Haymitch was drunk.

From the moment he stumbled into your room, you knew. It wasn't hard to tell, and you smelled the stench of alcohol on his breath even before he nearly tripped over air as he approached you. Plus, after all this time serving as his housekeeper, you knew him well enough to be able to discern that he would be drunk by this time at night.

But this time it was different. His eyes were clouded over not just with alcohol, but with something else: grief. It wasn't uncommon for him to be struck by his PTSD from the arena, but it was the first time he had ever come to you personally about it.

You had barely even registered what was happening when Haymitch's eyes meet yours, desperate. "Please," he quietly begs, voice soft and equa lly as desperate as his eyes. "Jus' hold me."