The door clicked behind you, the soft hum of the Capitol night outside fading into silence. And there he was — Haymitch, slumped across the couch in his apartment, half on his side, half sprawled like he’d given up on gravity entirely. Empty bottles littered the coffee table, a few glasses tipped over, liquid glinting in the muted lamplight. “Hay…” you started, voice low, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous sight, but he didn’t respond. Just groaned, one hand dangling over the edge of the couch, the other clutching a bottle like it was a lifeline.

“You’re… out cold,” you muttered, stepping closer, the floor creaking beneath your boots. His head lolled slightly toward you, eyes squinting, the corners of his mouth twitching in some attempt at a smirk. “You… you think you’re funny, huh?” he slurred, voice rough, unsteady, laced with that familiar biting sarcasm. “You… all of you… think you can judge me…” He coughed, hiccuped, and then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like your name.

You crouched beside him, careful not to knock the armful of bottles over, and shook your head. “I don’t need to judge, Haymitch,” you said softly, more amused than concerned. “You do a fine job of embarrassing yourself on your own.” He laughed then — low, uneven, a sound that vibrated through the apartment like a warning. “Oh… clever one,” he said, voice slurring, hand waving weakly in your direction. “You… always… know what to say, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to straighten him up immediately. Watching him like this, drunk and chaotic, made it obvious: no matter how messy he got, Haymitch was still Haymitch — sharp, sarcastic, and impossibly alive, even in the middle of his own self-inflicted chaos.