A/N: It's been far too long, and I apologize, but I also thank everybody who has continued to review and encourage me to continue. I'll do my best. So with no further ado, the long-awaited, highly-anticipated NEW CHAPTER! Language warning is in effect for Haymitch and his mouth. Enjoy!

Chapter 11

Unfixable

Darkness descended, as it always did. Haymitch paced, wringing his sweaty hands and nervously glancing at the darkening world outside. It always began like this. It always ended with a bottle of whiskey and a helpless drowning feeling.

God, he needed help.

Haymitch, the bottles from the cupboard called softly. We'll help you.

Haymitch clutched his head in his hands, knotting his thick hair in his fingers and squeezing his eyes shut. The voices continued.

You can't do this alone, they hummed. You can't do anything alone.

Haymitch shook his head roughly and clenched his teeth together.

You can't do anything without us.

"Shut up!" he shouted, lurching toward the doorway and slamming his fists into the paneling. "Oh God, oh God." He stumbled into the kitchen and to the cupboard, its closed face laughing silently at him. "God help me," he murmured frantically as he wrenched the cupboard door from its hinges and pulled a bottle down. It felt right in his hand, like it belonged there. "God," Haymitch groaned, sinking to his knees then slumping against the counter with the bottle clutched tightly to his chest.

He'd never gone very long without a drink. Ugly things happened to his mind without alcohol.

They were happening now.

Oh God, they were happening.

Haymitch's whole body was trembling uncontrollably, the glass bottle rattling against the buttons on his shirt as his hands shook with the rest of him. A cold sheen of sweat coated his face and neck and his pulse pounded in his ears over the whisper of the addiction.

Open it.

Let us help you.

Haymitch's vision blurred as tears of agony and desperation filled his eyes. It had never been this bad. He'd always quelled the pain before it got this bad. And he wanted to now. He needed to now.

What was he supposed to do?

He brought the bottle to his face unsteadily and leaned against it, feeling the glass cool his burning face. He let his eyelids fall shut and tried to breathe deeply and evenly. Hazelle didn't like him to drink. She wouldn't let him see Posy or the boys if he drank. He couldn't be part of any of their lives if he drank.

But…

He couldn't not drink.

Haymitch could barely hear himself think over the incessant ringing in his ears. His throat felt rough and dry like he had just swallowed sandpaper. He was still shaking. He could feel himself losing it. He needed that drink.

The cap of the bottle came unscrewed slowly in Haymitch's quivering hands, his eyes still closed. He shuddered as it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a distant clink. The noise sounded miles away. Haymitch allowed his eyes to open as he shifted the bottle from his face to the swimming space before him.

It was half empty.

But it was fuller than the rest of his life, and he'd always taken half empty over completely empty.

Relief was inches from his lips. He stared hard at the bottle, a stream of sweat trickling from his forehead. His tongue itched for the burning taste; his throat throbbed for the shower of flames.

Haymitch brought the bottle to his lips, closing his eyes again gently. His pulse sped in anticipation. The voice of addiction trilled triumphantly:

We told you, Haymitch.

He tipped the bottle up just slightly, tilting his head back and listening to the alcohol flow against the glass.

We told you.

Katniss crossed the green to Haymitch's warily, unsure of herself with every step. She liked having someone who understood her. Not just to talk to. Not even to talk to. Just to sit with her. The night spent at her kitchen table with Haymitch made her feel like maybe she wasn't bearing all the weight of the Hunger Games by herself.

Maybe she could share it with somebody after all.

But Haymitch?

Katniss had never gotten along with him particularly well, and he could upset her with one word and an eye roll like no one else could. He was unstable on the best of days and out of control on the worst. He didn't want anyone close to him. He didn't want anyone to share the weight with him.

All Katniss could do was try, and she might as well.

What had she to lose?

Haymitch's front door was before her suddenly and she found herself hesitating. The horizon glowed faintly behind her and shadows grew all around. Refuge seemed unlikely but not impossible. If it was anywhere it was behind this door.

Katniss laughed and wiped her palms on her pants. "Haymitch," she whispered. "Who would've thought?"

She raised her closed fist to knock but paused again. She licked her lips and cleared her throat. Why was this so difficult?

"Katniss," she said softly, just to remind herself she was okay, then rapped her knuckles on Haymitch's door.

The sound shattered the night into a million pieces.

Haymitch cursed under his breath and withdrew his lips from the bottle as a knock at the door echoed behind his throbbing temples. He cursed again, hurled the bottle across the room and lurched to his feet. It smashed against a leg of the table as Haymitch reached the doorway to the hall, sweating and shaking.

He clung to the doorknob when he reached it, panting.

"Haymitch?" came a familiar voice from outside.

Katniss.

Christ.

Haymitch pulled the door open to meet the gaze of the girl on the other side. She looked like a dream, Haymitch thought. He needed a goddamned drink but promised a family he didn't. He needed someone to tell him he wasn't a monster but wouldn't listen if anyone tried. He needed to try to be something other than what he was but didn't know where to start. He needed to tell somebody and here was this girl in front of him.

When would he learn?

He couldn't do anything alone.

"Katniss," he said, and opened the door further. Katniss stepped inside and Haymitch shut the door behind her. "Are you—?"

