(no subject)

[pickledtribute]

A man stumbles through the front door, more off-balance than anything.

Off-balance, and slightly tipsy.

He's waiting, you see. No one likes to bet on District Twelve early - odds really aren't in their favor, never have been, other than a couple damn miracles. But he's got the names of a couple people who could be swayed, if the tributes show promise.

One hasn't already. Thankfully a clean kill, he can send the girl home to her momma looking decent. But the boy, the boy's still in this thing. If he can survive two more tributes, he might be able to get a damn sponsor.

So until then, he can't get blinding drunk.

...

So right now, Haymitch Abernathy looks really confused.

Comments

[real_or_notreal]

There are sharp, but wry, things he almost says. He would if it were the man who lived next door. At least one about not falling under the bar when he does inevitably find it. Or giving a beligerent two finger salute at his forehead, to the words that might be order as well as calling him on it, and walking off sans words.

"Yeah." But he isn't that man. Not yet. There isn't that sense of being undeniably shackled in one place, one position, that will only grow more alike, that builds strange, strained, understanding in the silences. "Good luck with everything."




Home, then. To do anything but sleep. For even more reasons now.