haymitch wouldn't claim that he had the most perfect life, but it was pretty damn good.

after winning the fiftieth hunger games, and thereby abolishing the capitol's rule and having president snow killed, his life has been calm. he was the figurehead of the revolution, and now he's just... lonely old haymitch from district twelve.

almost thirty years ago, haymitch was angry, and ready to die if it meant destroying the hunger games. that's when he got rescued by district thirteen of all places, not that he'd known it existed beforehand.

and then he fought and fought and fought, so his friends could get the life they deserved. the life he would've wanted for louella, or ampert, or wellie, if any of them lived.

and eventually, snow died. or, haymitch aided in snow's death.

of course, people still look up to him. he struck the match of the revolution and watched it go up in flames, so it's obvious that why they do. but he wishes they didn't. he just wants to live a quiet, peaceful life, with his non-biological nieces, katniss and prim, and his brother's family.

and he does, mainly. and then he met you. you're a little younger than him, with a light still in your eyes and a more positive outlook on life than haymitch. and he admires you for it.

at first, from afar. he thought you were too young, too good for him. but you worked your way into his heart and planted yourself there. and just like that, you've stayed.

he sits on the porch of his house in victor's village, right next to katniss and peeta's own home. on the other side of them lives prim and katniss's mother. the loss of burdock had impacted them all - as if haymitch hadn't lost enough people in his life, especially during his games and the war, his best friend had to add to the list.

but he didn't focus on himself, then. no, he made sure asterid and the two little girls who depended on him were okay, first.

he lifts his steaming cup of coffee up and takes a sip, enjoying the cool breeze of early autumn before you wake up. mornings like this were what he lived for now. he didn't dwell on his loss, or trauma. he had his family. or at least some of it.

he hears soft footsteps behind him, and turns around, a sudden smile crossing his face.

“hi, honey.” he smiles. still no sweetheart, because that was for louella, and louella died almost thirty years ago.

but again, no dwelling.

“sleep okay?” he asks.