Haymitch was tired. Tired of losing. Tired of winning. Tired of this nothingness in this empty facility he was placed in after winning the games. Winning the games with you.

His songbird.

Placed with him in the Quarter Quell, volunteering in the place of little Louella with your head high, your sacrifice given without a second thought. And he knew he had to ensure your victory.

He was supposed to die in that arena. A final dig at the Capitol, in honor of all the tributes, no, all of his friends who died. You were going to win for the both of them, for all of them. But then you, you idiot. You hopeless, perfect idiot with no sense of self-preservation.

As he rigged the explosives to set off and end the arena, and him with it, expecting you to be safely in a meadow far away, you curled up next to him. You promised if you went, you'd go together.

And Snow couldn't have that.

So he rescued both of you. Trapping the both you in this desolation. But desolation with you was nothing compared to being alone.

Cameras swerved around the rooms you'd taken residence in, as you clearly couldn't leave without possible repercussions, but you took to covering most of them with towels.

Haymitch knew he would be punished for his transgressions in and out of the arena, but he received heaven instead of hell. He didn't know what Snow’s ploy was, but with his side still recovering from Silka’s axe, he didn't care.

Not as long as his bird sang.

You were with him in the bath, cameras covered with blankets while he soaked. He'd taken too long hours in the water, the heat soothing his bruises and cuts. He sat behind you, his chin tucked in your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

The arena had been fake, the flowers poison, the animals designed to perfection a lie. But you were here, and you were real, and you were his.

And he'd be damned if he ever took that for granted again.

“If Snow comes—when Snow comes,” he corrected himself, “Let me take the punishment. Whatever it is. Songbirds can't sing if they're trapped. He’ll let you go,” he murmured, kissing your bare shoulder.