#here's a tiny bit of hayffie

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Impossible things, part 2

NSFW 🔥. This fic is set about 9 years after Mockingjay. Part 1 is here. My Hayffie masterpost is here. — Reconnecting with what I imagine of Haymitch and Effie’s voices has been an imperfect and enjoyable experience for me after 19 months away from writing. The channel for creation in/through me feels very rusty... What once felt like my natural breath, like being breathed by the universe, at this point requires effort. That said, crafting this fic, surreal and awkward as it may be, offered me something good, and I’m paying that something forward. I needed this, therefore this is here. — The geese antics are a bit of playfulness for the incredible @hayffiebird 🌸… an amazing human, masterful creator, and beautiful friend. — Gratitude to Taylor and Lana for offering one more song for my Hayffie soundtrack. — I could edit this fic forever, but I’ll stop in order to receive the imperfections. It’s “just fanfiction” after all. And I’m “just human.” At least those are the stories I tell myself in moments when I forget what else I know.

She twirls in silk printed with budding yellow flowers. Her cheeks flush in anticipation as she follows the old familiar script.

“For the honor of representing District 12... Ladies first...” She reaches into the ball, pulls out a slip of paper, unfolds it, and reads her own name. “…Effie Trinket!”

She offers no resistance, no stubborn insistence that there’s been a mistake.

Haymitch tries to speak, and his tongue turns to cotton. He starts to move forward, and his boots tangle in tree roots and tiny bones. A well opens, flowing upward through his body, filling, filling, filling every fiber of his being with silent screams.

“Surrender,” she tells him, “It’s not what you think.”

He shakes his head. ‘Stay alive’ is what he knows.

“Is that enough?” she asks, “Or do you want to live?”

He wonders what’s the difference.

In the wonder, his head splits open and spills the sea. All the waters that have ever been and will ever be fall at his feet and become the tides.

Effie embraces him in the magic. His tongue returns to flesh, and his flesh burns.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

“The oldest game. …Come with me,” she beckons, “Like this…”

She kicks her shoes off in the sand and runs barefoot along the water to a carousel of painted horses. The flowers she wears come to life and bloom golden. Their petals take flight and swirl around him like warm flakes of snow.

🎶 …It’s coming down, it’s coming down, it’s coming down, it’s coming down... 🎶

The carousel plays as it turns. Effie goes by, and she goes by, and she goes by, and she goes by. The wind spins her hair into cotton candy.

At every turn she asks him, “What are you waiting for?”

***

Haymitch woke with the memory of her voice ringing in his ears. He was slumped over in a chair, like the mid afternoon sun dipping below the treetops. His head throbbed, and his mouth felt like cotton. He touched his tongue to make sure it was there. He recalled the dream but little about the days before. Just a dark haze, then a bright haze, then a dark haze, and so on. That was becoming his life again. Alcohol blurred the fine details of night and day. It’s not the life he wanted, but it’s the one he had. He knew there had been bourbon, a lot of it, but he saw no empty bottles. The room was clean. Cleaner than it had been since— “Effie?”

He stood up too quickly and fell down again onto the arm of the chair. Trying to catch his balance, he reached out and caught the pole of a floor lamp, toppling it through a windowpane. He ended up on the floor, without a scratch except for the cut on the palm of his hand that he didn’t want to remember. But the memories were staring at him nonetheless — a goddamn reporter, a phone call, unbloomed flowers, and loneliness.

The chill of winter blew in through the cracked window. Snow had fallen during the night or the day before, or possibly even earlier. He lost track of time. The geese were oddly silent, and he shuddered at the possibility that they were dead from his neglect. Things were falling apart again, including the dregs of himself, and he was letting it happen. If he let Effie’s goose freeze, she wouldn’t forgive him. Not that she was going to forgive any of his shit anyway. She was better off leaving him alone.

He stood up slower this time and peered into the kitchen. That room was clean too, and there was a fresh loaf of bread on the counter. Peeta. The kid had not lost his tendency to try to keep people alive who didn’t really want to be living.

Haymitch’s stomach rumbled in response to the aroma of the bread, but past experience along with the dried vomit on his shirt suggested that his gut wouldn’t be ready yet to keep down anything solid. He fumbled with scooping out coffee grounds and putting on a pot to brew. Then he dragged himself upstairs to sober up in the shower so he could track down the geese, wherever they were, before another night fell. Winter was the one season when they really depended on his attention. Their wild cousins were flying south. But his geese were long-domesticated, and they were stuck with him.

Without taking off his clothes, he stepped into the shower. It was more immediate than doing laundry and more logical than burning the clothes with the garbage. He took a wide stance to keep from falling down as warm water spilled over him and turned the muscles of his legs to jelly. He tilted his head up to the nozzle and opened his mouth to collect water for rinsing his teeth. This approach was quicker than using a toothbrush. The shower had become his answer to nearly everything that he couldn’t get in a bottle of liquor. Hell, if he woke up with an erection, he could even jerk off in here and pretend he didn’t need anyone for anything. But today there was no need for pretending, only flaccid emptiness.

He peeled off each article of clothing until he was naked and the shower ran cold. Then he stayed a moment longer to clear away the fog left in his head after yesterday’s binge. Goosebumps spread across his body, and the planet of fear that he drank to shove down crept into his chest, threatening to explode the world. He mollified it by telling himself he’d restock his alcohol while out looking for the geese, and he’d drink again later.

He turned off the water and pulled a clean towel from the cabinet. It was one of Effie’s, pink and soft. It held the scent of her which was gone now from the set of sheets that he’d been sleeping on for the month since she left him. He just stood there, dripping on the bathroom floor and holding her towel — not wrapping it around his shoulders or warming up his body, not going to a place of indulgence in what was. If he did that, it would be too hard to keep going. He put her towel back on the shelf, and dried off with one of his own that smelled of moth balls and stale reality.

He draped his wet clothes over the shower door then dressed for winter. He needed to check on the kids too. They had asked him for help repairing storm shutters. It was a project that wouldn’t require as much sobriety as, say, climbing up on the roof to clear the rain gutters or sweeping the chimney. When had they asked him? Last week? The week before? The first storm already hit before he got around to helping them. He wondered if it could ever be possible for him to not let everyone down and if there could come a time again when his small world would feel less like hell.

***

Effie stepped off the train onto the icy platform. A gust of wind chilled her neck, so she buttoned her ankle length coat to the top and pulled up the hood. She adjusted her purse over her shoulder and pulled a large rolling suitcase filled with all of the possessions she had taken away with her last month.

The storm she’d been watching through the windows on the train had arrived in 12 before her, and it laid on the ground a thick blanket of snow. The town was still dressed up with remnants of Yuletide. Buildings had been decorated with boughs of evergreen, symbolizing life, rebirth, and renewal. Doors, windows, and fireplaces were brightened with holly, signifying hope and potency.

Oh, mistletoe… and ribbons! She touched a gloved hand to her chest, admiring the simple splendor. The plant had been collected from trees and hung over doorways for protection and fertility. These were old customs resurrected from from ancient times, long before the Dark Days — from simpler times, almost forgotten and brought to life again.

During the past couple of years, Effie had taken to joining the seasonal festival committees, and she felt displaced now seeing that this holiday had come and gone without her participation. The aging decorations tugged at her heartstrings, and she felt sentimental about how it all might have been.

She did not know how this day would unfold, but she felt freshly determined to make this work, to continue to forge a life here, despite the pangs of doubt that kept coming back no matter how certain she felt at times that they were gone for good. She set her heels in the snow and made her way along the road.

I’m afraid… I’m afraid… I’m afraid… A voice from within repeated over and over. She didn’t know which part of her was afraid to be returning home or why. How would she be received? What emotionality would she encounter? Would she be forgiven for having left? Was she making a big big big mistake? Would she fail to fully grasp whatever it was that she was wanting so desperately?

She needed his heart with her heart, his hands with her hands, his body with her body. Screw the heartache from forever; she needed him now. And she was as terrified as she was thrilled to be heading again toward that possibility.

She hadn’t gotten far when she heard a commotion coming the Hob. From a distance, she saw Greasy Sae banging a frying pan with a large steel ladle and chasing a flock of geese out of the building.

“You birds come after my food again, and I’ll be cookin’ each and every one o’ ya in a stew!”

The hooligan geese were unmistakably Haymitch’s. Effie’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. What in the world!

“Effie Trinket! I am glad to see YOU.” The mayor waved from a couple of blocks away and walked toward her. Effie wished a snow bank would open up and swallow her. Today she wanted to pass through town unnoticed, and she was not succeeding.

“Mayor,” she greeted him with a version of her old plaster smile.

“I trust that you are here to collect those geese! Haymitch has been informed in the past that district ordinances require livestock to be kept in agricultural and residential zones only. We simply cannot tolerate them around the businesses. No exceptions!”

Pulling her bag through the snow was challenging enough. She did not want to deal with the geese too, but she was uncomfortable thinking about how cold and hungry they probably were to have ventured into the Hob of all places!

Recovering geese who wandered off when fences went down or gates were left open was Haymitch’s work. Effie generally took little interest in them beyond gathering their eggs in support of Peeta’s baking or hollering at them to shut up in moments when she could not tolerate their noise.

“I will do what I can about the geese,” she told the mayor, “Regardless, they will be relocated to their coop within the hour, and they will NOT be returning to town under my watch.”

“I knew we could depend on you to remedy this nuisance. It is good to have you back.”

Effie reached into her purse and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in parchment. She purchased it from the dining car, but since she had no appetite on the train, now it would be a bribe. She made a clucking sound in the direction of the geese who were foraging at the foot of a dumpster. A large white goose with brown speckles on her neck waddled in Effie’s direction. The rest of the flock followed on her heels.

Haymitch had referred to that one as “Effie’s goose” since the day last summer when the bird injured her foot, and Effie wrapped her in a towel and spent the afternoon holding her on the porch. That day Haymitch was willing to name what he was feeling as love. That declaration was a long time coming.

Sometimes a thing gets so big inside us that we need to either come out with it or die. She knew that if love had been the only thing growing in them, then they wouldn’t be struggling. More was needing to be expressed here. She couldn’t work with what she didn’t know or couldn’t see clearly. It was like trying to juggle invisible balls.

The speckled goose looked up from Effie’s feet, glancing between her and the sandwich with rapt interest. The other geese eyed the food too. The birds started chatting and nipping at each other over which one of them had the biggest claim to it.

Effie stood up straight and held the sandwich in the air. “That is ENOUGH ruckus! NONE of you will be getting anything until you are back home where you belong. Come along now.” She set off again down the snow covered road, pulling her bag behind her with one hand and holding the sandwich toward the sky with the other. She was half-hoping the geese would follow her, and half-hoping Sae would come back out of the Hob and haul the lot of them into her soup pot! Except for the speckled one. Effie wouldn’t be letting that one go.

***

Haymitch held a steaming mug of coffee in both hands as he crossed the frozen yard. A large tree branch had gone down, blockading the door to the goose coop. Setting his mug on a fence post, he yanked at the branch until it pulled away. Then he opened the door and peered inside. Aside from soiled nesting material, the coop was empty. The birds were gone.

He unlatched the shed, and pulled out a bag of feed, hoping that the sound of grains and seeds clinking in their bowls would bring them in as usual. Then he wiped his dusty hands onto his jeans, picked up his mug from the fence, and resumed sipping coffee. Drinking anything was better than drinking nothing. Snow crunched under his boots as he turned his gaze up to the sky. “If I were locked outside during a snowstorm, where would I go?”

A flock of Canada geese passed high overhead, migrating to far off places with blue water, warm sand, and bottles of rum... Would he go with them? He’d be turning 50 soon, and he felt more alone than ever before. What was keeping him here in a town built on a graveyard of his people, in woods haunted by their ghosts, in a house filled with memories that he couldn’t stand to remember and was terrified to forget?

“Where would you go?” He whispered across the lawn to the sharpest memory, the tiniest ghost. The wind blew through leafless branches, and the wild geese flew beyond the horizon.

The graveyard was inside him. There was no escaping it.

He reached the bottom of his mug and went back into the kitchen for a refill before heading out to search for his geese in their usual hiding spots. As he poured the coffee, he heard more of them in the distance. Then their honking grew louder, much louder.

Through the front window he saw her, parading his geese up the road like a scene out of a bizarre fairytale. She rattled off a string of swear words punctuated by “Manners!!” and “Stop fighting!” and “This behavior is precisely why your kind is referred to as ‘fowl’!”

Adrenaline surged through his body. He felt the rush in his arms and legs, in each finger and every toe. What is she doing here? Was she showing up to collect more of her belongings, or…? A wheel of her suitcase caught on a chunk of ice, and the bag toppled over. It looked heavy, not empty. …Or she’s coming home.

Effie added to her litany of curses as she inadvertently dropped the sandwich she had been carrying. The geese swarmed at her feet and devoured the thing.

“I am DONE with this project! Now, shoo!” She waved them off toward the yard. The birds were already heading that way, interested perhaps in their wide open coop and the possibility of more sustenance.

Haymitch’s heart beat into his throat as he watched her right the suitcase and free the wheel from the ice. The hood of her coat fell back, and the wind caught her hair, setting it loose from its clip and blowing out her curls into something wild. Her lips, her cheeks, and the tip of her nose were all pink from the cold, and he thought about making promises that he couldn’t keep, just to have her. To have her right there in the snow on that fur coat.

