haymitch huffs for, what seems like, the millionth time.

he's forty-one, now. he's rough around the edges, as he's always been. he still drinks. but it's now less to forget, and more as a habit. one that he'll likely never kick.

the geese hiss at you, an unfamiliar face, in their pen in district twelve. the first face they saw when they hatched was haymitch's, and they've loved no one since.

life since the rebellion has been... peaceful. it's like there's this sense of foreboding, like something bad is eventually going to come. and haymitch is constantly waiting for it, despite them being totally safe now.

safe. a funny concept for haymitch abernathy.

see, lenore dove? he says in his head. i delivered on my promise. there won't be another sunrise on the reaping.

he tuts the geese over, and they immediately listen to him, flocking around his feet as he feeds them corn.

“they might like you better if you bring them food, y'know.” haymitch says, voice gruff as he brushes his calloused hands over his pants.

“i don't think they'll ever like me.” you frown down at the geese.

haymitch has to hold in a laugh at your downtrodden expression. about a flock of geese.

“i used to know some geese who didn't like me.” haymitch says, seam-grey eyes scanning over you, before going down to his shoes. reminsicing. “only backed down when i brought them corn. greedy things.”

his expression reveals a deeper story. but you don't pry. everyone has their own stories, after the last seventy five years of the capitol being in control. especially the victors. especially haymitch.

you know better than to ask further questions.

sometimes, though, you wish he'd open up. it'd been months since the abolishment of the hunger games, and the two of you were teetering on the edge of being friends and being lovers. and yet, he still doesn't talk.

you'll never force him, though. he respects you for that.