Author's Note: This story takes place after book one, when Katniss returns from the Games and shares a kiss with Gale. Also, disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games series, etc. Of course.

Addiction: Chapter One

"I thought I'd be seeing you, sweetheart," Haymitch says as I enter his malodorous, filthy home. I can just barely see a grin on his face in the dimly lit kitchen. But it isn't a genuine, happy grin. It never is with Haymitch Abernathy. It's an I-feel-your-pain grin. It's an I-know-exactly-what-you're-going-to-do grin. It's an I'm-sorry-it-had-to-come-to-this grin.

"You're not going to yell at me to get out?" I ask. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I could use the company," he admits reluctantly, and then mumbles so softly I can hardly hear him, "Your company."

I disregard the last bit; it's surely the alcohol speaking. Haymitch hates me. He just chose me over Peeta in the Games because he knew I would be more likely to survive. I sigh as I think of Peeta and how I have messed everything up. He's too good a person, Peeta Mellark. Too kind, too giving, and too different. We're on the opposite sides of the spectrum, and I can't just overcome that. I feel horrible compared to him, the angel of a boy.

I pull out a creaky wooden chair, shocked at myself for not minding the despicable state of his home. There's too much on my mind to care about the shattered glass, peeling paint, moldy walls, and rotting food. The chair quavers violently as I sit in it. I turn to Haymitch and whisper desperately, "Liquor. Now."

"Whatever the victor wants," he replies mischievously, his face so close to mine that I can see multicolored flecks within his cold, grey eyes. The potency of the alcohol in the air causes me to tear up, but I grab the bottle he presents to me and down its contents in less than twenty seconds.

When I pull away from the bottle, everything is blurry. It's as if the glass bottle is the only thing that makes sense, the only thing keeping me centered and able to hang onto sanity by a thread. Without it, everything crashes into oblivion. I feel a consistent thudding in my head and a burning deep in my throat. A thirst for more of the most beautiful and most horrendous substance in the world.

"More," I beg hoarsely, realizing that nothing else matters, and in that moment, I understand Haymitch.

I could faintly detect a flicker of guilt, of pain on his visage before he obliges to my request. "Whatever you want, sweetheart," he purrs, and another bottle is mine.

I finish this one twice as fast, though maybe that's because half of its contents spill onto my face, neck, and shirt. I sway like a fragile tree in the wind, threatening to collapse. And I do. I feel so incredibly drained. Everything is spinning and nothing makes sense except for the colossal thirst within me. And then everything is black.

The next thing I know, Haymitch is over me, pouring ice-cold water on my face. A searing pain in my temples causes small groans to escape from my throat. I convulse, disoriented and over-tired. At least the world has slowed down.

"Haymitch?" I ask, my eyelids fluttering.

"You can outwit the Capitol and outfight all the tributes, but you can't handle two bottles of liquor," he replies with a bitter chuckle.

I can't help but smile, though half of it is due to disgust. Disgust because Haymitch lives this way. This is his everyday. This is a path he chooses. "How do you live like that?" I ask him sorrowfully. I wonder if he can detect the mixture of pity, abhorrence, and admiration on my face in the darkness of his bedroom.

He's silent for a moment before he sighs deeply, scoots me over, and lies next to me on the bed. His arm is around me, cradling me, and I don't protest, mainly because I need the support right now. We lie together in silence for a while; I can't fathom how long. Then, he speaks.

"When you were drinking, what was your main concern?" he asks.

I'm silent for a while before answering, "Getting more of it."

"Quenching the thirst," we say simultaneously.

"You don't think about anything else. It isn't important," he continues. It's all he has to say for me to realize that I don't look down on him for drinking anymore. I remember that he was in the Games, too. I don't know what happened while he was fighting in the Arena, but I know it wasn't pleasant. The memories haunt him just as much as my memories haunt me, and we both know this.

"You don't think of the Games as much," I finish for him.

He nods. "I can't let the Games control me. I can't stand it."

"But you let the alcohol control you," I counter.

"Out of the Games and alcohol, which one would you rather have control you?" he retorts, knowing my answer.

"I'm sorry for the time I poured cold water on you," I blurt out.

He laughs dryly. "We're even now, aren't we, sweetheart?"

I nod in the darkness, and realize that I'm more like Haymitch than I care to admit. Tonight, I feel like one with him. One being. Without thinking, I raise my head and connect my lips onto his. Our kiss tastes of alcohol. It's cold, from the water, and wet. But it's filled with more fervor than any kiss I shared with Peeta or Gale, and neither of us is quick to separate from the other.

For something that's so blatantly wrong, it feels perfect.

I deserve Haymitch, and Haymitch deserves me.

Anything else is unthinkable.