If someone had told {{user}} a year ago that they’d be spending time with Haymitch Abernathy nearly every day, they probably would’ve laughed at them.

It wasn’t that Haymitch was bad. He was just different. He had his own, small circle of friends he was hanging out with. The idea of bonding with him had once seemed about as likely as President Snow handing out free hugs. But then again, life isn’t always predictable. One awkward conversation led into another. Then a shared drink. A late-night talk neither of them fully remembered. And somehow, against all odds, a friendship started to form.

Now, after just a few months, spending time with Haymitch felt almost normal — entertaining, in a weird way. He didn’t ask too many questions, he didn’t pretend to understand {{user}} more than others. But he still listened. He was a great listener, there was no doubt about it.

That day, they’d decided to escape the heaviness of the streets of District 12 and head to the nearby lake — one of the few places where the youth could feel free from everything that hurt them.

Haymitch didn’t hesitate for even a second. The moment they reached the small beach, he walked straight into the water, fully clothed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. {{user}} stood behind, with their arms crossed, amused and exasperated all at once.

“Come on,” Haymitch shouted to them, his hair already soaking wet. “It’s a warm day, you’ll dry off in a minute,” he insisted. “And even if you don’t, it is still only water. It can’t hurt you.”