What the hell is she trying to do to me? Anger was coming up to protect the wounded one within who had barely started to accept that he was living a life without her again.

Effie tucked her hair behind her ears and added wind to the list of all the nature she was cursing: geese, cold, snow, ice, wind, and the curious fear that nagged louder as she moved toward the house. This homecoming was not happening in any of the possible ways that she had envisioned. She was not looking how she intended to look or feeling the way she had imagined she would feel. Standing on the porch, she agonized a long time over whether she should knock on the door, or just open it with her key and step inside, or run back to the train station and avoid facing the fear entirely. The decision was ultimately made for her when the door opened.

“So are you coming in or what?” His voice was rough and shaky. He hoped she’d assume the shakiness was from drinking. And his bloodshot eyes could be explained by the liquor too, come to think of it. He preferred for her to know him now as the drunk he’d always been rather than as the man who’d spent the night before last crying himself to sleep, like an abandoned kid, and then spent last night drinking and trying to forget. The last thing he wanted from her was pity.

She took in the details of his appearance. His boots and coat, thick grey sweater and blue jeans, and woolen cap weren’t what she had been expecting. He seemed sturdy and solid. He’d let his beard grow in fully. He smelled of coffee and the woods and peppermint soap.

He’s going out. …Is he meeting someone? It was late in the day on a Saturday. …Is he dating someone?! She hadn’t considered that possibility. The thought of him being intimate with someone else made her sick. She pressed a palm to her empty churning stomach.

The pain on her face tempered his anger. “Effie, what’s going on?” His concern for her was too marked not to notice.

“Are you going out?” She asked, taking off her sunglasses so she could look him in the eyes.

Hers were swollen. Dark circles underneath were barely concealed by makeup. It looked like she was showing up here because she had lost some sort of battle with herself. “I was going outside to search for the geese, but I see you’ve already done that.”

The geese… “So you’re not seeing anyone?”

“Seeing anyone? What the hell kind of question is that? Is THAT why you’re here — to find out if I’m seeing someone?”

“Of course not.” But now she needed to know. “…Are you?”

He stormed off to the kitchen, leaving her standing in the doorway.

Typical. She wheeled her bag inside and closed the door behind her. For the second time that day, Effie felt out of place in dearly familiar surroundings. She took three deep breaths, hung her purse and coat on the rack in the entryway and set her boots on the doormat. She opened the curtains on the south facing window to let in the late afternoon sunshine. She unfolded a handkerchief from her pocket and dusted off the mahogany coffee table. “Hello, you,” she whispered to it like an old friend.

Haymitch gazed out the kitchen window looking over the yard. He pretended to watch the geese to avoid seeing her, but he was keenly aware of her presence. He heard her footsteps cross the kitchen. The hinges creaked as she opened a cabinet. She poured herself a cup of coffee as if she had never left, as if it was a regular day of them sharing their lives. Except they weren’t.

Effie noticed the bread on the counter. The dear boy. “How are the children?” she asked. It was a safer place to begin.

She persisted in referring to them as ‘the children,’ no matter how many years passed. Haymitch had been so absorbed recently in his own drama that he genuinely had no idea how they were. “They’re fixing storm shutters.” It was the best answer he could give.

“I’ve missed them. …I told them I’d be arriving today.”

Well, that explained the boy cleaning this house while Haymitch was passed out this morning. He knew the kids wanted Effie here.

“Thoughtful,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. If she had told him that she was coming, he would have thrown what she said to that reporter in her face and hollered at her to stay in the goddamn Capitol or wherever this relationship wouldn’t hurt her. But his truth was that he wanted her here. Every cell in his body wanted her here, and he didn’t know how to reconcile what he wanted with what she needed. So for the time being he kept looking out the window and said nothing more about it.

“Sae nearly cooked your geese today.”

Haymitch finally looked at her. She was wearing a red dress with long sleeves and pearl buttons up the front. When she moved, the hem brushed the seams that ran up the backs of her stockings. She looked prettier than all the ribbons folks put up in town for Yuletide. He cleared his throat.

She continued. “Apparently, they were brazenly eating out of her soup pot.”

He suppressed a grin. “Resourceful. They can be a pain in the ass. Thanks for bringing them home.”

“They were a handful indeed. I did not see another option. You know how the mayor loves to talk about zoning violations. And I was expecting Sae to come back out at any moment with a—”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” he interrupted her to say it.

“Neither am I.”

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“Nevertheless, I want you to know. …I do not want to be with anyone else.”

What the hell? He was as frustrated about her showing up like this, all beautiful and shit, as he was about her leaving. She ran so hot and cold that she was either burning him or freezing his ass off. “You said you needed to stay away from me, and now you’re making yourself at home here as if it’s any old Wednesday.” He glanced at her cup of coffee.

“Today is Saturday, Haymitch, and this time apart has offered me some clarity.” She was still unclear about how much clarity she actually had but she said it anyway.

“What do you want, Effie?”

She took another deep breath. “I want us to name the baby.”

“The baby?” His gaze dropped to her stomach. He hadn’t seen her in a month. That was the way it happened when she was pregnant the first time and she came here to tell him. He recalled the discomfort on her face just a moment ago at the doorway and her hand on her belly. Effie…

Oh, the way he looked at her... She recognized his misunderstanding. “I’m not…” she didn’t say the word. Her tone held a tinge of sorrow. “I’m referring to the one I lost. I have been thinking about her often, and the therapist suggested I might want to give her a name.”

His stomach rolled in a mixture of relief, disappointment, and acrid emptiness. He didn’t know what to do with those feelings. He swallowed the urge to throw up.

She glanced out the window to the snow below the maple tree, naked now in winter. Tiny buds lined the branches, waiting for enough warmth to open and leaf out green.

Sadness bubbled up in Haymitch at the thought of naming a baby long-dead. Names were things written on slips of paper and thrown into reaping balls, not a way out of grief. But what harm could come from naming somebody who never got to live?

“I don’t know much about naming babies.” He didn’t want to be having this conversation, especially not with his head feeling like it was splitting open. But Effie never mentioned the miscarriage anymore. She just looked at that tree and sat in its shade during the summer. He figured it was on her mind sometimes, but she didn’t talk about it, despite her tendency to drone on and on about most subjects.

“In my lineage, girls traditionally receive a feminine version of their father’s second name.”

Talking about this felt like sand moving under his skin, but something in him kept going. “No baby needs any more of my name than is necessary. Her getting my genes was burden enough.”

Effie sighed, “She was perfect. I would not have wanted her to have anyone else’s genes but yours and mine.”

He said nothing more about giving her his name, and Effie didn’t push it. She offered something else instead. “‘Carissimi Unum’ means ‘Our dear one.’”

“No Capitol names.” The translation touched him though. “This is hard enough without bringing that place into this.”

“We conceived her in the Capitol. It was my home then.”

“Well, she was born here. Her home is here.”

He spoke about the baby in the present tense, even though she had been just a glimmer and then gone.

“There are less elaborate names that convey a similar meaning. ‘Cara Amare’ means ‘Dear love.’ It has old origins, but it’s more modest.”

“‘Cara…’” he nodded, “She’s been under that tree since the day she...” What he was thinking had him feeling so vulnerable that he almost couldn’t say it. But it felt too big not to say it. “…When I think about her, she’s ‘Maple’.”

Tears welled up in Effie’s eyes and threatened to spill onto her cheeks. “You think about her?”

He didn’t want to see those tears. Not now. He was already doing all he could to avoid scooping her up and crushing her to him and trying to give her the things he didn’t know how to give her and was afraid to give her.

“A person doesn’t forget a thing like that.”

“I would not have imagined that you’ve been holding a name for her in your mind. …‘Cara Maple’ fits her; doesn’t it?”

He didn’t know how anything could fit a dead baby, yet somehow it did.

She reached for his hand. She was asking him to meet her part way. He wanted to touch her and everything else, but he was haunted by what she’d said to that reporter, ‘It was hurting more to be in than out.’

“Effie, I don’t want to be hurting you.”

Then don’t. She slid a finger into his palm, and drew a circle around the cut from her hairpin. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

Then stop leaving me. He curled his fingers around the one she offered.

“After escorting all of those children to their deaths, it was my karma to lose her.”

He clasped her shoulders. “Karma is made up nonsense. It’s bullshit! You couldn’t have controlled any of that. All of those kids would have died regardless. …Even Cara.”

She softened to hear him call the baby by name. She slipped her arms around his waist and melted into the cracks of him, like butter on toasted bread. “This is the third winter since I lost her, and I’ve been losing myself all along. I thought I’d know myself again in my old routines and places. But in the Capitol there is nothing to hold onto. Nothing in that life seems to matter to me anymore.”

In the embrace, Haymitch felt her thinness. This month away had made her fragile, like an empty champagne flute. She sighed against his chest, and the vibration moved though his body, coaxing it back to life. It had been weeks since they held each other. Without her, there had been no release and so little feeling — just the old demons bashing around his skull and kicking relentlessly.

“What kind of baby would I give you? Another dead one? It’s no good, Effie. It’s impossible.” His feelings didn’t match his thoughts. He recalled the roiling flash of disappointment when she said she was not pregnant.

He enfolded her in his arms, fitting her against him. The fragrance of crushed leaves wafted in through the crack in the window, and the thought of a baby born full term and alive felt possible. Terrifying, yet possible.

He shut out the emotions and leaned into the feeling of her. The room was spinning lightly for him, like the carrousel in his dream. She centered everything somehow and kept his feet on the floor. Her hair smelled like orange popsicles with vanilla ice cream. He breathed her in and softened. His guard was coming down. His body was responding to her in the ways it always did.

“What if it could be impossibly good?” she murmured in that dangerous consciousness of hope.

For a split second he believed her. With his guard down, he let in her thread of hope, until age-old fear commanded, ‘Don’t. Don’t you dare hope.’

“You’re dreaming, honey. You’re imagining the same way you do about those curtains. Those flowers are never gonna open. You said it yourself, you’re lost in something that isn’t real.”

She moved her hands over his back, feeling his solidity. “This is real. Your body. My body. They decided the first time. What if we just let them decide again?”

His hand stilled its caress. “You said you were done with having sex to try to ‘fix’ us. I drink, and you feel alone. …A baby is not going to ‘fix’ that.”

She pulled back far enough to see the pain behind his eyes. She didn’t know how to reconcile what she wanted with what he needed. She could only guess about what he needed, about what would stop him from retreating into himself. “I don’t expect a baby to fix anything. I just long for her. …And I want you. I want our family.”

“Effie—”

“I need us to be talking about this, but I’m not trying to push you into another baby that you do not want.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want her until after she was gone. I’m not saying I don’t want her now. I’m not saying I don’t picture how it would be to have a kid with you. I just don’t see how I’m ever gonna not be mixed up about it.”

“What if we just love each other and see what happens?”

“The way I love you isn’t enough for you.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to. You left.”

“I would never THINK that. You KNOW what you are to me. When you’re with me like this, I feel like I’m swimming in the core of the sun.”

She was the sun for him too. But basking in a sunbeam is a hell of a lot different than swimming in plasma.

“Sounds painful.”

“It is NOT painful when we’re like this. The feeling of this is more than enough for me. It’s nearly everything for me.”

“Nearly? What more do you want?! I can’t be like THIS all the time. I am who I am.”

“I WANT who you are.”

“You don’t want me drinking.”

Effie hesitated in order to tread carefully around this subject, “You know how I have always felt about you, regardless.”

“What you’re feeling is not the same as what you’re thinking. You don’t want me drinking anymore.”

“Do not put that on me! You do not get to decide what I’m thinking or what I want. Perhaps YOU are the one who does not want you drinking anymore.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“Haymitch, I want you HERE! When you’re intoxicated, you’re someplace inside you where I cannot be, where I do not exist. I want what’s inside you that I only glimpse or never get to see.”

“There you go again, wanting impossible things. Even if I knew how to give you all of that shit, if you had it then you wouldn’t want it.”

“There YOU go again, deciding what I want and do not want. Those are NOT your decisions to make. I want all of you, and I want you to want all of me too!”

“You think I don’t?”

“Half the time you don’t even see me.”

“Maybe you aren’t seeing yourself, sweetheart. And if you were, then maybe you wouldn’t be asking me to do it for you.”

She huffed, “What am I not seeing?”

“I can’t know that. I can’t even know all the shit in me that you want me to give you!”

She had no retort to offer. In the silence, he heard her teeth chattering. She was shivering.

How long had she been shivering? He knew he wasn’t seeing her in all the ways he should, even in moments like this when he was basically sober. “You’re cold. The window’s busted. Some things have been falling apart around here.”

“I don’t know why I’m shaking. This conversation… I don’t want to give up on us. Haymitch, I refuse to give up on us! I will NOT allow this to be the end. There is so much here between us. Do you feel it?”

She touched his chest, and he couldn’t hide the things his heart was doing. If there were places in him where she didn’t exist, it was because he was keeping her out for her protection or because something in him was keeping his awareness out for the same reason.

He could have stepped away from her touch. Maybe he should have, but he shifted toward her. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“I do NOT need to convince myself of what I already know! I left you because I was despairing. I was wrong to despair. …I’m sorry.”

He felt responsible for that despair, and here she was apologizing for it. He sighed, not knowing how to change things between them so that she wouldn’t keep feeling it. “You’re not wrong. You’re just feeling what you feel…”

When he looked closely, he could see more layers of the Effie he’d known falling away. It scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know how to stop it. He cradled her face in his hands and caressed her. “…These cheeks are so hollow, honey.”

