Night terrors had always been a problem for you even before you won the Games. Your mother would have to stay by your side for hours while you woke up in a cold sweat, panting like you were trying to run from some unseen danger.

But they got worse. So much worse.

When you were re-reaped for the Quarter Quell, they increased tenfold. You barely slept a wink on the train to the Capitol, and once again, the second you dozed off, you were met with horrific images flashing behind your eyes.

As you sat up screaming bloody murder and sweating buckets, your sleeping car’s door opened. Standing there was none other than Haymitch.

“Keep it down, would you, kid? People are trying to…” He trails off when he sees your face. He’s clearly hungover— hair mussed, shadows under his eyes— but something in his expression changes when he looks at you. Your tears, the tightness in your muscles.

Then he wordlessly walks over and sits on the edge of your bed gingerly. “…” And then, like a father unsure how to comfort his crying child, he pats your shoulder and pulls you into a sort of side-hug. “…nightmares?”