“As right as rain,”
They sink into the grass, hands clasped. Lenore Dove reaches for the bag of gumdrops she dropped in the rush of their reunion. "Thanks for the candy. Gosh, look how hard I’m shaking!”
“Here,” Haymitch manages to say, but the gumdrop slips from his shaking fingers as well. They both laugh, and when he picks it back up, his smile falters. Huh. These aren’t the kind Lenore Dove likes. These aren't the ones I got for her, from Merrilee. Instead, its just one color—the first color of the rainbow, ripped from the rest. Red.
“Now you’re home, I guess I can eat the others.” says Lenore Dove, tone as light as a single feather from her geese.
He looks up at Lenore Dove, who’s still smiling, her cheeks sunken, her eyes too big in her thinner face, much thinner than when they parted. His stomach twists. What did you just say? "What others?"
“The ones Sid brought me. I put them under my pillow.”
The mention of his brother—his baby brother, his dead baby brother, freshly buried and covered with his district’s soil—brings the reality of it rushing back, and it disorients him. His head spins and his vision blurs, Lenore Dove going in and out of focus.
“But . . .” He manages to say and flinches away when Lenore Dove reaches for the gumdrop, hands shaking as he turns the white bag over, staring at the familiar Donner’s label. Only, inside the bag, he’s not seeing candy anymore—he’s seeing Snow’s rose. Hearing Snow’s voice. The words sink in like an early frost.
Haymitch’s hands start to shake. He barely registers Lenore Dove asking what's wrong. His fingers clench around the gumdrop in his hand, blood-red, red, all red.
The smell of roses and rotting meat fills his nostrils. Taste of milk and bread rolls still on his tongue. He stands abruptly, his breath shallow, his pulse roaring in his ears. Lenore Dove follows, gripping his elbows. When he looks back up, he’s seeing the world behind golden bars once more, like he’s never left it, just got used to look past them. His eyes meet Lenore Dove’s— green wide with confusion, gray wide with terror.
She reaches to touch his face, but her confusion only grows as he suddenly drops to his knees, gathering the scattered gumdrops into his palms, with one final look at Lenore Dove, who is love in its truest form, the only truth in his world as of now, he forces himself to turn his back to her.
"Don't follow me. Stay home." and then Haymitch runs - runs from the one thing he loves, has had left, but no longer can keep. He runs, even as she takes off after him, her voice breaking as she calls his name in disbelief.
He runs—runs until his legs give up, until he reaches a dirt alleyway. He stumbles, crashes against the rough wall, the uneven bricks scraping his back as he slides down, chest heaving. The small white bag trembles in his grip. Inside, the red candies sit, feeling tons heavier than they should be.
His vision pulses with each frantic beat of his heart—too fast, too loud, like his skull is about to crack open from the pressure. He can’t stop seeing it. His hand moving, the gumdrop between his fingers. Lenore Dove’s lips parting.
His breath shudders. He presses a palm hard against his chest, as if to hold himself together. His gaze drops back to the bag of candy.
I should eat them all right now.
End it before it’s too late.
Save her. I should. I should. I must. It’s the one thing I can still do.
Because he won’t stop. Not ever. As long as he lives. As long as I live.
First Ma and Sid. Then, Lenore Dove. And then who? Burdock? Blair? The McCoys? Maysilee’s family? How far will this go?
The thought of a world without Lenore Dove is unbearable. How is the Sun supposed to rise without her? It wouldn’t, he thinks. It couldn’t. The sky wouldn’t dare shine on a world that had lost her. What about another tomorrow without Ma and Sid? He wishes he could reach up and drag it down, no, don't go up, what about them? How can you rise, when they're not here to see you?
His fingers close around a gumdrop. He lifts it to his lips. His hands shake. Tears run down his face. This should’ve been easy. Lenore Dove’s words from the phone call they had before the games come back to him just as he’s lifting the gumdrop to his mouth.
“I don’t want to be on this earth without you.” He knows she meant it. She still means it, will mean it to the ends of time. That’s how rare and radiant Lenore Dove is. He only ever wants her to love her people, sing her songs, eat her apples, graze her geese, live long, live healthy, everything that Ma and Sid are robbed of, because of me. Live with as much love as you’re capable of, and oh Lenore Dove, you’re something that draws love as easily as the breeze carries a bird’s song.