She released a breath she’d been holding. “Your eyes are too. Have you been sleeping?”

“Probably about as much as you’ve been eating. Do you want dinner? Peeta’s been dropping off a loaf of something most days.”

She shook her head no. She slid her hands up his chest and noticed new flecks of grey in his beard. She wanted all the details she missed, all the stories his body could tell her. “I want what’s happening now.”

His thumbs brushed the corners of her mouth. “You said if you came back our clothes would be off, and we wouldn’t be fixing anything at all. You said it like that’s the problem.”

His calluses were rough against her chapped lips. She felt the flying in her body, the certainty that she could make this work. The therapist said the high was a red flag. It unfurled in her awareness, wrapped around her like silk, and drew her in.

“There is nothing to fix tonight,” she told him, “I’m offering anything that you want from me, and I’m allowing everything that you want to give.”

Tonight. “Then what happens tomorrow? What happens the next time you’re hurting?”

She shook her head. “What is the point in not hurting if there is no joy either? I felt no joy without you.” After awhile, I was not even sure why I was living.

He echoed her feelings in his own confession. “Since you left, it’s been hard to keep staying alive.”

It’s what she wanted to hear — the pain he rarely spoke of and his need for her. Tears filled her throat. “Can I come home?”

“This is your place too. It’s no good without y—“

Their kiss was slow and full of memories. He felt her tears on his face, and he tasted them. He welcomed them now that he was no longer resisting. He needed this, not just for now. He needed this forever, even though nothing lasted and no one stayed. Needing people was a dangerous game, and he was playing it. He’d been playing it with her all along. He didn’t trust her with his heart. He didn’t trust himself. And yet, he was playing.

“I don’t want us to fuck this up.”

“I’ve worked too hard for this to let us.”

The red flag tightened as desire.

Their winter layers were coming off, as expected, as it happened hundreds of times before. Just enough to feel each other’s skin.

“Where?” he asked.

“You said that our first time. So long ago. Do you remember?”

“Yeah. You were indecisive then too.”

“Haymitch!” She slapped his chest, and he caught her wrist.

The room spun slowly for him, like a harvest time waltz. Around and around and around. “Tell me where, sweetheart, or it’s gonna be the floor.”

“In our bed for heaven’s sake!”

“It’s always the hard way with you,” he chuckled.

She lifted his arm over her shoulder, and they eased into the familiar… The third step of the staircase creaked on the way up, and the seventh was marred by a gouge where Haymitch had dropped his knife… The headboard jostled against the wall as they slipped between worn out sheets… They leaned into one another’s touch and felt a fleeting comfort in the ache of longing... Her legs were cool as she wrapped around him... “Let’s warm you up, sweetheart.”

He moved inside her. Soft moans emerged from her throat in concert with the motion. She met him with all that she was, even the parts of her that were lost to her awareness.

“Like this,” she murmured, “Fuck me like this.”

She lit him up. In that moment of incandescence, he’d do anything she wanted for as long as he could last, though she was feeling too good and he was too hungover to last long.

She was a bird in his arms, singing. A mourning dove on a lamppost, witnessing the loneliness of the world. I see you, the feathery creature croons, I’m here. — She was a goddess, holding his life in her hands. She could crush him.

This physical aspect of loving was simple. Nothing in his life felt more uncomplicated than being inside her, sensing her arousal build as it was happening in him. It crossed his mind to slow the pace in order to draw this out, but his body would have none of that.

And neither would hers. He was in deep with her — she knew he was — yet she didn’t quite have him, even after all these years, even in their most naked moments. The reaching was fire. Heat stung her cheeks as if he had slapped her. “Oh, god…” She wanted the sting.

He watched the flush of pleasure play over her face, and he said what he’d been wanting to since he saw her coming up the road with the geese, since he saw her in his dream with bare feet in the stirrups of a painted horse asking him what he was waiting for. Fear held his tongue, but he muttered through it.

“I love you — so hard.”

Her breath caught in her throat. With those grey eyes on hers, she was certain. About everything. She cried out as waves of delight moved through her, like the tide coming in and snow falling on the beach. Resplendence.

The sensations drew him to the edge. He felt it coming for him too, all powerful and alive and shit.

Holy fuck. He wanted it like this.

After all this time, he would have thought that pulling out of her would be as simple as being inside her. He’d perfected the art of it. Hell, he’d done it half-drunk dozens of times.

This time he was alert to everything, and leaving her body wasn’t instinctual at all. One more second. Just one more. Just… MORE. Hope seeped into the cracks, and, for a crushing instant, he wanted it all.

“Eff— I’m coming—” He said it as if she should run.

“YES.” Her heart pounded as if she were running. She held his hips lightly as his body claimed what his mind couldn’t wrap itself around.

In that instant, he stayed inside her as he found release.

🎶 …Coming down… coming down… coming down… coming down… 🎶 Like glistening petals and surrender.

She traced the length of his spine through beads of sweat. Her lips brushed his neck as she whispered protestations of love and something about him needing a haircut.

“Hmm…” was all he could muster.

The month had been so long without her. He clung to her as her voice faded from his awareness. He slipped into the unconscious world of sleep without thinking about what just happened between them, without thinking about his empty flask, without thinking about anything except the feeling of her hands in his hair.

Under the familiar weight of him, she experienced a flash of uncertainty. A vision of ten tiny fingernails shaped like perfect crescent moons, reaching for her — alone. After a year of wanting exactly this moment, the uncertainty showing up in it was as unexpected as it was predictable.

A question rooted in their tangled limbs and took hold in her awareness.

What have I done?

She couldn’t shake it loose.

[hayffiebird]

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 31

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M Chapter 31 Little hearts They had gray eyes. Both of them. The most distinctive Seam gray you ever saw. First time he noticed, it was like taking a blow to the gut. Even after years of peace across the country he still lived by the notion that the further away someone could be tracked to him the safer they would be. But Effie, the silly woman, couldn’t have been more rejoiced had someone given her a million in cash. “It’s exactly what I wished for!” she beamed and gave him a big hug. He feared they’d end up with his hair as well but there they went in another direction. The more they dried up, the strawberry blonder they got. One of the nurses that came by regularly to check on both the twins and Effie had helped dress them up in gray bodysuits, provided by the hospital. Bodysuits that side-snapped. “Clothes pulled over the head reminds them too much of being born,” Effie said. “They don’t like that.” The scary purple shade that had tinted their skin when they first came into the world had slowly faded. Now they were a healthy pink, if somewhat coated with, not cream cheese but, vernix. And it too would disappear in a couple of days, Effie reassured him. Now they lay peacefully together in the hospital crib.

Sitting at the very edge of an armchair Haymitch scratched his neck. Tugged miserably at the collar of his sweatshirt. Amy and Ian weren’t the only ones who’d gotten new outfits. His own clothes stunk from puke and liquor and cigarette smoke so he got to borrow some from the hospital. When he returned from his long, hot shower, dressed in what looked like a fleece version of District 13’s gray jumpsuits Effie had dozed off. He tiptoed into the room, didn’t want to disturb either of them after the night’s ordeal. Silent as a ghost he slipped into the armchair and peeked inside the crib, careful so as not to drip on them. He hardly breathed. Afraid he’d scare those helpless little creatures if he did any sudden moves. They had a good shut-eye right after the birth. The clock was almost one in the morning but newborns were nocturnal creatures, Effie said. Either way, the twins weren’t in the least bit interested in sleep now. Lying on her back, Amy sucked on her fist with a tiny crease between her non-existent eyebrows. Sometimes her gaze lingered on Haymitch like “Who’re you?” and her legs gave a forceful kick. Ian’s eyes opened and closed. His arms moved in the air, uncoordinated, as he explored the room. Such a wise gaze. You’d think he understood most things already. That he knew the answer to all of life’s mysteries, only he wouldn’t tell. He’s mine. Such a surreal thought. His eyes went to his sister. She’s also mine. We get to take them home with us. A gift worthy of love. They really were. How someone like him could ever manage to help co-create something so sweet and lovely he’d never know. Where did they even come from? Well, he knew where they came from but still he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that all those kicks he’d felt came from these two. That they were real. Here to stay. The bed sheets rustled when Effie stretched awake. A groan slipped between her lips and her sleepy gaze fluttered to the crib. And Haymitch. “You’re still up,” she murmured. Haymitch nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.” Effie rubbed her eyes and reached for the water glass on the nightstand. Sipped through the straw. “How long have you been watching them?” He shrugged. “’bout an hour.” “Haymitch.” She didn’t laugh at him but it was a close one. “You should try and get some rest. Won’t be a lot of that from now on.” Haymitch shook his head. “I ain’t tired.” It wasn’t even a lie. Not completely. And Effie was enough of a pal to not insist. Knowing her, she probably guessed his real reason for staying up anyway. He didn’t fucking dare go to sleep. The idea of possibly waking up with memory loss terrified him. Usually this hellish time of day, hours and hours left before dawn, he emptied bottles like there was no tomorrow. Now all he wanted was for the alcohol to work its way out of his system. He couldn’t even remember the last time he wished to be lucid. If ever. He didn’t care about the shakes and the nausea and the searing headache that morning light brought. He wanted to feel like himself. It physically hurt to think about how he tinted and soiled Amy and Ian’s first memories with drink. Effie hoisted herself up against the pillows. Doing so she gave a little wince that didn’t go unnoticed by Haymitch. “You OK?” “A little sore,” she said. “Don’t fret,” she smiled, at the concern written all over Haymitch’s face. “I just had two babies. How are they doing?” His eyes returned to the twins. He gave a slight shake of his head. “Fine. They look fine to me. Ian’s contemplating life and Amy’s sucking on her hand.” “Oh, then you better give her to me,” Effie said. The crease between Haymitch’s eyebrows deepened when his gray eyes darkened with realization and regret. “She’s hungry?” “Yes, probably. Haymitch, sweetheart,” she added. “Don’t look so troubled. It’s an early sign.” He nodded, though he would much rather start a new chapter of his book of self-insults. He reached over Effie and took hold of the sling with the red button attached to the bed post. “What are you doing?” “Calling the nurse.” “What for?” said Effie, amused. “She doesn’t want the nurse.” “Yes, but I thought we’d call her anyway.” “Absolutely no need. I’ll take care of it. Just give her to me.” Haymitch looked from her to the hospital crib and back again, almost moved to anger. “I can’t give her to you. You know I can’t.” He fingered the red button. “Let’s just call the nurse. Be on the safe side.” “Yes, we better bring her along when we leave,” said Effie. Her eyes glittered. “Help us raise them.” “I second that,” Haymitch muttered. Effie smiled. “All you need to do it roll the hospital crib over to me.” He did so. Moved the armchair slightly and rolled the crib into its place. Very, very carefully. Effie watched with amusement. “So, you’re never going to touch either of them, huh? You know I only have two arms. I won’t be able to hold them both when they’re this little.” “We can hire a nanny,” Haymitch muttered. Effie chuckled and squeezed his shoulder. “When you’re ready you’ll know what to do. I’ve seen you with the goslings.” The hospital crib was now right by the side of the bed and Effie leaned over it, smiling. “Hello, my beautiful angel”, she said and lifted Amy in her arms. “Are you hungry again, sweetheart?” With the baby to her breast she untied the strings of her hospital gown. Stroked Amy’s upper lip with the nipple to help her know what was going on. It took a few attempts and it wasn’t until after she latched on that Haymitch realized he probably shouldn’t sit and stare like he did when Effie had her breasts out in the open. Then again, after the big show just a couple of hours ago he reckoned they were well past feeling embarrassed at this point. He couldn’t speak for Effie but personally he was too mentally drained to give a fuck. “Wanna be alone?” “No, it’s OK.” Amy’s fist pressed into Effie’s breast. But as she ate, it relaxed and opened and he saw the five perfect fingernails. Her eyes were opened too, looking up at her mother. A peaceful scene if there ever was one and yet Haymitch’s insides ached with guilt. Because his child had tried to tell him something and he hadn’t been able to read it. Should’ve read those blasted baby books when he had the blasted chance. His hand closed around her little foot through the sock. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, baby girl.” That’s twice now he’d been sorry in less than 24 hours. Story of my life, he thought tiredly. Asking people forgiveness. He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the hem of the sweatshirt. She looked alright though, his young daughter. Content and pink-cheeked in Effie’s safe embrace. “You’re a natural,” he said but Effie shook her head. “Not really. I’ve just had a lot of practice, that’s all.” She cradled Amy’s head with a mixture of sadness and joy. But when she looked at Haymitch she smiled. “Why don’t you say hi to Ian? He won’t bite.” Their son lay on his back. He looked lonely without his sister. His chest rose and fell and Haymitch watched as those vulnerable hands opened and closed. Like waving hello. With the greatest of care he rested his hand against his tummy. The baby stirred in response, screwed his face up and Haymitch immediately drew back. Ian pressed his hand into his cheek, lips pointing downward and gave one helpless cry that seared through Haymitch’s heart like a knife’s blade. “He’s crying,” he said and tried not to sound as panicked as he felt. “I made him cry.” “Just touch him,” said Effie. “Let him know you’re there.” Sweat had broken out on Haymitch’s forehead but he placed his hand on Ian’s chest, patting it carefully. And the baby silenced. He moved about curiously and forced open his eyes, blinking, much like Haymitch did when the light felt too bright. He caressed him soothingly. Felt the beating heart against his palm. “Just me,” he murmured. “It’s just me.” Before his courage crumbled he cupped Ian’s head. Brushed his fingers against the tufts of strawberry blonde hair, peeking out the cap. Soft as a baby goose. He didn’t cry. He seemed to like being touched, at least as far as Haymitch could tell. His tiny arms reached out and ten little fingers tenderly explored Haymitch’s wrist. He swallowed and swallowed. He was so little. So fragile. How Effie managed to hold either of them was a mystery. Just the thought of handling them sent shockwaves through his system. But this he could do. He caressed the baby’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “Little ‘un,” he mumbled. “Little ‘un.” xXx The sun rose over the Capitol skyline, flooding the world with light. With his back to the hospital, leaned against a pillar Haymitch sipped his mug of cheap coffee and watched a garbage truck roll in. The light may be painful but the mild air was a balm against his hot face. Today dawned like all other days. It was easier to think now, even with the headache. That’s one good think about sobriety. Maybe the only one. Two trash men hopped down from the truck and began emptying the litter bins by the entrance. “Hey,” said Haymitch and one of the men looked up. “What day’s today?” The man tied the black plastic bag and hoisted it up and out. “August 11.” Haymitch nodded. That made Amy and Ian’s birthday the 10th of August. Mustn’t forget that. He slurped his coffee, hot and strong, and watched the garbage truck drive off along its vast Capitol route. I’m a dad. If he kept saying it maybe it would feel real. I’m someone’s pa. Ten minutes later he pushed inside Effie’s room. “They didn’t have apple juice so I got you some orange instead.” He stopped in his tracks. Effie wasn’t alone. “Hi, Mr. Haymitch!” Gracie beamed from the foot of the bed, dressed in Pallas Academy’s dark pink tweed uniform with a matching hat on top. He completely forgot all about her. “Hey, kid.” The first well-wisher. Probably their only one. Effie was just feeding Ian while Amy slept in the crib, full and satisfied. On the nightstand was a vase of bright yellow daffodils. “They’re my favorites,” smiled Gracie. Haymitch set the orange juice next to the flowers while the girl prattled on. “I’m telling Ms. Effie all about how I came and found you. Everyone thought you left but I didn’t, did I, Mr. Haymitch?” Effie smiled at the child but there was no denying the troubled shadow that passed over her face as she listened. Gracie looked curiously from Amy to Ian, like they were the most peculiar creatures in all of the Capitol. “Who are they? What’s their names?” “Amy and Ian Trinket Abernathy,” said Effie, unable to hide the pride in her voice. Gracie looked to Haymitch. “Will you take them back to District 12? Now that you’re a family?” She grinned at Effie. “Rosamunde says he must really really like you or else he would never have returned to the Capitol when the war ended.” Effie exchanged an amused look with Haymitch and said, “Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, Gracie dear, but you better hurry up now or you’ll be late for school.” “Oh!” said Gracie with an eye on the clock. She jumped up from the bed. Gave a little wave of her hand as she shouldered the book bag. “Bye, Ms. Effie! Bye, Mr. Haymitch! Bye babies!” And she was gone. Such a good kid, Haymitch thought. I’ll just add her to the laundry list of people I feel guilty about. He sunk into the armchair next to Effie and Ian. His head throbbed but that was not what ailed him. It was something else. Like unfinished business, being re-woken by Gracie’s words. “Thank you for the orange juice.” “Eff!” She blinked at the sudden desperation in his voice. He clasped her hand that wasn’t holding Ian. Clutched it. “What’s the matter?” There were so many things on his mind, he didn’t even know where to start. “I…” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. Laced their fingers together, like in the olden days. “It’s just… I’ve been thinking. ‘bout you. ‘bout them. ‘bout everything.” And so he said the words which had been simmering in his mind on and off during all of this long and stressful night. “Buy the house.” “What?” “I heard you and Annabel talk about it. And I mean it. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened. I didn’t always think so but I do now. Buy the house. Make it their home.” It was very quiet after he finished. Effie’s gaze dropped to Ian. Her words were barely audible when she spoke, “You know I’d go with you. All you need to do is ask.” He covered her hand with his other one. Didn’t avert his gaze. “Effs, look at me.” She looked at him. Her eyes were shiny. “I’ve wanted to bring you back to Twelve from the moment I found out you were pregnant. That’s the God’s honest truth. I still want to take you home but… Effs, it won’t work. I’ve been thinking it over and over in my head. It just won’t work. I don’t ever want them to see me the way I was last night. Never again. So it’s better if we live apart. Better for them.” Effie’s eyes were brimming with tears. She drew a breath to keep them from spilling over. “You will come visit, won’t you?” “Course I will. Of course. All the time.” “You were gone. I woke and you were gone.” “Won’t happen again. I swear it. I’ll never do that to either of you. We’re in this together. We’re a team, yeah?” Effie smiled through the tears. “You won’t stand a life in the Capitol. Even a part-time life.” “I would. I’d do it for you. For them.” He brought their intertwined fingers to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “My house will always be your home, just as much as mine. And Twelve will always be there. We can go there whenever we feel like it. See Katniss, Peeta, Sae. All of them.” Effie nodded. “I’d like that.” Ian moved against her chest and she looked to him again, adjusted him so he’d feel more comfortable. We’ll make this work, she thought. I’ll make this work. Author's note: This chapter was fun to write! I hope you enjoyed reading it. And if you know which person shares Amy and Ian's birthday on the 10t of August you're an EPIC nerd and can come sit next to me. ;)

