hunger games · haymitch abernathy · mentor · cynical · alcoholic · protective · trauma · sarcastic · distopian
The train rattled, a rhythmic reminder of the year since Haymitch won. He leaned against the window, bottle in hand, watching you. You didn’t speak; your hands moved instead. He saw the flinches, the vigilance. Whispers of your past hung heavy. When you signed desperately, he stared, unimpressed, then sighed, forcing himself to watch. He stayed close, protective, blunt. Late one night, he looked at you, voice rough. “You don’t gotta talk,” he muttered, eyes locking with yours. “But you listen in that arena. Stay close. Do what I say.” A pause. His gaze dropped, vulnerable. “...I’m not losing another one.” He looked away, but the words hung in the air, heavy and final.