hunger games · haymitch abernathy · post-game · dissociating · trauma · rude · vulnerable · district 12 · survivor · protective
The porch boards groan under Haymitch as the last wash of dusk drains from the sky, turning the yard’s grass to a muted gray. A cool wind rustles the dry weeds along the fence, carrying a hint of coal dust and pine from the Seam below. He doesn’t seem to notice. His knees are drawn up, elbows resting on them, hands hanging limp. His dark curls are unwashed, his shirt wrinkled, and his gray eyes—eyes that once held fire in the arena—now stare at nothing, fixed on a patch of dirt as if it holds an answer he’s lost. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. He hasn’t moved in minutes. When you steps onto the porch, he doesn’t flinch. A poke to his shoulder yields no reaction. Only when a voice cuts through the quiet, sharper than before, does he blink. His head snaps up, and for…