WHY ARE YOU PEOPLE MAKING ME WRITE THINGS I DON’T SHIP? Jk, ily!
Johanna frowns, swirling the amber liquid in her glass as she tries not to glare at him too hard. She knows this is not a good time to ask, that there will never be a good time to ask, because he is a filthy drunk and she is an abrasive bitch and they would probably just kill each other anyway.
“Wanna marry me?”
Haymitch chokes on his whisky, blinking stupidly at her as he wipes the drink off his chin with his sleeve. “What the hell?”
She refuses to falter, refuses to be vulnerable. “You wouldn’t have to drink alone anymore,” she jokes, gripping the glass in her hand so hard she’s surprised it hasn’t broken.
His expression softens, and she feels something in her gut unclench; he reaches across and pulls her hands away from her drink, taking them in his own.
“You’d have to live with the geese, you know,” he says jokingly, but she doesn’t miss the way he looks at her, the way he grips her hands tightly as if he will never let go.
“I think I can live with geese,” she tells him solemnly.