Who am I to keep your songs locked in a jar, your spirit caged? I can't bear the thought of it—of trapping something so free, so alive, in a place where it can’t breathe. It would kill me before it did you.
Crushing the gumdrops in his trembling hands, Haymitch breaks. A choked sob shudders through him as he curls over himself, shoulders shaking. He’s hurting, he’s scared, every single breath he gulps is agonising, burns his throat and settles in his lungs like lead, he’s everything that’s left from the arena, he’s gouged, and at the same time, he’s suffocating, damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
That evening, after a whole day of hiding in dirty alleyways and corners, from everyone—Lenore Dove, Burdock, Blair, hell, even the McCoys—Haymitch finds himself standing in front of the Covey house, his hand raised to knock on the door. His knuckles barely make a sound against the wood, but it’s enough for those inside on the ground floor, his beloved’s guardians.
Tam Amber answers, eyes sharp, wary. The moment he sees who’s standing there, his face hardens and his lips curl down in displeasure, “She’s on house arrest. We barely managed to get her inside after whatever the hell you pulled in the Meadow. Look, Haymitch—”
“I’m not here for Lenore Dove,” Haymitch cuts in quickly, his voice rough from disuse and crying, and words feel like they’re clawing their way out of his throat, “Well, I am. But not to speak to her. I need to talk to you and Clerk Carmine.”
Tam Amber studies him, weighing something unspoken. Then, with a sharp exhale, he mutters, “Wait here,” and disappears inside.
Haymitch doesn’t move. His gaze flickers up, to the loft, where she probably is. A breath away, just a call of her name in one breath, but an entire world apart.
The door opens again, and Tam Amber returns with Clerk Carmine at his side. The two men step out onto the porch. Haymitch swallows. He has to say it all. Quickly. Quietly.
So he tells them about Snow, the promise of his homecoming, the fire that wasn’t an accident. The red gumdrops oh so conveniently left on Lenore Dove’s favorite rock right on the day she’s released. That this is all happening because Haymitch wasn’t supposed to live, he was never meant to come out of the arena, but he did, and the way in which he did.
Tam Amber’s face gets paler and paler with every word, blood drains from his face with each reveal, his head sinking lower. By the end, he can barely lift it at all. Clerk Carmine exhales through his nose, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s holding himself back. Haymitch knows that if the man weren’t so careful with his hands, for the sake of his fiddle, or else they’d either be buried in the wall—or in Haymitch's face.
“I’ll stay away from her,” Haymitch rasps. “That’s why I came. To tell you that.”
Tam Amber’s expression flickers. “What?”
“I’ll do what I have to,” Haymitch says, “To scare her off. Or make her give up. She can’t be near me.” His throat tightens, but he forces himself. “So you can keep her safe.”
Then Tam Amber swears under his breath, scrubs a hand over his face, and looks away. Clerk Carmine doesn’t react other than a nod, his eyes shifting warily to where the loft is. It’s time Haymitch leaves before his songbird is alerted by his presence.
Just as Haymitch takes a step back, quite unexpectedly, Tam Amber steps forward. Before Haymitch can move further, he pulls him into a firm, brief hug. “You look after yourself, too, kid,” he mutters. “We’ll take care of her. That’s our promise back.”
The familiar words send a jolt of pain through him. But Haymitch doesn’t hug back. He has no strength left in his arms, nor his legs—he feels like a ghost, dragging phantom limbs across the earth, trailing behind him the blood of everyone he’s led to die. An empty being, dragging death behind him, he feels like Death itself, knocking on doors.
And so, Haymitch nods, as much as he can against Tam Amber’s shoulder, and then he breaks away. He leaves. Where does he go? Just like a homing pigeon, he flies back to his cage.
That night, Haymitch lies awake in his too-big, too-empty bed, staring at the ceiling of his too-quiet house. The sheets are still stiff, feels wrong on his skin. The Victors’ Village is silent, untouched by the rest of the district, no clinks of dishes being washed, no neighbors hurrying to prepare for bed, no crackle of fires being lit.
