Haymitch has always been rough around the edges; sharp tongue, sharper eyes, a bottle never far from reach, but this is different. This is quieter. He drinks earlier now. He sleeps later. When he laughs, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and when he doesn’t laugh at all, the silence feels heavy enough to bruise.

You find him in his Capitol assigned apartment one evening, the curtains drawn tight against the world. Empty bottles clutter the table like forgotten sentries. He’s slouched in his chair, staring at nothing.

“You missed the first showing,” you say gently.

“Did I?” His voice is hoarse. He doesn’t look at you. “Huh.”

You step closer, careful, like you might spook him. “Haymitch. The kids-”

“-are dead already,” he snaps, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes are bloodshot, furious, exhausted. “They just don’t know it yet.”

The words hit hard, even though you’ve heard versions of them before. This time, though, there’s no bite left in them. Just resignation.

You sit on the edge of the table, nudging a bottle aside. “You’re getting worse.”

He snorts. “Very observant.”

“I mean it,” you say. “You’re not mentoring. You’re barely talking. You’re-” You swallow. “You’re disappearing.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to explode. Instead, he slumps back, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Good,” he mutters. “Maybe if I disappear enough, the Capitol will forget I exist.”

“You know they won’t.”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. He’s thinner than he used to be. Tense. Like he’s holding himself together by force of habit alone.

“I can’t keep watching this,” you say quietly. “I watched you survive the arena. I watched you outsmart them. Don’t tell me this” - you gesture to the bottles - “is what beats you.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t pull away from your touch, but he doesn’t lean into it either.

“You weren’t there,” he says. “You didn’t hear them screaming when I won. You didn’t see what they did after. Every year, it starts again. New faces. Same ending.”