It’s not the first time he has been drunk in public. He pours it down his throat, smacks his lips off the old bottle. Throws it to the corner of the house he lived in alone, can’t bring himself to care that it breaks against the wall. Even if they scrubbed the only occupied victor’s house, some of it would remain haunted, because it had taken root in the veins of twelve and he was their victor after all-
(a victor that succumbed to a tryst with a midnight bottle, that’s the true prize)
-they'll scrutinize his fall from grace (if he had any to begin with) and lament his potential (as what, an assassin?). He swallows shit-eating grins at every handshake and pretends that they aren’t dead. His mother, his brother, his girl. (But it’s the faces he can’t forget, the ones he didn’t love). At the parade, a shot pans to him from the crowd, and they see his empty dust-choked eyes. It’s just a quick glance to the previous victor, because they like to pretend he didn’t. Twice he is asked by giggling capitol girls to
( ... )
Oooh, I like this. I wrote a 51st Games fic, and I love to see other people take on the idea of Haymitch's start in mentoring, and how he's coping (or not) with that, his family's murders, etc. Thank you for this!
Thanks :) I didn't realize you wanted a take on his mentoring or the "becoming of a mentor" so maybe I should have included more of that..but thanks :)
Nope, nope, that wasn't it at all! I left it pretty general with the 51st Games theme. I was looking to see what anyone would do with the idea, and you responded wonderfully with this snapshot of his mentality at that time. :)
It’s not the first time he has been drunk in public. He pours it down his throat, smacks his lips off the old bottle. Throws it to the corner of the house he lived in alone, can’t bring himself to care that it breaks against the wall. Even if they scrubbed the only occupied victor’s house, some of it would remain haunted, because it had taken root in the veins of twelve and he was their victor after all-
(a victor that succumbed to a tryst with a midnight bottle, that’s the true prize)
-they'll scrutinize his fall from grace (if he had any to begin with) and lament his potential (as what, an assassin?). He swallows shit-eating grins at every handshake and pretends that they aren’t dead. His mother, his brother, his girl. (But it’s the faces he can’t forget, the ones he didn’t love). At the parade, a shot pans to him from the crowd, and they see his empty dust-choked eyes. It’s just a quick glance to the previous victor, because they like to pretend he didn’t. Twice he is asked by giggling capitol girls to ( ... )
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