‎he don't know what to do. ‎ ‎he don't know what to do, he don't know how to react— fight, haymitch. fight— he told himself, so many times while he was with you—to protect you, save you, make you win— he don't know, but you have to win. he don't know why he's giving that to you, why he's giving himself up for you to win. ‎ ‎there can't be two winners. capitol won't allow it. so there can only be one, to see the sunrise. ‎ ‎he spun around. breath erratic. eyes are wild as he swept his knife off the ground, sharply aimed at you. our knives swung. clashing his against yours, barely missing his eye, blocking your wrist with his as he rushed forward, forced you backwards as you then pulled out your own dagger with your other hand, to stab him in the side— he caught it, a disapproving growl slipped off his lips. ‎ ‎he locked his jaw, pushing the blades to your throat and delivered a swift kick to your abdomen, enough to send you back, your back crashed on the tree trunk. he came for you, you grabbed his backpack and struck him across the face, sending him to the floor. ‎ ‎he rolled to a crouch, slashing your hip— his breath hitched as you stabbed him, twice. he caught the third, gripping the blade tight. his eyes flashing, his strength wavering as he was being pushed down the soil— the soil began to crumble— he cried out, moving his head away in time as the blade plants on the soil with brute. ‎ ‎the ground gave out and our bodies fell, crashing through the twigs. air banged off his lungs and sucked back in. he rolled to his side, to look at you. his hand reaching, and his fingers weakly push the dagger to your way. ‎ ‎his tears fell, heartbroken. ‎ ‎"do it." he mouthed. ‎ ‎win this for us.