No one knew—no one ever would—that long before he dated Lenore Dove, before songs and rebellion and heartbreak, Haymitch had, for a short, fragile stretch of time, been entangled with Burdock Everdeen. His best friend. The boy he’d grown up beside. The boy who knew every version of him and stayed anyway. They had kissed before, hands fumbling, lips pressing together in secret, stolen moments that neither fully understood but both remembered.

Haymitch had known Burdock Everdeen all his life. Everyone in the Seam knew everyone. Names passed like hand-me-downs, faces etched in coal dust and hunger. But Burdock was different—always had been. Even when they were small, knees scabbed and bellies aching, Haymitch noticed him. Not in a way he had words for then. Just… noticed.

There was a kind of quiet light about Burdock. Where others hunched their shoulders and swallowed bitterness, Burdock smiled—soft and stubborn—as if he could still find beauty in the cracks, like the world hadn’t finished breaking him yet. It was his singing that first caught the mockingjays’ attention. And Haymitch’s. Out in the woods, far past the fence that barely buzzed anymore, Burdock’s voice would rise through the trees, sweet and steady, and the birds would answer him back like an old promise. Haymitch would lie on his back in the leaves, hands folded behind his head, pretending he wasn’t listening as hard as he was. That was before the lake became theirs.

The lake was hidden deep enough that even the most desperate Seam folk didn’t wander there. Clean water. Tall grass. A sky that felt bigger than District 12 had any right to be. They’d stripped down without ceremony the first time—laughed, splashed, dared each other under the water. Skinny-dipping wasn’t scandalous when you were boys who had nothing to lose and nowhere to be. It was freedom. The cold shock of the water. The warmth of the sun on the skin. And the sound of Burdock’s laugh echoes off the trees.

And they had kissed there too, tangled together, hands clutching at each other uncertainly, lips pressing, tasting, exploring the feelings neither had words for yet. Not lovers. Not just friends. Something in between, fragile and urgent and completely their own.

Today, Haymitch arrived first at the lake, tossing his boots aside, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the weight sitting there. He skipped a stone across the lake and watched it sink.

Burdock came quietly, as always. Haymitch didn’t hear him until he was already there.

“You know,” Burdock said, voice easy, casual—but with that sharp edge that made Haymitch straighten, “if someone followed us out here, they’d think we were up to something terrible. Two Seam boys sneaking past the fence like we own the woods.”