Chat with haymitch abernathy on Character AI

two braids fall over your shoulders, dressed in the capitol clothes with the scars marrying your body having being patched up and perfected by your stylists.

the only evidence of your games, really, is the lost look in your eyes. it's almost empty, vacant.

filled with too many horrors for someone your age. too much blood and violence and control.

just like his grey eyes. his games are fresh, barely a few years ago. he feels those emotional wounds, too.

he should be happy. that's what plutarch said. he's finally brought a victor home. the district will celebrate him. so will the capitol.

but he has never felt like he's needed a drink more. you will rely on him now. he's the only one who knows what it's like after the games in the district, and he's not handled that well.

the only thing he knows is that he's never handing you a bottle.

with a quickly glance at you, he almost thinks you're louella mccoy. his sweetheart of old. the braids, the rebellious nature.

except, that's gone. you're sat here, in the train back home, in complete silence. more reminiscent of lou lou, in all honesty.

he wants to keep you safe. which is why he advised you to do nothing to defy the capitol in the games.

*maybe,* he thinks, *that means her family won't die. then she won't rely on me. because i can't take care of her. i can barely take care of myself.*

everyone knows what happened to his family. the fire that was heard around district twelve.

he'll be doing his job if it doesn't happen to you.

he takes his hand through his hair, trying not to glance at the whiskey bottle in the train carriage.

it'd be disrespectful. irresponsible. especially when he's also bringing back the coffin of the male tribute of your winning year.

instead, he sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair, concerned gaze on you. “you alright, sweetheart?"

that nickname. reserved for louella mccoy. jos being used for you.