[softpeetabread]

University Life Part 7

This is +7k words long!! I’ve received a lot of feedback for the first few parts and I’m glad that you all are enjoying this seemingly out of control story. Thank you to everyone that has supported this, whether it’s by liking or reblogging. I hope that you all enjoy this new bit!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

**

The blurred image of rushing trees outside the window had entertained Katniss for a couple of minutes before she felt woozy. She thought she’d been used to watching trees and other types of greenery pass by as she and Peeta drove to school, but this new speed the train brought proved her wrong. She and Peeta were headed to the Capitol for their interview with Caesar Flickerman and she was certain this was also a contributor to her lightheadedness. She decided to focus on Peeta, who sat beside her sketching quietly. She welcomed the peaceful moment because her companion always had that look of concentration on his face as he undoubtedly immersed himself in the vision present in his mind. There seemed to be a world that only he could see and he presented it beautifully through his artwork.

They weren’t alone on their trip, though, much to Katniss’s chagrin. Amongst the phone calls they had received after the news that they had been in touch with Caesar, one of his colleagues had contacted them about being their escort and would help them with getting ready for the interview. Effie Trinket had gone on and on about how fabulous it would all be, and how this trip coincided with her return to the Capitol after spending some time in District 12 with her boyfriend, who she was bringing along. Katniss would have cared less about this woman’s personal affairs if it hadn’t involved her dear uncle Haymitch. He was such a recluse that she wondered how he talked to people, but it turned out he could be social if he wanted to, or if he was coaxed into those situations. Katniss wrinkled her nose when Effie said she and Haymitch were dating because there was no way her uncle—so curt, unruly, and insufferable—could charm someone as bubbly and enthusiastic as Effie. Yet there was little she could do to protest their company. Effie had a job to do and Haymitch did know a thing or two about the Capitol himself after going back and forth for his involvement with the military.  It’s funny how small the world truly was.

It's not that she was embarrassed of her uncle (although, she held a different opinion about his drinking problem), but he and Katniss had the tendency to argue and she could be quite aggressive with him when he pushed her buttons. It was the complete opposite with Peeta who made her feel relaxed. She hadn’t put those two sets of emotions together, at least not in a long time, so she worried about coming off as hostile to Peeta. For now, Haymitch and Effie had left them alone and she didn’t even want to wonder what those two were up to.

Surprisingly, Peeta and Haymitch got along, or at least they could hold a decent conversation unlike when Katniss talked to her uncle. His talent for speaking and using the correct words people wanted to hear always impressed her because it was just talking, but there was something about Peeta that made everything he said believable and soothing.

Katniss was curious to see what Peeta was sketching, but she thought against stealing a peek since she didn’t want to disrupt his concentration. Instead, she studied his face and noticed how long and blond his eyelashes were, casting shadows over his eyes as he blinked. She wondered how they didn’t tangle together or if he ever realized how thick they were.

There was a moment where he lost his focus and looked up to meet her eyes. How long had she been staring at him? Two minutes? Two hours? Regardless of the time, Katniss felt heat rush to her face as she turned away, fighting a smile.

“What were you looking at?” Peeta asked.

“Your eyelashes…I was wondering what they’ll look like with all the make-up they’ll put on you.” She could have been honest and told him how pretty she thought they looked, but she couldn’t let him know that. However, she wasn’t lying when she mentioned the make-up.

Effie had mentioned they would have a stylist and a prep team to get them ready, which meant having their hair and make-up done in addition to having wardrobe they would provide. Katniss thought it was a waste of time and money, but it was the Capitol and they wanted for everyone to be full of glitter and shine.

Peeta chuckled. “Hopefully, we’re able to keep our faces. Have you seen what they look like?”

Katniss laughed at his implication. “They do look ridiculous with so many alterations they get done.”

“I guess having make-up on would be relatively harmless and normal.” Peeta made a good point, but she wondered if they could object to anything they didn’t agree with or if they had to go with whatever their prep team proposed.

They heard a shift from the door and Effie came through with a folder in her hand. “Alright, children. Let’s work on your interview. I have a list of questions Caesar may ask you, though know he won’t make them all in one night. You have to be prepared to answer the ones he decides to give you, and he may even make some up on the spot.”

Katniss’s talents did not include public speaking. Just thinking about being in front of people made her nervous, and having cameras zoom in on her face set off a new kind of anxiety she didn’t recognize. Even if she tried to convince herself that it would be fine because she was doing this for Peeta, she couldn’t help feel her stomach curl and stir. Effie would be helping them work on their answers and give them a mock interview, but even with the practice, she was afraid she would mess up. She wondered how Peeta could do these kinds of things without feeling nervous. He was confident and sure of himself when addressing people, making him quite popular amongst different groups at their university.

She didn’t know what she expected from the set of questions Effie had, but at least they weren’t as difficult to answer as she had thought. They were more or less basic, asking where they came from and what they were studying; what plans they have for the future; what they do on their spare time; how Peeta developed his talent and how he found inspiration for his fiery piece. Perhaps it was because they were students and not celebrities, but if they were going to get asked those sorts of things, then she didn’t feel she should worry so much about what to answer. They spent around three hours working on them, though, and Effie gave them advice on how to answer, which gave Katniss the impression that she and Peeta had to be extremely polite and mind their manners. It was all about manners with her.

That led to their escort evaluating the way they walked and moved, too. Effie sent Peeta to Haymitch so she and Katniss could work on her etiquette, and even though it pained Katniss to watch him leave them alone, at least he wouldn’t see how humiliating this type of training was. There were a lot of things Katniss couldn’t predict, but she was sure that this whole ordeal was made so she wouldn’t have the slightest ounce of peace of mind. It would have helped if Effie hadn’t been such a drama queen about every little thing they did, but Katniss tried to keep her cool, taking deep breaths and thinking about other things besides walking out of the room or ripping Effie’s papers in half to shut her up. She was not only here to help Peeta, but she was also Haymitch’s girlfriend and the last thing Katniss needed was to upset her.

“You must walk like a lady, Katniss,” Effie said for the third time after Katniss walked from one end of the train cart to the other.

“Will they even notice if I miss a couple of steps?” Katniss asked with slight irritation in her voice.

“Of course they will. They will notice every two steps, every step, every half-step. Your posture, your strut. It’s all important.”

Katniss did her best to walk the way Effie instructed and once she was satisfied, she had her practice with a pair of heels. They were too tall, too thin, and they pinched her toes, so Katniss had a difficult time adjusting to them and relied on holding on to one of the seats. She wondered if there was any way she could use her own shoes, but she doubted that would be negotiable. Effie took her hand and helped steady her, and Katniss was able to practice for a couple of rounds before she walked on her own with the monstrous heels.

“Does Peeta have to worry about any of this?” Katniss asked.

“That’s why I shooed him away. Haymitch is helping him,” Effie said as she looked over Katniss. “Pick up your chin and square your shoulders; you’re slumping.”

Katniss was not about to hear her say these things more than once so she tried learning quickly. She had to give her credit, though, for taking her job seriously.

“Why my uncle though?”

Effie gave her a mischievous smile. “Well, I have to put him to use, too. We can’t have him just drinking up the whole bar without earning it first.” She gave Katniss another look and bit her lip. “Hm, maybe if I put a book on your head, that would help you…”

With a forced smile on her lips, Katniss stood as straight as she could, sticking out her chest to prove she was doing everything Effie said. “Do we really need to use a book, Effie? I’m learning a lot from your instructions.”

“I’m not entirely pleased with this,” Effie pouted. “We’ll reach the Capitol by tomorrow so we can pick up on this again in the hotel. And work on the way you answer questions.”

The dismissal turned Katniss’s forced smile into a genuine grin. Maybe if she hurried, she’d still catch Peeta with her uncle.

Her prediction about Haymitch being at the bar was correct, but Peeta wasn’t with him, which disappointed her. She was about to walk back when her uncle called her to join him for a drink.

