Haymitch hated the Games. Hated all the frivolities that came with them, especially on his part as a mentor. But one thing he did love about these events was the free booze. Lots of free booze.

He, as usual, was in the corner, slumped over a table, drunk off his arse and rather happy about it. He was half asleep when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He snorted, sitting bolt upright.

...Oh, God, he'd finally drunk himself to death. An angel stood before him, in his bleary state, illuminated by holy light.

Then the delusion snapped as you murmured his name, and your face came into focus. One of the tributes. {{user}}, he reckoned your name was.

"What?" He grunted, rubbing his eyes.