He assumes his friends must’ve exhausted themselves searching for him, just as Lenore Dove must have, frantically scouring the district all day after hearing about the events of this morning. Someone must've told her by now, he thinks. And if someone checked his house in the Victor’s Village by now, the one that he ran away from, when he was hiding in the corners like a rat, it’s safe to say they won’t be coming again tonight.
He can still hear Sid —Please don’t take my brother, we need him! Ma’s voice —what your pa said to the Whitcomb child, it still goes. Then the crackling roar of fire, drowns their voices in a sea of flames before he can tell his brother — It’s going to be okay, Sid.
I’m sorry, Ma, I let them do it, I let them use me, he thinks.
I’m sorry Sid, nothing was okay. Not then, not after. I’m sorry my last words to you curdled into a lie. I’m sorry they were all I had left to give.
I’m sorry, Pa. Oh, wherever you are, I hope you haven’t had to see me in that birdcage, Pa. I don’t even want to imagine the look on your face. Would you be embarrassed? Ashamed? Angry? Disappointed? The mere thought of it makes him tear up. I’m sorry, Pa. I was scared. I was so scared. I did it all because I was afraid. I still am. I’m sorry, Maysilee, you were rotting in your box when I was painting their posters. I told you I wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Louella. I’m sorry, Lou Lou. I'm sorry Wyatt. I’m sorry, Ampert. My doves, I’m sorry—
He squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t help. The flint-striker resting on his chest feels like it’s burning its way down, leaving a scorched hole. He can't bring himself to lift his hand and hold it in his palm, I'm sorry --
BANG BANG BANG.
There’s a series of knocks at the door. Haymitch jolts upright, groggy and disoriented, before dragging himself out of bed. What’s he rushing for? His heart knows what, his brain won’t acknowledge, and his body moves on its own.
BANG BANG BANG.
His feet shuffle across cold wooden floors. He heads downstairs, passing the windows on the ground level, all tightly covered. He had shut and blocked them with pieces of plank he found around the house as soon as he stepped into the house. He knew the covered windows would be obvious, expose to everyone which house he was staying in among the other untouched homes of Victor's Village. But it was better to take the measures as soon as he could.
Because, knowing Burdock, that boy would break into the house the second he caught wind of where he was exactly after running away like that. Lenore Dove would do the same, and that’s why the extra miles with the planks—just in case.
He doesn’t need to check who it is. He knows. Still, he presses an eye to the peephole.
Lenore Dove stands there, dressed in black, something she doesn’t do much, she loves her colors too much, her slight frame trembling. He can hear her ragged breathing even through the heavy door. Her eyes—red-rimmed, still full of tears—cut straight through him.
He wonders who was the one who told her, Burdock or Tam Amber are his best guesses. Maybe when Burdock and Blair were running around like headless chickens, headless baby chick, one of my little doves, Wellie, trying to track him down. She shouldn’t even be here—out of her house while on house arrest, standing in the Victor’s Village, where the entrance is supposed to be guarded by a peacekeeper at all times. Though he doubts anyone’s guarding the place right now—it’s not like there’s anything or anyone worth watching over, just empty bricks and roofs.
And now, Haymitch is just another empty part of an empty house. Nothing to see here, nothing to mourn here except the mourner.
She pounds on the door again, chokes out his name, voice brimming with grief. “Haymitch! Open the door! Please!”
His fingers hover over the latch, but he doesn’t open it. He doesn’t even consider it, yet his body betrays him, moving against his will, his reason. His heart, his instincts, are no longer his own. They’re hers. His girl blinds his senses, her voice a lullaby he can't help but fall into, pulling him to shut his eyes and follow her, hand in hand, whatever dream she takes them to.
But he can’t. Not anymore.
Lenore Dove sobs, her fists still striking the wood, calling for him, but he stays still. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, in his throat, in the aching hollow where his organs used to be before Snow had carved him empty.
Please leave.
She won’t. Of course she won’t. She’s Lenore Dove, and she’s never known how to give up on him.