“You know I’m not old enough to drink,” she said.

“Then get some lemonade or something,” Haymitch responded, as if it were the logical thing to do.

“Where’s Peeta?”

“Said he’d go to his room. I have a vague feeling he went looking for you, though.”

If there was anything Katniss would order, it’d be another drink for her uncle so he’d leave her alone to find Peeta. However, he was in a rather talkative mood, which meant he was tipsy enough to be conscious and sober yet also enough to lose some of his inhibitions. She sat down on a stool next to him to humor him.

“How’d you manage to land that one?” Haymitch asked before taking a sip from his drink.

Katniss looked at him with confusion, not understanding what he really meant.

Her uncle rolled his eyes before speaking again. “You won’t even talk to a wall, much less people. Yet your friend is someone like him. He talks a lot.”

“Perhaps it was my sunny personality,” she answered sarcastically.

Haymitch snorted and shook his head. “Or you threatened to kill him.”

Katniss glared at him, feeling the annoyance build up in her body. “Let’s say I did. What did you do to convince Effie? Threatened to throw her off a bridge? Cut off her hair?”

“You’d be amazed what I can do while sober,” he said, though he didn’t sound very mocking about it.

After a moment, Katniss sighed and decided to keep some peace since Peeta was on her mind. “We’re childhood classmates. Started talking to one another a few months ago, though. Been friends since.” She took Haymitch’s glass and set it beside her—just enough to keep Haymitch from reaching—deciding to test out just how skilled he was without his liquor. “Your turn.”

Haymitch huffed out a breath through his nose in attempts to relax. “She’s a reporter in charge of District 12 and then transfers the news to the Capitol. There’s been special editions for veterans and we talked. Took her out on a few dates. Now, we’re here.”

“I took you for a hermit,” Katniss chuckled.

“Who says I’m not? Just because I go out in public doesn’t mean I don’t want to go back to my house,” Haymitch said with a scowl. “I took you for a misanthrope.”

“Well, you’re not too far off. I make exceptions, though.”

“Like the boy?” Haymitch asked, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

Katniss took a deep breath as she tried to keep her irritation at bay. What was he getting at? “Yeah, like him.”

“I don’t know how you did it, though. You have the charm of a squirrel that’s been run over,” Haymitch snorted.

“Probably learnt from you since we’re related,” Katniss bit back. There was enough venom in her words to paralyze a person, but she knew Haymitch couldn’t be fazed by them. In part, it was true that she learnt from him to toughen up and have thick skin. His words didn’t usually hurt her and she noticed hers didn’t either. Maybe this was why she didn’t like making friends.

“How’s the interview prep going?” Haymitch tried reaching for his glass, but Katniss pushed it farther away.

“I’m putting my charm to use,” Katniss deadpanned.

Haymitch got up and took a bottle from the other side of the counter. The bartender had gone off and left him, which was a mistake really. “Too bad because in the Capitol, you have to make people like you. With your attitude, you’re not off to a real good start, sweetheart. And if you want for the interview to go well for Peeta, you’re going to have to try a lot harder to not come off as roadkill.”

Now that wasn’t fair! Katniss knew this wasn’t her forte, but it’s not like she wasn’t trying, either.

“Then give me some suggestions.”

Haymitch managed to open the bottle—it was one of those kinds where the aluminum is the only barrier between the liquor and its seeker—and took a swig from it. “Since you can’t borrow charisma from your friend and I can’t give you mine, then find an angle you can use. You’re a young college student. You’re a painter’s muse. Work with it.”

How could she ‘work with’ two details? Effie had said the interview would last anywhere from five to ten minutes, depending on how it progressed and how long Caesar talked, and that terrified Katniss. She gave Haymitch his glass back before hopping off her stool and going to search for Peeta. She found him in his room, looking over the paintings he had brought with him from his apartment. He kept Caesar’s painting in a different room since it was a lot bigger than the rest, which kept prying eyes away from it, including Katniss’s. Peeta wasn’t allowing her to see the final piece, even though she posed for him.

The challenge to make a new painting for Peeta’s commissioner was difficult because he let Peeta decide on what would go on the canvas. After a few days of thinking, Katniss had gotten an idea when the archery shooting range opened up at the gym. Maybe it wasn’t something Peeta would consider, but she would feel the utmost comfortable in her natural habitat. She was glad when Peeta agreed to the idea and decided this time to take pictures of her rather than relying on memory. Katniss knew he would be painting her with a bow and arrow, but the rest of the piece was hard for her to put together. He could do anything, really.

The paintings she could see, however, were in Peeta’s room, carefully stacked against each other, separated by a delicate material provided by the Capitol. He had mentioned to Caesar about his other works and the talk show host was more than happy to have him bring them along. He had friends that showed interest ever since he talked about Peeta and his art. It made Katniss smile knowing that people were supporting Peeta. She had never seen something like this happen, but she was glad to witness it.

“You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with Effie,” she sighed as she took a seat on Peeta’s bed.

“Brutal etiquette classes?” Peeta asked.

“Who knew coordination involved having to think about how you walked?” Katniss took one of the pillows and hugged it. It wasn’t as warm as Peeta, but she’d make do for now.

“I can switch with you, if you want. Your uncle seems to know what he’s doing,” Peeta offered.

Katniss gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks. I just talked to him, though. Gave me a proper pep talk.”

“What’d he say?”

She told him about Haymitch’s advice and what he thought about her and Peeta listened intently. As much as she tried to steer clear of any complaints, her tone gave away that she was evidently bothered by her being in front of a camera.

“I’m not very good at talking to people,” she said with a defeated sigh.

Peeta sat beside her, not being able to hold back a smile. “You’re good at talking to me, though.”

“Yeah, but you’re different.”

“How am I different?”

Katniss tried to think of something that set Peeta apart from everyone else, but she wasn’t sure if she could convey it with just words. All this time, he had been worried about not being able to do her justice when she was the one that struggled to do that very thing now. “Well, you’re…you.”

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “That’s very insightful, Katniss.”

She couldn’t help chuckle at his sarcasm. “You know what I mean!”

“I do and that’s why we’re friends!” As he spoke, he took the tip of her braid and flung it over her back playfully. He seemed to recognize something then. “What if we do that? Play off each other’s banter?”

Katniss tried chewing the idea. “How, though? We’d be talking to Caesar.”

“Yes, but we could also fill in things for one another.”

She tossed him the pillow she had clung to. “That’s not banter, Peeta!”

He set the pillow aside and took her hands in his. “Follow me with this. Whenever you and I talk about the same thing, you light up at some point. I’ve noticed this today, actually. Your uncle gave us a weird look when you started to laugh about something.”

“Did he mention it when he was helping you?” Katniss asked with an arched eyebrow.

“He asked me if you were sick and mentioned you never laugh unless you have a fever,” Peeta chuckled.

“To be fair…he’s right.”

“Then, worst case scenario: we induce a fever for you so you can be giggly with Caesar,” Peeta shrugged, as if doing such a thing could be that easy.

Katniss knew that wouldn’t be necessary. She more or less understood what Peeta said and tried to relax about the subject.  

The following morning brought her some more comfort as she and Peeta did what he suggested, in addition to her using Haymitch’s advice. After practicing their interview several times with Effie, she brought in Haymitch to rehearse with them and Katniss tried her best not to be sarcastic while answering him, but there was only so much she could take and realized Caesar could not be as intolerable as her uncle.

**

Arriving at the Capitol gave her different types of shock, not just the typical one with anxiety. From what she could see through the train’s windows, there were people waiting outside dressed in all sorts of colorful clothing. They were all ridiculous and exaggerated, and after seeing Effie with her voluminous wig and hat, she looked relatively normal, professional even, with her blazer and pencil skirt.

The culture shock set in when she and Peeta stepped off the train and took in the new world they’d been exposed to. District 12 was calm and peaceful with an abundance of nature trails and the woods to provide a tranquil environment. The Capitol, on the other hand, was flashy, full of lights, skyscrapers, billboards, and pollution. It was surprising to see so much artificial color in the sky that Katniss wondered where the energy even came from to power everything. She and Peeta were stunned and looked up to observe the buildings surrounding them. She could see faces of actors and models on advertisements, and a giant screen with Caesar’s face on it promoting his show.

There was a flash of a camera at first to the right of Katniss’s line of sight, followed by a dozen more and at some point, she had to keep her eyes closed in order to regain her focus. There were screams coming from the people that had gathered around the train station, and then it clicked for Katniss that the people weren’t waiting to board the train they had come in, but rather they were waiting to see them and they somehow knew their names because they were screaming them out. It was worse than her classmates back in the university, but at least she had Peeta to guide her away from these people. Effie prompted them to follow her and Katniss hadn’t even noticed she had latched onto Peeta’s hand until he gave hers a squeeze so she could walk with him. She didn’t let him go until they were boarded onto a large white vehicle, but even then, she sat beside him and they were both able to see through the window the eccentricity of the Capitol. Katniss didn’t envy them one bit; she was not a fan of so much light or ostentation. She wondered if Peeta thought differently since he was more open to new environments.

The hotel in which they would be staying was a tall building with countless stories, and Katniss wondered if it had an end to it. The staff wasn’t as colorful as the pedestrians on the outside world, and instead they looked serious and a bit emotionless. For one thing, she was glad about that because she didn’t think she could tolerate the freak show with the abrasive color schemes that were a sight for sore eyes. Once checked in, they were brought up to their room, which was a large suite with three rooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and a balcony. This could be a house back in her district for all she knew. Because Caesar had invited them, he would be paying for the expenses, even if Peeta had protested against it. It was strange to Katniss how someone could go out of their way to accommodate them when they hardly knew each other, but something good was happening to Peeta so she would take it for all it was worth.  

They still had a couple of hours before their prep teams arrived, so Effie drilled Katniss and Peeta again about their etiquette and answers they would give to Caesar. After covering the same things multiple times, Katniss started to feel confident, but she still didn’t think she could be as self-assured as Peeta.

If Katniss had thought Effie was odd, their prep teams proved that there could be higher levels of strangeness plus more. She had never met someone who could gush and talk so quickly and excitedly as the six people that walked in, speaking to Effie about this and that and things Katniss didn’t understand or care about. It hadn’t been five minutes since the teams’ arrival and she was already getting a headache. Effie introduced Peeta and her to their prep teams and they praised Peeta for his work of art that had, apparently, gotten the Capitol in such a frenzy to know who this talented artist was and why Caesar Flickerman, of all people, was so interested in him and his muse. They looked at Katniss and touched her hair, face, arms, and other places she couldn’t even keep track of due to the commotion these people were making about how exotic and different and beautiful she was. She had thought there was nothing appealing about her; she didn’t know how to be sexy or charming or even coquettish, so there was no point in pondering over how attractive she could be. With so many voices saying she was pretty, gorgeous, stunning, she believed it less. Compliments were supposed to be a one-time thing, weren’t they? The short compliment battles she and Peeta had were different. They were aggressive and competitive and they said the comments in a sort of defying manner, being more of a battle than a compliment. Whoever blushed or laughed first lost and Katniss almost always won. Those were fun because Peeta and her knew how that game worked. Even if they did play it like a game, Katniss usually disguised her comments with actual compliments she was too shy to give Peeta on a normal occasion. The somewhat empty compliments she received from the prep teams weren’t part of the little game they played, though, so she couldn’t take them very seriously.

Being separated from Peeta and brought into different rooms made her feel uneasy, but they couldn’t be kept together. Their procedures weren’t the same and the prep teams had to focus on their assigned person. Katniss suspected this was also to keep them from getting distracted so they could do their jobs properly. Surely, she wouldn’t need so many people getting her ready, but Katniss was proven wrong when her team got to work on different tasks. One prepared a tub full of lotions and creams and other perfumed concoctions while the other two rid her of her body hair. It was painful and a bit invasive, but Katniss couldn’t really object. When it came time to get her into the tub, she felt nervous about being nude in front of her team, but they wasted no time in removing her robe and leaving her naked momentarily before receiving help to soak into the tub. At first, the flurry of flowery-smelling chemicals stung her tender skin, but afterwards, she felt the soothing sensation they were supposed to have on her.

As the three worked—Flavius, Venia, and Octavia—they all talked to one another, occasionally asking Katniss questions before getting back to their conversation. They were excited because they would get to be backstage in Caesar’s studio while Katniss and Peeta had their interview with him, and they would be able to go to parties and more events with more celebrities, and how exciting all that would be. Was Peeta suffering the same way she was or was he tolerating it better?

“What’s it like to be a painter’s muse?” Octavia asked Katniss as she worked on her nails. She had made a face when she saw how short Katniss’s nails were and mentioned she didn’t have much to work with so she made it her mission to give her long, beautiful nails even if they would be fake.

“I’m sure it must feel flattering!” Venia answered for her. “Does he ask you to pose for him for other types of artwork?” She applied a type of foundation that felt cool against Katniss’s face.

Katniss thought of the question as just curiosity, but Venia’s tone was a bit implicative of something she couldn’t figure out and then she became more confused when Flavius and Octavia slapped Venia’s arm playfully, telling her that was a private question. The giggle fit that followed added to Katniss’s confusion.  

Given the fact she’d only posed for Peeta once, it wasn’t much of a fantastic experience the way they were all expecting, but at least he let her decide where she wanted to pose. It sounded so simple, though, and these people were so excited. Would it crush them if she gave them the honest truth, or would it satisfy them if she gave a vague yet inflated answer? These people didn’t know Katniss and Peeta. The less they knew, the better for them.

