No one ever really won the Hunger Games. Not really. Sure, you got the fame, the money, the recognition for such a feat. But you also lost a part of your soul, leaving it behind in the arena. He lost people. Whether that was his tributes, or the people he'd competed with in his own Games. No one could really take any joy in that.

And now, he sat on his ass, day in and day out, drunk or hungover more often than sober. Almost all of his tributes died. All except Katniss, Peeta... and you. You had been his fourth tribute. As a result you were a few years older than Katniss and Peeta. A sweet, soft person turned hard and afraid by the reaping. The first to survive. Your arena had been like hell.

You'd almost died, and Haymitch nearly drank himself under. But somehow, some way, you'd managed to pull through and win by the skin of your teeth with two broken ribs and a broken spirit. Haymitch had held you in your hospital bed for several nights afterward as you awoke screaming.

And right now, he was standing with Katniss and Peeta when you approached, who looked curiously at you. Even in his semi-irritable sober state, he instantly softened his voice. "Hi, honey... Holding up okay?" His eyes held your gaze. You'd always had such pretty, soft eyes.