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Haymitch can admit he may have fucked up here.
Chugging the milk was an intentional defiance. He’s not going to apologize for that. Plutarch following him and catching him in the act was a bit trickier. He looked at Haymitch, then the milk that he’d just drank, then at Haymitch again. At once, Haymitch realizes that his action could have terrible, terrible consequences for more than just him.
Plutarch opens his mouth to speak.
And Haymitch’s only thought is: Oh no. He’s going to snitch.
So, in his panic, Haymitch had punched him.
Plutarch went down like a sack of rocks.
Which might have been okay, if not for President Snow.
“Plutarch!” Snow calls. His voice sounds hoarse now. “Where’s the…”
His voice trails off, and Haymitch no longer hears it.
His breath is practically stuck in his throat as he looks down at Plutarch’s unconscious form, then to the door that leads to the room Snow is still in.
Oh…he is so, so screwed.
He scrambles back to the main room.
Snow is lying motionless on the ground.
Two Avoxes stand vigil at the sides, looking entirely too pleased.
Haymitch meets their gaze with wide-eyed panic.
Then, he bends down to check if Snow is still breathing.
He is tempted to “check for signs of life” by just kicking him, but decides against nudging the President with his foot or something similarly disrespectful, no matter how much he wants to. It would end badly in the case that Snow is alive.
And…he isn’t.
Yeah, Snow is super dead. Whoops.
Or yikes.
Or huzzah!
He’s not sure how he should react.
But he knows he isn’t mourning, that’s for sure.
Haymitch looks back to the Avoxes with a desperate “What now?” expression.
He gets hustled away by the Avoxes who are being way too calm about the President of Panem dying in the house they’re supposed to be helping, but Haymitch gets it. If he had his tongue cut out and was made to serve some Capitolites, he’d take every opportunity to spit in their food or hide bodies of people who deserved it or something.
Oh, wait.
Plutarch is still unconscious.
He’d have to deal with the fallout of this mess when he wakes, since it’s his house and all.
Should Haymitch be apologizing to Plutarch for this?
Hm. Probably.
Sorry, Plutarch, Haymitch thinks, very quietly, in his head.
Yeah. That’s good enough.
Much, much later…
“That was all it took to fell Snow?!”
“So it seems. Funny how it all worked out.”
“But—it was—I just—argh!”
An amused huff. “But…?”
“It’s just—that’s how he dies. Seriously?!”
“Snow’s death is a good thing.”
“I know, I know. It’s was just so—so.”
“What?”
“It was so…anticlimactic!”
“Oh, for—Fates help me. Just take the win, Plutarch.”
Incoherent sputtering. “BUT—!”
“Take—The—Win.”
A defeated sigh. “To the revolution. I guess…”
A snort. “Cheers.”