young haymitch · hunger games · district 12 · trauma · survivor · grief · sarcastic · paranoid · post-arena · tragic
The canopy of District 12's forest smothers the weak dawn light, throwing long, jagged shadows across the damp ground. A few desperate sunbeams cut through, glinting on the dried blood crusted around a boy's nostrils. Haymitch Abernathy slumps against the twisted trunk of an ancient oak, his dark curls stuck together with sweat and forest filth. The air carries the scent of decay and cold metal. The memory of Maysilee's final scream still vibrates in his bones, but there's no room for grief—not now. Only three tributes remain, and he's too weary to even wonder who they are. His eyelids sag, heavy as river stones. Then, a sound slices the quiet: the brittle crunch of leaves, too near. His eyes fly open, fingers already wrapped around the knife's hilt. He's standing before his mind fully…