"Sorry," she said quickly. "I just—I thought maybe..." She took a deep breath and shook her head. "I just thought you might sit up with me again? If you're not—I mean, you don't have to."

Haymitch felt his heart slow a little bit. He watched Katniss struggle with her words and almost felt better.

"Is this weird?"

Haymitch shrugged. His throat was still burning.

"Should I go?" Katniss moved toward the door but Haymitch stopped her with his hand.

"Stay." His voice was low and he was sure he didn't sound half as fine as he wanted Katniss to think he was. He hated looking weak to her, the girl he was supposed to be mentoring. But she seemed to understand him, at least part of the time. So maybe she knew his weakness even when he tried not to show it. Maybe she knew him better than he thought she did. He hated the thought, but kept it in his mind anyway. "I mean, you don't have to," he added, trying to lighten the mood.

Katniss offered a weak smile, then nodded and led him into the kitchen. "What happened here?" she asked, picking the broken bottle up off the floor as Haymitch followed her in.

"I haven't had a goddamn drink in so goddamn long." Haymitch ran the back of his hand over his brow and dropped into a chair at the table. "And it's hard."

Katniss carried the pieces to the trash and tipped them in, then turned around and leaned against the counter, looking steadily at her mentor as he sank his head into his hands. He was still shaking and he knew she could see. He couldn't bear to look up at her.

"It's hard, Haymitch. I know," she murmured.

He scoffed slightly under his breath, his face still hidden from her. "You don't fucking know,'re not me. It's so much harder than I'm sure you know."

"Then explain it to me."

Haymitch glanced up at her. Her expression had not changed. He lowered his head again and tried to describe his nightmare to her. If she heard it she might be able to imagine it, and she might be able to help him. God, he needed her help. "It's like...it's like I'm dying—like I'm already dead. I see things that aren't there, I think about things I don't want to remember, and I feel trapped." He looked back at her quickly then elaborated. "If I drink Hazelle's going to throw a fucking fit and if I don't drink...I'm afraid I will. In a worse way."

"So it's about Hazelle."

"It's not about Hazelle. It's about what not drinking is going to do to me."

"What do you mean?"

Haymitch sighed heavily. "Like...I'm going to break. Like it's the only thing holding me together."

Katniss moved silently across the kitchen and lowered herself into the seat across from Haymitch. "Is she worth all that?"

Haymitch raised his eyes. "What?"

"Hazelle. Is she worth breaking for?"

"No," he said immediately. "Nothing's worth breaking for."

"Am I worth breaking for? Is Peeta? Were all those kids you killed in your Hunger Games?"

"Why do you always have to make it about the goddamn Games?" spat Haymitch, reddening and pulling his head out of his hands.

"Because it always is about the Games! You are the Games. Everything you do is about the Games. You drink, you curse, you hate everybody—including yourself—and what for? The Hunger Games. As much as you want to forget, Haymitch, you never will. You of all people should know that. You're the one who taught me that."

"My...relationship with Hazelle and her family have nothing to do with the Hunger Games."

"I thought it wasn't about Hazelle."

"Shut the fuck up, Katniss. You don't know anything." Haymitch turned his head away from her and stared hard at the black glass of the window.

A veil of silence fell over the man and the girl at the table. Haymitch was hiding behind it. He didn't know what Katniss was doing with it.

After a minute she rose from her seat. Haymitch still did not look at her.

He heard her footsteps cross the kitchen, but not toward the door.

"Can I ask you a question again?" she asked.

Haymitch did not reply.

"Haymitch?"

"What question?"

He heard Katniss's feet shuffle quietly. "Am I worth breaking for?"

"You?"

He heard a cupboard open and close, then another.

"Why would I have to break for you?"

She didn't say anything. Haymitch paused for a moment, then continued.

"I don't think I'd ever have to, Katniss."

"Why wouldn't you have to?"

She strode back to the table and set a glass in front of Haymitch. He turned his head to look first at the glass, then up at Katniss, standing beside him with a bottle in her hand.

"Because," he whispered, staring back down at the glass, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "Because you know me well enough not to make me."

"Right," she said, uncapping the bottle and filling the glass with its contents. She replaced the cap and set the bottle beside the glass before returning to her seat across from Haymitch. "I would never make you break for me, Haymitch. I know you. I know what you've been through, okay? I do know. I've been through the same thing. That's why I let you drink, and that's why I would never ask you to stop completely. You need it. It's your escape. I get it, okay? I'm not as stupid as you think I am."

"I don't think you're stupid," said Haymitch, still staring at the glass in front of him.

Katniss stared at it for a moment too. "Then don't tell me I don't know anything."

"I'm sorry."

Haymitch's eyes were fixed upon the glass, the alcohol, the relief, the escape. His escape. Katniss was looking at it too. She wanted him to take it. She sounded like she really did get it. Could she? Could she possibly understand him well enough to let him destroy himself like he wanted to? Or was it her way of preventing him from destroying himself at all? Maybe drinking was the opposite for him, because he was already as broken as he could get, and the alcohol was the painkiller that numbed him, held the pieces of him together while someone tried their best to fix him. Was Katniss trying to fix him? Was Hazelle?

Could he be fixed at all?

"Drink it, Haymitch, for Christ's sake," Katniss said, leaning back in her chair, shifting her gaze from the glass to Haymitch's face. "You look awful."