“I heard about Sid and Willamae, oh, Haymitch, my love—“ She slams her palm against the door now, her voice splintering, cracking as she says their names. “You’re not doing this alone, I won’t let you. Talk to me, please, you’re not alone, not now, not ever—”
He is. He’ll make it so.
Because if she stays, she’ll get hurt. Because if she stays, she’ll be just one more thing Snow can take from him, from the world. The world has already lost so much, too many good people, starting with his Sweetheart, and the endless chain of deaths that followed, reaching all the way to his ma and brother. The world can’t lose Lenore Dove too.
Why is no cruelty ever enough?
He doesn’t think he can survive losing her, too. Away from him, but alive. Afar, alive, maybe one day, happy with someone else. The thought sets his heart on fire, but not all-fire, no, an unrelenting heat that boils his insides, scorching him from within, hollowing him out. He is damned to bear it.
So he turns his back against the door, and leans against it, feeling the force of Lenore Dove’s desperate fists. If he closes his eyes, he can almost believe it's her touch he feels—the force against the door between them as a ghost of her gentle touch, a featherlight caress against his cheeks, rather than the frantic punches landing on the wood.
She keeps talking, begs, her words are bewildered, her tone woeful, dejected, in a way it never has been before. Yet, it’s still her—stubborn to her core. Her fists keep colliding against the door, and it rattles more than just Haymitch’s body.
Seconds pass, they grow up and become minutes, but before they can start running as hours, the knocking fades. Her voice breaks into nothing. He hears the telltale shuffle, the tired inhales between teary breaths, the sniffles. Lenore Dove falls asleep outside his door.
Haymitch can hear her breathing, he presses his ear to the door. Each exhale twists something sharp inside him, colder than the night air, because he knows she’s shivering out there. He knows she’s curled up against the hard ground, still in mourning black, waiting for him even in sleep.
When her breathing evens out, and he’s sure she won’t stir, he eases the door open as softly as he can.
She’s so small like this. Curled on her side, arms wrapped around herself, feet tucked beneath her dress. The porch light casts a glow over her auburn hair, turning it to red of the Sun’s hemline as it pools at its feet, saying goodnight to the Moon as it tucks itself to sleep.
Haymitch doesn’t take his eyes off her as he lowers himself to the ground, pressing his back against his new cage. He folds his arms over his knees, tucks his chin down. And watches her.
He’s kept watch before, it’s a good thing he has practice now. However, there’s no one snoring to warn, no one to switch shifts with, and no little one to keep an eye on even in sleep.
So he sits there, heart throbbing like a raw, untended open wound, and listens to the sound of her breathing. If he sleeps now, just beside her, would they meet in their dreams? Would their souls find each other in that fleeting space between night’s hush and morning’s stir?
Time doesn’t pass, not in a way he understands anymore. Once, time ran as easily as his fingers did, through Lenore Dove’s locks, like autumn leaves drifting through the cold air. Now, he’s not so sure. It feels like each second cuts through his being to get to the next.
He wants her presence to burn on the back of his eyelids, wants to trace it there with the hot end of a needle if he could, if only it was possible. Then, he’d close his eyes, seal them shut, and live that way. He wouldn’t think twice.
When he finally hears the softest of footsteps approaching, his eyelids refuse to move—his eyes feel dry, frozen open.
Haymitch doesn’t move as Tam Amber comes into view, stepping into the porch light, eyes landing on his niece with a kind of sadness, not pity, but the kind that comes from understanding and needs no words.
Haymitch takes one last look at her—the way her hair spills over her face, the ends curling slightly from where it was pressed beneath her head. Then, he watches as Tam Amber carries her home, walking across the big circular center of the Victor’s Village. He wants nothing more than to see Lenore Dove stepping out of its caged door, free. Only then he finds the strength to get up and go in.
As he walks through the threshold, his foot catches on something, and he almost slips. Crouching down, Haymitch picks up the small, folded piece of paper. He sees the initials "L.D." scrawled across the front. She didn’t really need to sign it—Haymitch knows her handwriting like the back of one's hand. It’s carved into his heart, after all. Lenore Dove must’ve slipped it through the door at some point. Slowly, he unfolds the paper.
The walls of a person’s heart are not impregnable, not if they have ever known love. I love you like all-fire, Haymitch.