III

We sit and watch our bedraggled mentor as he tries unsuccessfully to lift himself out of his own mess. Katniss looks like she's battling with her stomach whether or not to add to the reeking puddle. We exchange a glance and wordlessly each take an arm to help him up.

"I tripped? Smells bad…" Haymitch slurs, smearing his own face with vomit.

"Let's get you back to your room," I suggest, "clean you up a bit." I take his arm over my shoulders and, being taller than Katniss, may as well have carried him back to his compartment.

It reeks in here, too. Liquor bottles are scattered about the floor and various food dishes lie half-consumed. I feel my anger rising at Haymitch, at the waste that he leaves behind. He of all people knows full well how we live back in 12. I thought only Capitol people had such disregard… how wrong I was. We carry Haymitch to the shower and pour him in. Katniss stands back, assessing the situation as I turn on the water, drenching Haymitch still in his clothes. She looks like a deer about to flee, as if she wants to run and never look back; the prospect of cleaning our drunken mentor will fall to me. I steel my resolve before it slips away.

"It's okay, I'll take it from here," I say. I see a flash in her eyes, distrust. I raise my eyebrows ever so slightly, and watch her mull it over. It only takes her a brief moment to decide that losing her supper isn't worth it.

"All right. I can send one of the Capitol people to help you," she suggests, referring to the number of servants that we have at our disposal for the duration of our trip.

"No," I say quickly, "I don't want them."

She leaves me to the gruesome task. I breathe through my mouth, fighting to keep down the rich supper that is threatening to make its reappearance. Well, I muse, he won't know the difference. I strip Haymitch down to his undershorts and fiddle with the buttons until the shower is pounding cold sheets of water. I decide to add some lemony froth to cut the stench of vomit. He sputters to life from under the thick mass of foam and starts screaming obscenities. Teeth chattering, he tries to push past me so I shove him back under the curtain of water. Finally he regains his balance, topples out of the shower and, slightly sobered from the cold water, turns on me.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" he screams. A slough of obscenities follows as he towels off and dresses. Then he rounds on me, striking out with impressive power but miserable aim. I don't even have to shift much to watch his fist punch into thin air to my left.

"Are you about done?" I ask, feeling jaded already. He stares at his fist, slightly bewildered. A mad grin appears on his face, and I'm worried for the first time that he might just be insane. He staggers over to a sofa and flops down.

"What a pathetic excuse for a Victor," I mutter under my breath as I stride in front of him. Haymitch starts at my words, angry eyes finding mine. He struggles to stand up under his own power and takes a weak swing at me. I roll my eyes as I easily defect the attack. Even without my wrestling skill, he would be easy to ward off as drunk as he is.

"You have no idea what it means to be a Victor," he says angrily. "No idea at all." He looks mad enough to spit nails, and yet, and yet his eyes betray a sadness and a story I'm sure I don't want to hear.

"You're right," I say tersely. "And I don't plan on finding out." At this, Haymitch sighs, exhausted. I struggle to understand him, lightly grasping at the thought of what it must be like to mentor children year after year only to watch them ultimately be slaughtered. Though he had no expectation to begin with, he lets the slim thread of hope slip from his grasp.

"Get out of here," he demands, voice low and full of despair and hate. He lunges forwards at me, bellowing. "Get ou-"

I stand my ground. "District 12 will have a Victor this year."

My words catch him off guard and he falters. I watch him slowly chew over my words, working through the implications. He looks at me again, eyes hard and questioning. "The girl…?"

I nod, and he sits down on the bed this time, mulling over what this means. "What does it matter to you?" he finally asks.

"She's got a life back in 12. Her family needs her. What have I got? Without my heart, what have I got?" I say in reply. "I know I don't stand a chance of winning. Not even my family thinks that they stand even the slightest chance of returning alive. She does. She's a fighter, she can survive." I mean more than just physically surviving the arena, of course. My voice is low as I speak. "She has love to fight for." An image of her sister flashes in my mind, and I fight to keep the thought of Gale from clawing its way in.

To my surprise, he doesn't burst out laughing. Instead, eyes on the ground, he nods. Maybe he understands, after all. I think back over the years of Games coverage that I can remember, but can't find any hint that Haymitch ever had a lover, or even friends for that matter. Maybe he understands better than I could ever have imagined.

"Whatever it takes," I say. "I want you to bring her home."

Tired eyes meet mine, and I know he understands. He gives the slightest nod of his head and I walk away.

That night my last thoughts are about her. I may be able to give her life once more, and that is what I hang on to.