“Well, Peeta makes it a priority to make me feel very comfortable is all I can say,” she shrugged, which wasn’t far from the truth if she thought about it.

That was enough of an answer for them and they continued on with another topic Katniss didn’t bother following. It was difficult to zone out, but she found a way to distract herself by looking at the room she was staying in. She had been guided to sit on a cushioned chair near the window so the illumination of the light coming from it lit up the room splendidly. The colorful lights that came through it were muted enough to not bother Katniss.

It felt like hours had gone by because she was feeling restless and irritated, but once her prep team stepped back to admire their work, she was allowed to stand so she could look at herself. If she complained that they were obnoxious, they made up for that with their ability to transform a person into an ethereal creature because that’s what they did with her. Her hair was adorned into an intricate bun woven with braids; her face was made up with a soft and sweet palette of orange, red, and pink eye shadow and powder, but the false eyelashes gave her eyes more volume and even made them look bigger; and despite the false nails, they looked delicate and elegant with the red nail polish and studded crystals over them. She had never had this type of treatment before. She not only looked otherworldly, but she even looked pretty. Perhaps that was the Capitol effect.  

She had been told her stylist, Cinna, would be bringing her dress and other accessories, and she was about to ask for him when a knock on the door answered her thoughts. It opened when her prep team gave the okay to enter and a dark-haired man with gold eyeliner walked in, a dress bag slung over his left shoulder and a large rectangular chest held by his right arm. He set his things down and introduced himself to Katniss before dismissing the excited prep team.

“You two have been making quite a commotion,” he said with a smile.

“Really, it’s all Peeta’s talent. I just so happen to be in the painting,” she answered.

“He must have had a good reason to pick you. Artists take inspiration from the world around them,” Cinna pointed out. He tugged on Katniss’s bun and she felt what must have been a bobby pin slip through her hair.

“He’s a creative person. I don’t think there is anything he can’t put on a canvas.”

Cinna opened the chest he brought and took out five boxes of different sizes before placing them on the chair. He handed one of the smaller boxes to Katniss before speaking.

“Not everyone chooses to play with fire, though. Have you wondered why he decided to have you surrounded by it?”

Katniss wasn’t sure what to expect when she opened the box, but underwear certainly wasn’t it. Of course, the Capitol had thought of everything to provide for her, and surely, Peeta was receiving the same type of treatment. She wondered if he also received a similar box. Would they know he preferred boxers over briefs? The only reason she knew that was because they had gone grocery shopping together so often that in one of their trips, he mentioned he wanted to buy a new pack and she’d accompanied him. Somehow, it hadn’t been discomforting to see the pictures of men’s groins on the labels of the plastic bags and she hadn’t thought of anything in particular when she was with Peeta, even giving her own opinion about what to get. The reverse hadn’t happened, where he’d accompany her to buy her own underwear. She knew she shouldn’t feel self-conscious, but having Peeta know she wore panties didn’t sit too well with her. He probably didn’t care, but she wasn’t ready for that type of experience just yet. It felt a bit ridiculous since she knew what type of underwear he wore and he hadn’t even so much as blushed when she found out.

“No…I assumed he pictured something in his mind and just went for it,” Katniss answered when she was able to find her voice again.

While she changed into her undergarments in the bathroom, Cinna took care of opening the rest of the boxes and taking out their contents, arranging her shoes beside the chair’s leg, and the jewelry she would be wearing on the desk top. He’d taken the dress out of its bag and unzipped it, ready to help slip it on Katniss when she walked out. All the while, they had continued their conversation and she found it so easy to talk to him, almost as easy as it was to talk to Peeta. Katniss felt like she could trust him. Maybe it was his unassuming attitude or his genuine smile, but she didn’t feel like she had to force herself to speak to him.

“I don’t think we should let that inspiration go to waste,” Cinna said as he zipped up her dress. “Hopefully, he doesn’t mind if I borrowed his idea.”

Katniss gave him a curious look. “Will the dress light up?”

“Only if you spin around. Caesar makes a point of asking his female guests to twirl for him. This will definitely make an impression.”

There was a sense of danger coming from the dress and Katniss felt rude for wanting to remove the beautiful red gown she had on. “Is it real fire?”

“No, it’s synthetic. It’ll look real, but that’s the point. It’ll match Peeta’s art with you being on fire.” Cinna’s words were reassuring and helped calm Katniss down, if only for a moment.

With the accessories in place, Katniss could see the sparkle of the earrings and the necklace when light bounced off the jewels while her bracelets looked like delicate flames surrounding her wrists. He helped her with her shoes, which were not as tall as the pair Effie had lent her to practice with on the train, and her look was complete. Despite this, she began to feel anxious, as if she hadn’t prepared enough. The time for the interview was approaching fast and the fact that she was ready to go didn’t make it any easier to process.

“I’m nervous,” she said as Cinna smoothened out her dress.

“Have you ever been interviewed before?” he asked.

“Not on live television. I don’t feel as confident as Peeta does. We’ve talked about what to do in case I freeze, but I don’t feel like it’s enough.”

Cinna pursed his lips in thought. “Why not keep your focus on something else? The cameras can be distracting, but if you look at someone else in the crowd, that would certainly help you.”

Katniss looked at him and thought of something. “Will you be in the crowd?”

With a smile, he nodded and caught on to her idea. “You can find me and pretend you’re talking to me. Pretend you’re answering my questions.”

“Hopefully, it’ll be that easy.”

“Is there anything you and Peeta do that helps comfort you?”

Katniss thought about it for a moment before remembering how she had held on to him as they left the train station. “I usually hold his hand and that helps me.”

Cinna placed individual orange and red crystals on Katniss’s arms and cheek. “Okay, so you have two options to choose from. Focus on either Peeta or me. Caesar won’t let you flounder around, either. Trust me, you’ll be fine and you’ll even enjoy yourself.”

Katniss wanted to believe him. If what he said was true and she could put her focus on these two people, then she was sure the interview would turn out fine. She would have Peeta by her side and he wouldn’t let her choke. Cinna would be in the crowd, surely cheering for her and giving her reassuring looks. Somehow, the pressure to perform well was slowly fading. She would have fun with it.

When she walked out of the room with Cinna, the others were already in the living room waiting for her. Katniss recognized the back of Peeta’s head—he was the only blond in the room—but he looked transformed. He wore a striking black suit with a red tie and cuffs, and his hair was combed back, looking shiny and flawless. They had joked about him getting made-up, but Katniss didn’t see anything on his face other than a bit of powder, which was probably customary for people who appeared on television to wear anyway. She wondered if he, too, would be lit on fire if he spun or did something with his sleeves.

“Look at you, Girl on Fire,” he said as he approached her.

She raised an eyebrow at him, although what she felt was amusement instead of annoyance at his teasing. “We need to give you a nickname, too.”

“I thought it was ‘The Artist’.”

“No, it needs to be a mouthful like mine.”

“Think about it on the drive over to the studio. We have to go already,” Haymitch interrupted.

“Why don’t you stay behind, uncle Haymitch? There’s a bar here,” Katniss suggested, hoping he’d listen to her, but knowing he wouldn’t.

“And pass up the refreshments over at the studio? That’s a trip I have to make, sweetheart.”

Katniss rolled her eyes at him, but the irritation was short-lived. Effie had a planner in her hand and she was marking something off her list before telling everyone that they needed to make their way down in order to head to the studio. A jumpy sensation settled in Katniss’s stomach, but Peeta offered her his arm and she slipped hers under his willingly. Their stylists and prep teams would be accompanying them for any last-minute adjustments, but at least they weren’t going in the same car as Peeta and her. She didn’t think she could handle listening to them talk about nonsense for another minute.

Even with the late afternoon sun, the city looked different from the time they arrived earlier in the morning. It was a sort of transition stage before the night life arrived and Katniss could only imagine what it was like. The arrival to Caesar’s studio had the same reception as the one she and Peeta received at the train station, only this time there were far more people and they were being held back by a thin transparent wall and security guards that were three steps from one another, all lined up. They couldn’t all be here to see them, could they? They weren’t even that well-known and it felt odd that they would be screaming for them. The Capitol must really be fond of artists if there was so much of a commotion already. All Katniss could really do was hold on to Peeta as they were led inside by Effie, who was all too familiar with the procedures.

They were given a printed schedule that she went over with them, which wasn’t much really. Caesar would introduce them, they would have their interview, Peeta would present his painting to Caesar, and then there would be some kind of challenge towards the end. If she had known that they were going to compete in something, she would have brought comfortable shoes with her. Sarcastic remarks aside, she really did wonder what Caesar would have them do. She and Peeta had watched a few episodes of his show to get an idea of what they were walking into, and it made sense that there would be some kind of challenge because Caesar would come up with some strange activities for his guests. Most of it was improvisation, so she wondered what would be set up for them.

The talk show host approached them a few minutes later when he spotted them and he seemed ecstatic at their presence. Compliments were thrown, small talk was made, and the tense atmosphere Katniss had sensed broke when she got familiar with Caesar and his mannerism in the short amount of time they spoke. He explained how the show worked, where they would enter from the stage and where they would take a seat near his desk, and they would have a fabulous time, he was sure of it! He reminded them to wave to the crowd and smile before he left to get ready. A small, electronic box was attached to Peeta’s and Katniss’s hips and microphones were hooked onto the collars of their attire so they could talk through them. Touch-ups for make-up were done by their prep teams. Cheers and encouraging comments were given, though Katniss found it weird that someone would tell them to break a leg. She spotted Cinna and Portia, Peeta’s stylist, sitting in the same row together, and she felt better at the reassurance that not only was someone she knew in the crowd, but Peeta was with her. The smile on his face was the sole reminder that she had come here for him and she wouldn’t have wanted for this to happen any other way. His energy seemed to cross over to her body and the electrifying feeling of adrenaline rushed through her, as if Peeta had given her his good vibes. Of course, they were going into this as one.

The loud, jazzy tune played that signaled the show had begun and Caesar took his place as he began his opening monologue, welcoming the crowd and giving them a brief summary of what the show would contain. There was static that briefly came from Katniss’s microphone and Caesar introduced Peeta and her as his guests. The crew from back stage gave them their cue and Katniss slipped her hand into Peeta’s, holding onto him tightly before walking onto the stage and being met with the rumbling cheers of the crowd that awaited them.

**

Did you think I was going to pass up the opportunity to include the District 12 Team? By team, I don’t just mean Effie and Haymitch, but the whole styling pack. I, personally, love Hayffie, so I had to add that to this story as well. Did you also think I was going to let K and P go alone to the Capitol? ;)

I picture Caesar to be like a combination of Graham Norton, David Letterman, Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy Fallon, and Conan O’Brien. (I watch them sometimes lol.)

I imagine the Capitol to be a mix of New York City, Las Vegas, Hollywood, and Seattle. My brother has gone and he mentioned that people dress rather eccentrically, so while writing this, I pictured them. The Capitol also gives me that casino vibe of LV, the ‘Big City’ vibe from NYC, and the star-studded atmosphere of Hollywood. I’m from a small town in southern Texas and I’ve gone to big cities like Dallas, San Antonio, and Austin. The culture shock wasn’t as great for Dallas and San Antonio, but for Austin, I was quite appalled. I’m open to liberal settings, but I was hit in the face with Austin. So I definitely feel for Katniss and Peeta since they’re from a small town and then they come to the Capitol, which is probably huge and full of lights and they’re probably bugging their eyes out.

Also, Idk about y’all, but I don’t think finding out what type of underwear your friends use is weird. I’ve gone with my best guy friend grocery shopping and he needed new underwear so I browsed with him and gave him some of my opinions. Given that I’m gay, I should have been repelled by all the pictures of guys’ concealed dicks, but it was pretty funny to be there. He’s never gone with me to Victoria’s Secret, but he knows what I wear and I’m fine with that. Katniss isn’t me, though, and I know she’s not the most open to sharing about her body and all that, but I think if she knew what Peeta wore, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Maybe someday, he’ll find out what she wears. ;) As for the compliment battle, if you haven’t seen a video of that from celebrities on youtube, you haven’t lived. The cast of Love, Simon did one and it was great. Usually, the battles I have with friends aren’t written tweets; we just say things like “You’re cute.” “Your FACE is cute.” “Hey, BITCH, I love YOU.” Stupid shit like that in a very aggressive tone. P and K wouldn’t swear at each other, I can’t picture either of them calling each other bitch, but maybe little shit sometimes. I have been listening to the comments about hotel shenanigans and believe me, I will get to that! We just have to get through the next part, which is their interview. I will try to update next weekend. School is starting this Monday and I’m also moving into my apartment so I have a busy weekend. Fingers crossed that I can get to writing something during some of my free time. Let me know what you think!

[ellanainthetardis]

Prompt: gonna leave it here as a prompt or as everything you want it to be: victory tour era, hayffie gets annoyed&xasperated by the kids being difficult and the stylists having a (stupid) fight. You may also turn it bittersweet, like hayffie being just a tiny bit envious of the others’ possibilities of being openly couples

Making Up Is The Best

“You can come out of hiding.” Haymitch grumbled, as he closed the door of her compartment behind him. “They’re all done.”

Effie could have complained about the lack of knocking but she had long ago given up that particular battle.

“I am not hiding.” she lied, flicking the page of her notepad to the schedule for their stop in Three.

