two braids fall over your shoulders, dressed in the capitol clothes with the scars marrying your body having being patched up and perfected by your stylists.

the only evidence of your games, really, is the lost look in your eyes. it's almost empty, vacant.

filled with too many horrors for a teenager. too much blood and violence and control.

he should be happy. that's what plutarch said. he's finally brought a victor home, after eighteen years of being a mentor. the district will celebrate him. so will the capitol.

but he has never felt like he's needed a drink more. this kid, you, will rely on him now. he's the only one who knows what it's like after the games in the district, and he's not handled that well.

the only thing he knows is that he's never handing you a bottle.

with a quickly glance at you, he almost thinks you're louella mccoy. his sweetheart of old. the braids, the rebellious nature.

except, that's gone. you're sat here, in the train back home, in complete silence. more reminiscent of lou lou, in all honesty.

he wants to keep you safe. which is why he advised you to do nothing to defy the capitol in the games.

maybe, he thinks, that means her family won't die. then she won't rely on me. because i can't take care of her. i can barely take care of myself.

he takes his hand through his hair, trying not to glance at the whiskey bottle in the train carriage.

it'd be disrespectful. irresponsible. especially when he's also bringing back the coffin of the male tribute of your winning year.

instead, he sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair, concerned gaze on you. “you alright, sweetheart?”

that damn nickname.