DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Hunger Games! Otherwise, we'd see more Hayniss action. Reviews are welcome.

Peeta and Haymitch seem in pretty good moods, so I'm thinking the content session should be an improvement over the morning.

I couldn't be more wrong.

Once lunch has ended, Haymitch leads me into the sitting room, his hand on the small of my back in the utmost platonic and casual and familiar and comfortable of ways. However, I become hyperaware of the fact that we're alone, once more. There's nothing wrong with time alone, really, and there's nothing wrong with time alone with Haymitch. Not from my point of view, in any case. Maybe I'm too much in favor of it.

The couch is a relaxing crème hue and leather—it's the least that one could provide in the Capitol, anything less would not qualify as a couch. Yes, Effie trained me well. How all of this knowledge was to help me in the arena? My guess was as good as anyone's… and his knee is flush against mine as he collapses beside me. He sits there, frowning at me for a while.

The manner in which his eyes, those grey Seam eyes, trace over me declines from scrutiny to a certain brand of recognition, mingled with curiosity. Of course, neither one of us dares to reference what almost transpired the last time were alone together. I shift rather uncomfortably in my seat, wondering just what is going on in that head of his.

"What?" I finally ask Haymitch, hoping beyond all rational hope that I can finally make sense of the conflict in my head. It doesn't make sense, but nowadays, nothing makes sense. I can't describe the yearning to know him, the desire to feel him, the confusion of roles, and slight disgust at his plague. I can't make sense of it, and on top of all these lovely feelings, there's a possibility that I could die very shortly, but I mustn't think of that, dammit, I've got to stay alive.

There's a vast silence. He gestures with his hands before they fall into his lap.

"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he says, running his fingers through his hair, the same liquid smoke eyes penetrating my soul, and providing a window into his. How much does he know? Can he fathom? How much do I really know? How much can I honestly take… as something more? What happened before was only a mere ember of whatever dangerous emotion was currently simmering between the two of us. I returned his gaze, still, trying to gauge how much of this he was taking into account.

"In terms of your angle," Haymitch clarifies, but the tension does not go unnoticed. His face is calm, but there flickers something else – a fire inside. Of course he knows, but he does not acknowledge it directly. He's Haymitch—clever and charming, and in that case, dangerous. I shift in my seat again, restless for something and I have a sinking feeling that I really do know what I want, morality be damned.

"Volunteering for your sister was charming," he continues. "Your top score sets you apart, and that, couple with Cinna's design made you look…"

He pauses, trying to find an appropriate word, with a hesitance that was not induced by alcohol, rather, but by tact. Warmth spread across my cheeks.

"Fierce," he offers finally, rising from his seat and stretching. I can't help but notice the rustle of sinew beneath his finely tailored suit. "However, your persona tomorrow determines everything."

"Wow," I say in uncharacteristic jest, " You're actually right about something once."

As I had hoped, some of the tension is broken, and Haymitch cracks a smile.

"Well, sweetheart, you'd be surprised what you'll learn about me if you stick around long enough."

I smile back at him. "What's Peeta's angle?"

"Likeable," replies Haymitch, before a grin spreads across his face—with this grin, all sense of tension relieved goes out the window. "While you just come across as belligerent and hostile."

"I do NOT," I snap and he just laughs, infuriating me further.

"Katniss, please," responds Haymitch, hardly able to hold himself together as he chooses a crystal glass. " I hardly recognized the cheery Katniss on the chariot ride."

"Psh," I scoff, "Like you've given me any reason to be cheerful." Inside, however, I know that my sarcasm isn't just pure sarcasm. In fact, Haymitch had given me a reason to be cheerful, although it had been quite hard to fathom that he could have ever provided anything when he fell off of the stage the day of the Reaping. We understood each other—and this understanding I felt would be an important weapon in the Games. Among other things, Haymitch was from District 12 and he had succeeded. Horror of horrors, he had been Reaped, and he had won, something, that even in his decline, one could not just simply discount. If Haymitch noticed my lack of acidity next, he didn't mention it. Perhaps he was too busy perusing the Capitol's finest selection of alcohol.

After he decided on some dark and bloody elixir, he walks over to me, bottle in hand, simply shrugging as he swigs from a wine glass far too tiny. "You don't have to please me."

Oh, but don't I?

Would I?

Could I?

Should I?

I raise an eyebrow at the implications, wondering if they go unnoticed.

There is a pause on his behalf; he raises an eyebrow himself, adding in clarification, "I'm not going to sponsor you."

Oh.

"But still," he says, draining the contents of his glass, eyes alight.

"Delight me."