“You prefer sulking?” he taunted, dropping his whole body on the foot of her bed.

She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her papers and she eyed him with mistrust, note quite trusting him not to roll over and crush her speeches and schedules under his body. Truly, he could have sat properly, like a civilized human being, but trust Haymitch to just sprawl on a bed that wasn’t his.

“I prefer working.” she snapped. “Not that anyone else on this train remembers what professionalism looks like.”

READ MORE on ff or HERE on AO3

[silhuetismo]

prompt: hi! so i just thought of this random au where everlark uses hayffie's babygirl to learn how to take care of kids. no pressure just a random idea <3

a/n: i got a little off track with this prompt, i guess. there's some mentions of alcohol consumption, but everlark is 21 here. it's also a modern au and other than that i don't think I have any other notes. fair reminder that english is not my first language and if you want to send me a prompt or some feedback i would be really happy.

word count: 365

· ° . ⊹ · ° · ° . ⊹ · ° · ° . ⊹ · ° · ° . ⊹ · ° .

"so... could you remind me again why did we agree with this?", i ask as i come back from the kitchen. peeta takes his eyes of julia, the seven-months-old we are currently babysitting, and looks up at me from his position on the carpet of our tiny living room.

"not so sure anymore. something about getting a bit practice before we have our own, or maybe we were just drunk. i can't remember", he says, making faces at the little girl that looks so much like her parents. my family's grey eyes and my uncle haymitch's lips some of her most remarkable traits.

"we were really wasted", i comment, finally sitting beside them.

"in our defense, we'd finished all of our finals. we were celebrating", he says, scruching up his nose.

"it doesn't really feel like celebration now, specially with this face you're making", i pause for a moment, dreading my next question. "did she poo?"

peeta looks at me with wide eyes and then right back at julia.

"hey, pretty girl, did you just poo?", he asks her.

"i don't think she will give you answer. just take a look."

"pumpkin, i am going to take a look at your diaper now, ok?", peeta tells julia, who's at his lap sucking her small fingers.

"i stand by what i just said: i don't think she will respond to that."

"i think is important that i tell her what i'm doing so she doesn't get uncomfortable. and, you know, i'm getting her consent. we shouldn't just do things to babies because they're babies. they are also people."

"you do have a point there. she is a baby! you won't be able to get her consent. just go ahead and check, for god's sake", i scowl at him.

"ok, i'm doing it. i'm going to do it, juli", he whispers, getting julia up so he can lower her pink shorts and see if she is in need of a change. "yeah, i think we were really drunk when we agreed to do this."

i shake my head.

"i think we were really drunk when we said we wanted to have babies. we aren't even dating."

[the-hayffie-penthouse]

May The Prompts Be Ever In Your Favor

You asked for it (not really) we did it!

I bring to you a new place for the hayffie fandom to exchange prompts: @the-hayffie-penthouse! Admin by @jisoomes and @ellanainthetardis and possibly more eventally if, let’s pray, this thing takes off ;) Please note this is a secondary blog so this particular blog won’t be able to follow back.

Rules, you ask? There are noooo rules. Well, maybe a tiny bitsy one: it shouldn’t need saying but no hate, be cordial to each other if you interact and, above all, have fun!

How to prompt: just drop an ask in the askbox and we will do the rest! If your prompt is on the *coconuts* side of things, please either try not to use explicit words to avoid the blog being flag or you can use the nice euphemisms that are coconuts, coconut stick and any fruity thing your imagination can provide or you can also try to place an * somewhere to make it less obvious to their algorythm what we’re talking about. *wink wink*

Who can prompt? Anyone can prompt. You can totally do it from anon, from your blog, from your house, from the park (well, if you’re not on lockdown anymore XD), from the…

What to do if you see a prompt you like: take it! run with it! It’s been done before? No worries, put your own spin on it (just don’t and steal someone’s else work) ! Draw, write, vid, sculpt it if that’s your thing! The prompts here are free for grab. Make sure to let us know if you do answer a prompt though, either tag us @the-hayffie-penthouse or drop either of us a pm so we can reblog it!

It’s that simple! Let’s have some hayffie fun!

(We plan on adding tags to make it all more functional if you’re looking for specific things but since we’ve spent all day setting this blog up that will wait a bit haha)

If you see something that’s not working like it should, let us know! And if you want to share this post and bring the hayffie penthouse to your fellow hayffie friends, the more the merrier ;)

[dazeyrains2]

DECEPTION pt2 - Hayffie Multi Chapter, prompt - POISON

Apologies in advance for the scroll. I post from my phone and cannot seem to add a 'Read More'. Dont h8 me! Xx

.....

Pt2 of Deception

.....

The guard burst in, gasping at the amount of blood he saw and the doctor quickly followed.

"Alright, everybody back, give me space!" He ordered, then Haymitch stood helpless as the doctor pressed his stethoscope to Effies wheezing chest.

"That's not good" he muttered

"What!?" Haymtich yelled "what's not good? What's going on?"

The doctor looked Haymitch up and down quickly "You!" He pointed "You'll be stronger and faster than me, pick her up now, run as fast as you can with her to the medical bay. We've got about 60 more seconds before her heart likely gives out!"

Haymitch didn't need to hear any more.

It's like something in him exploded and knocked the consciousness out of his body. One minute he was lifting her into his arms, the next he was running, running, faster than he had ever run before. People were jumping out of his way, screaming at the the trail of blood that was still pouring from Effies mouth. He could hear her breathing, strained and desperate, but at least she was still breathing.

"Stay with me sweetheart"

He made it in 40 seconds and kicked open the double doors to the medical bay, placing Effie down on the first trolley he saw.

"Help! I need help now!!!"

....

It was an excruciating wait.

Haymitch and Katniss had been sitting with their heads in their hands for almost 3 hours.

Finally, the doctor they had met earlier approached gingerly.

"She's stable" he announced and Haymtich almost fell to his knees in relief . "Thank god"

"We need to see her" Katniss begged, but the doctor held up his hands.

"No, she's not out of the woods yet" he explained "She could relapse at any moment. The main thing we need to focus on is finding an antidote"

Haymtich and Katniss repeated his last word simultaneously

"Antidote?"

"You heard me" the doctor replied "Now, take a seat. This is important"

....

"Poison!?" Haymitch repeated, shocked to his bones

"That...that woman!" Katniss seethed, thinking immediately of the woman in the cafeteria, the one serving the food, the one with the suspicious looks "She must be behind this! Ill kill her!"

Haymitch grabbed her arms and sat her back down.

"Not now you won't. Not without me! Carry on Doc"

"We think it's the man made poison Spikadus, it was used in the first war, during the breaking bread dinner with 13 before...before Snow almost wiped us all out"

"You think someone here found some of it...kept it?"

"Kept it, experimented with it, made it even more deadly... I've never seen anything like this.

Spikadus was a reactive poison. When it hit the bloodstream the molecules would harden and cluster together, forming a shape that under a microscope, looked like a Canon ball laden with spikes.

If ingested all at once, a cluster would form, as large as a fist and burst through the intestine forcing a quick death. But, if ingested slowly and over time, smaller, multiple clusters would form, slowly slicing their way around the body, eventually breaking down small enough to travel into the blood stream and to the heart

"If she had swallowed this stuff by some freak accident, all in one go, she'd be dead already" the doctor said "The poison must have been ingested slowly, over a few weeks, a little at a time...which makes me think this isn't an accident?."

"Eceris Toll. That's her name" Katniss spat "The server at the canteen. She's been messing around with Effies food for weeks" Katniss put her head in her hands "I didn't believe her. I thought she had brought it on herself..."

Haymitch put his arm around the girl.

"This isn't your fault, Katniss" He stood, clenching his fists. "I need to notify the guards about this woman. She needs to be arrested immediately"

"Hold on a moment" the Doctor asked. He seemed lost in thought, like he was trying to figure something out.

"You think it was the food she was being given... what did Effie used to say to make you think that?"

Katniss looked at the doctor in irritably. What else could it have been.

"She was always given the bits of bad meat, watered down, tasteless veg. Toll would wander to the back of the kitchen and return with Effies dinners, cold and rotten looking."

"That can't be it" the doctor said, only aggravating Katniss more.

She was about to get up and get to Toll herself but Haymtich stopped her.

"What are you thinking Doc?"

"You can't disguise the taste or colour of this stuff in any food" The Doctor stated. "Spikadus is a bitter, black liquid. If mixed with food, the liquid solidifys too quickly, you'd notice it. It would be like eating tiny rocks in your mashed potatoes..."

"Water then?" Katniss concluded

But again the Doctor disagreed "No, the colour of it would turn water green. When Snow used this in the war... he stirred it into dark, thick and bitter tasting liquids, like red wine and served it with dinner. Thats how he got away with it"

Katniss scratched her head "We've never had anything like that in the cafeteria...wine has been banned since way before we even got here"

But suddenly it all fell into place for Haymitch... "Dark liquid, bitter taste" He repeated "Could that be disguised in say...a cup of coffee"

"A weak coffee, possibly not but a double shot or something stronger...bitter with bitter....then....yes....absolutely"

The colour drained from Haymitchs face

"But coffees banned too..." Katniss said confused

"Not on Thursdays" he reminded her and the penny dropped

"Oh my god.... She...she....she gave us both some today as well, stopped me from taking Effies cup...!"

Haymitch opened the door and fpund the nearest guard

"Find me Astriss, right now."

[dazeyrains-blog]

Hayffie prompt:

An AU where Effie is a slave And Snow gave her to Haymitch because He had done him a "favour"

Thanks @giulytrinka xx It's in 2 parts as it's a long 1shot!

Part 1. - Trinket.

He was expecting the knock at his door to be later, Snow was usually more careful when sending 'gifts' to victors.

Haymitch opened the door and the guards escorted her in.

"Where would you like her sir?"

"Over there, on the couch" he replied with a borish tone.

Effie, the girl behind the mask, held her breath. His tone told her that that was a regular occurance. Regular customers of Snow always had some sort of sadistic fancy. She lifted her head and held in the tears...'You can do this, Effie. Just one more year and you'll be accepted into the games academy. No more of this'. The guards pushed her towards the couch.

"Any trouble from this one, call us" Warned one of them "She bit the last one, we'll be down the hall waiting"

'Fuck'. Effie thought, biting her lip beneath her wire mask. Now he knows she can fight back, now he knows to be extra rough.

Haymitch nodded and made sure to keep up the act before the guards left. He wrapped an arm around Effies tiny waste and pulled her towards him forcefully. "This one's no match for me" he said with a distasteful smirk "Leave us!"

As soon as the door was closed, his arm disappeared as did he.

Effie waited. And waited...

Was he setting up his torture room? She shuddered at the thought and then she shuddered at how cold she was, stood there in a dress that more resembled underwear and feeling the chill in the under decorated room...thats when he returned. With a blanket?

"Here, put this around you, sit down"

He pushed it into her hands but she remained stood. Had she spoken out loud? That was against the rules! Now she was in for it.

He walked away, stopped, saw her not moving, tutted and paced back towards her.

As his hands raised up she squealed in fear, bringing her own up in defence and cowering backwards.

"Hey, hey" Haymitch soothed. A tone unfamiliar to Effie, she stayed back, starting to shake.

Haymitch dropped his hands "I'm sorry" he offered "I was just...c'mere"

Effie stood a little straighter as he beckoned her forward.

"Seriously, c'mere, I'm not gonna hurt you"

She wasn't sure how or why but she believed him. He had kind eyes she noticed, but if later on, the act fell, at least she could close her eyes and remember them being kind. She stepped toward him and his hands came up a little slower this time.

"I was just...gonna..." He took her wire mask and gently removed it, finally, she could breathe properly again. She kept her eyes low as he stepped away. No one had been that gentle with her before, something wasn't right. Was she disappointing him? If word got back she was disappointing, it would all be over, she'd be cast out of Snows private elite or worse, killed. No one disappointing ever became an escort! She had to think quick.

Haymitch felt a small hand run down the length of his spine, he turned and her lips found his.

For a moment he forgot who he was.

Her kiss was soft and he hadn't been kissed in such a long time.

She smelt amazing, Jasmine oil. He started to slip under her spell.

Her hands slowly wrapped around his neck as she deepened there kiss. She felt so small and weak against him, like he could crush her if he wanted to. For a second, he wanted to. He wanted to pin her down by the throat or up against the wall and fuck her hard, as hard as he could-

"No!" He called out, pushing her away gently "Stop"

"Have I done something wrong?" Effie panicked but Haymitch dodged her touch and grabbed the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders.

"Look, just sit down ok" he instructed, she didn't fight it this time, she sat. "I'll get us a drink"

End of part1.

[allonsysilvertongue]

Wiping History

“What will happen when we get to your arena?” she demanded. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.“ 75 arenas and one colossal task for Effie Trinket. Hayffie. Post-MJ. Previously

8. The Bar

Where her social life was concern, there was little resemblance to the person she was before the war. It was glaringly apparent when she chose instead to spend her Friday night in the office, going through the project timeline and noting with satisfaction that it was going according to schedule - schedule she had meticulously set out.

Cressida and Pollux had tried to persuade her into joining them for a party two blocks away from the office thrown by one of the small-time district entrepreneurs but the thought of mingling with people from the districts made her stomach roiled. Just like those former Capitol elites, Effie was sure that some of them would have something nasty to say behind her back or mock her in the face or throw her disdainful looks, all of which she was not in the mood to face that night so she opted to work instead.

It was boring, yes, but boring was good. Boring meant she was safe.

That was becoming her new motto in life. As long as things were boring, it meant things were fine and there was no need to disrupt that.

Glancing at the clock, she realised with a start that it was nearing nine at night. Going home too late in the night was something she was not comfortable with either so she shut her computer, slung her bag over her shoulder and walked home.

She passed by rows of shops that had sprung up in the neighbourhood. The deli was still open, as usual, so she slipped in and smiled at the lady behind the counter. Without even having to say anything, the lady had her usual order prepared and wrapped. Effie walked passed the bar to get to the traffic junction that would take to her building when she spotted the familiar hunched figure of Haymitch Abernathy.

She stopped, debating with herself if she should go in. But even if she did, what would she do or say? The bar was not a place she frequent often or at all.

It was then that Haymitch turned and saw her standing by the glass window. He raised his glass in a toast, a half smile on his lips before he looked away, swirling the glass absent-mindedly.

It was actually the look on his face that made her walked in. He looked.... despondent.... lonely.

The stool next to him was empty so Effie slid in and placed the sandwich on the bar top.

"Finally finished working, huh?"

She smiled. At the risk of her dinner getting cold, Effie unwrapped it.

"You don't eat after eight," he pointed out this change in her behaviour.

"I am not an escort anymore."

The 'I do not have to look good for the cameras' was left unsaid but Haymitch understood it anyway.

"You're not," he nodded. "You could use a bit filling out, anyway. Here, have a drink on me."

He ordered a random cocktail off the menu and scoffed when it came, a sloshing pink drink with a mini umbrella.

The back of her neck prickled and after years of being in the spotlight, Effie could always tell when someone was looking at her. She didn't mind it before but now... It made her uncomfortable in her own skin.

Angling her body, she turned to see a group of women sitting in a booth. The only reason, she realised she felt that someone was staring at her was because their gaze was lingering on the person next to her. They were watching Haymitch, sometimes giggling and conferring amongst themselves.

She shifted a little and her stool moved just tiny bit to the left, closer to Haymitch.

"Here, have some with me," she said without much affair, giving him more than half of her sandwich.

She never could eat much which meant Haymitch often cleaned her plate since he had something against wasting food. He picked up his half of the share and took a large bite from it. It was gone in two bites before she was even a quarter through hers.

His gaze strayed her way every now and then, watching her quietly.

"What's the matter?" Effie asked as she put down her napkin.

"What makes you think anything's wrong?" Haymitch snorted. "Me in a bar, drink in a hand... What tipped you off?"

"The fifteen years I worked with you. There is something you're not telling me."

With a scrunched of his nose, Haymitch downed his whiskey and ordered another.

"I've been thinking 'bout sitting out tomorrow's plan."

She traced the movement of his finger circling the rim of his glass with her eyes, waiting for him to explain.

"You'll have Beetee for tomorrow so.... You've got a victor – you don't need me there, yeah?"

"I – I don't but..."

I want you to.

She was used to his presence. She was used to it being them - she and him – destroying the arena. It would be different without him around but he must have his reasons for not wanting to be there when he had refused to leave for Twelve even after Mags'.

"May I ask why?

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting in his seat. One of the women from the booth earlier, bumped his shoulder as she picked up her drink from the counter. She sent a charming smile his way but Haymitch merely nodded, clearly distracted enough not to fall for her ploy.

"I can't look at him," Haymitch admitted, forcing Effie's attention back from the woman to him. "I can't do it without thinkin' of Prim blowin' up to pieces."

Startled at that unexpected admission, Effie sat her glass down lest it slipped from her grip. She turned in her seat so that she was facing him, her knees resting lightly against the side of his thigh.

“It ain’t his fault or Gale’s... Not really, not their blame to take on the whole. They designed the dual-timing explosion but they didn't fuckin' know Coin would find 'bout it and use it," Haymitch muttered in a rough voice. "Except I can't help but think if they were as suspicious 'bout Coin as I was...."

He trailed off but clearly did not find that point worth illustrating further because he said, "He's gonna see me tomorrow if I'm there. He's gonna want to talk 'bout what happened again and it ain't somethin' I want. This whole business with the arenas is fucking exhaustin' already in the first place without having to add that conversation into the mix, you know?"

Effie barely form a reply when Haymitch took her bag at the foot of the stool and set it on his lap. He unzipped it without asking her if it was permissible to do so, as if he was at liberty to be going through her things the way he often come and go from her room before. He quickly found what he was looking for amidst her bag of make-up, the novel she was reading which drew a skeptical look from Haymitch and her emergency tampons. Haymitch flipped through her bound notebook.

"He'd want to see Wiress' arena destroyed," Haymitch finger tapped the section marked with the year Wiress had won. "Do me a favour and get his and Wiress' destroyed tomorrow, yeah? Hers is gonna be close to Chaff and I don't want to have to take a trip in a hovercraft with him if I can avoid it."

"I will work it out tomorrow with the team," Effie assured, taking back her book and her bag from him. "How long do you plan on avoiding him, Haymitch?"

All she got for an answer was a non-committal shrug.

"Victors should stick together," she advised. "You are a close-knitted group with the exception of Enobaria. You're bound to see him during Finn's birthday celebrations or Remembrance Day."

Snorting, Haymitch, "you should take your own advice too, yeah? Stick with your victors. Your team.... Don't see you doing that."

His words felt like a punch to her stomach. That was unfair. Effie recoiled and promptly turned away from him, staring at the multitudes of liquor bottle on display across from her behind the bar.

"Shouldn't have said that... I'm sorry, sweetheart," he held both hands up. This time, he moved his stool closer. "Don't go," he placed a hand on her arm when she started keeping her belongings back into her purse. "I like that you're here. Stay, alright? Won't talk 'bout you not being in Twelve ever. Okay?"

Ever... She paused.

He would never ask her to return to Twelve again.

Except, on his first day back, he had been sure that when he goes home, she would come with him.

He's going to take me back because I want to, not because he asked.

XxX

It did not surprise her to see Beetee arriving in Plutarch's car since Plutarch had graciously offered his home to the man. He would have extended the same courtesy to Haymitch if he was only going to be staying in the city for a day or two, she supposed, except Haymitch would be here for a few months and Plutarch would not risk Haymitch turning his home into a pig sty.

"Ms. Trinket," Beetee greeted amicably with a smile.

Before the war, Effie had never been forced to spend her down time with Beetee as she had with Finnick or Chaff or Johanna when they made social calls to Twelve's Penthouse. Chaff always thought Beetee was too serious and put too much damper on the group's spirit for him to be included.

"Will Haymitch be here?" Beetee asked when he noticed that Haymitch was not in the room.

Covering for Haymitch had become second nature to her after numerous stunts he pulled during Games season so this was no different.

"Since you will be here to oversee your arena as well as Wiress, I gave him the day off. I did not think his presence today was needed."

"I see," Beetee nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Will you tell him that I have something he might find interesting? I had thought to give it to him now since we are both in the city but.... Let him know, will you?"

"What is it?"

"I would rather meet him and pass it to him personally."

Effie sighed.

This was exactly what Haymitch wanted to avoid.

"He will ask if it is anything important," Effie said once the hovercraft had landed and her voice could be heard over the sound of the rotators, "and if you really do want to meet him, you will have to give me more than that."

The sad smile on his face was telling enough for her. He must have known that Haymitch would not have wanted to meet him.

"He is not... angry," Effie felt compelled to say. "He knows you and Mr. Hawthorne are not to be blamed for what happened. I believe he just needs time to come around."

"I understand completely," Beetee nodded, accepting the bottle of water Cressida tossed his way for their journey. "I take the blame for what happened. I should have known. I should have been more careful."

The slight pause from her was enough a canvas for him to paint his own conclusion on where she stood on that matter.

"This here," he showed her a small thumb drive, "is the recording of the vote Coin had all the Victors participate in. I took it from Plutarch and deleted the soft copy. He does not know that I have it in here now. I believe that it is the only recording."

"A recording?"

"We were told that it was a confidential vote but I believed especially after what Coin pulled with the design Gale and I had, that she had the vote recorded in case she.... needed leverage in the future."

Her gaze landed on the device in his palm.

"Why would you want to give it to him?"

"His was the swing vote, Ms. Trinket," Beetee said. "I have heard of one or two publishing company in the midst of publishing the events that led to the fall of the Capitol. This," he tapped the thumb drive, "is part of our history. It is something that happened even if, thankfully, the last Games never came to fruition but the votes did happen and if this recording falls into any one of the publishing company's hands, it will be published. That is something that I can guarantee you. I wouldn't know how they would paint the vote or any of the victors who voted for it."

Effie held out her palm and he easily gave her possession of the thumb drive.

"I owe it to him and to Katniss over what happened. If he or Katniss wants it destroyed, they should do it even if it meant we are withholding the truth from the public. Or otherwise, if this leaks – “

“It shouldn’t if this is the only copy,” Effie interrupted despite herself.

“If it does and if I am wrong about this being the only copy in existence, then you with your experience with public relations could cast the event in a … proper light,” Beetee said. “Soften the impact so to speak; make the victors look non-threatening especially to the Capitol citizens so they would continue to place their trust in this new government. If Coin had lived, she would have informed the public that the Victors stood by the decision for the Games even if she gave her word that the specifics would be confidential."

“Her word doesn’t seem to mean much, does it?” Effie mused, looking at the thumb drive in her hand.

“No, it doesn’t, which is why I took this away from Plutarch. If any of the publishing company even alludes to the vote perhaps… we could present it in a way that does not distress a certain group of people.”

He meant the Capitol citizens. People like me. If I was distressed when I found out, the others would too.

"I will give this to him,” Effie assured. “Thank you.”

When I read Mockingjay and it says that Coin in the event of the Games would let the public know that the Victors stood by it, it made me think that would she really not disclose who voted what in the future if any of the victors were to... step out of line? It's Coin so I have trust issues with her.

ANYWAY, what do you make of Effie's life motto about boring = good and hayffie at the bar or Haymitch with Beetee? Let me know!

A/N: I am going on a vacation next week so I will try to update the chapter on Sunday night instead of the usual Saturday.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Smashed

(Hayffie ❤️. Sensual angst and relationship building during the 72nd Hunger Games. Raw and vulnerable Effie is without a doubt the most gorgeous muse I’ve ever had. — Thank you for sharing the prompt. Writing this story brought up memories of a young man who died in his sleep in November 2019. I’d known him since he was 5 years old. Someone who has been drinking heavily, which can mean as few as 5 drinks, give or take, on an empty stomach, may need help. Watch for signs of alcohol poisoning, and don’t let them fall asleep unattended. The young man I knew had little experience with alcohol. If someone had been caring for him similarly to how Haymitch takes care of Effie in this fic, then he would likely still be alive. I think about him often.)

***

Haymitch startled awake and clutched his knife. His ears rang with an echo of shattered glass followed by humming. The sounds were muffled but too loud to be the residue of a dream. Dawn hadn’t yet broken, and it took a moment in darkness to remember whose bed he was in. ...The Capitol’s. The penthouse. The same room he’d slept in for 22 Julys but would never stoop to call his own.

This was supposed to be his day to sleep in if he could. The tributes from 11 and 12 had been killed during the bloodbath at the Cornucopia the day before, and he’d spent the afternoon with Chaff. Everything between then and now was a bit hazy. There’d been Vodka shots, and then a *pick-up* game in the betting lounge to see which of them would be the first to be propositioned for sex.

Not ten minutes in, Haymitch was approached by a woman with pale blue hair flowing down her back, a jeweled collar around her throat, and breast implants the size of cantaloupes. “Hey, victor. Wanna get out of here?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he muttered low enough for Chaff not to hear. This was his buddy’s game, not his. The last thing he wanted in the middle of the Games was to be a piece of meat for some Capitol bitch.

A waif like creature with tattooed olive skin and an unusually large ass for her tiny frame sidled up to Chaff soon afterward. ‘I win,’ he mouthed as he walked out the door with his hand already sliding into the back waistband of her pants.

Glass shattered again, shaking Haymitch from his fog covered memories. What the hell?! As the humming grew louder, he dragged himself out of bed and followed the sound into the living room.

Effie sat on the sofa wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her ankles were crossed on top of the coffee table. “I’ll have another, dear!” She called to a red-clad Avox. He stepped out from the shadows and handed her an oversized champagne flute. She dropped her feet to the floor and promptly filled the new stemware from a large, nearly empty pitcher of orange liquid. Her flute overflowed. The liquid pooled on the table, then dripped over the edge to the purple rug. The Avox stood by with a handtowel draped over his arm, but she didn’t call for one so he remained inconspicuous.

“You know...” Effie spoke to the pink wig she’d taken off at some point and set beside her on the couch, “I’ve always thought that rug needed more color. Orange goes with purple like wildflowers on a mountainside.”

She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, bent forward at the waist, put her mouth to the rim of the glass, and sipped the drink with a loud slurp until it was emptied enough to not spill further. As she raised her head, she caught sight of Haymitch.

All traces of the lipstick she’d worn the day before were gone. Her lips glistened with whatever she was drinking. A thought flashed through his mind of what it would be like to kiss her. He’d wondered before. As she licked her lips, looking at him like she was, he had a hard time thinking about anything else.

Neither of them glanced away nor said a word as he watched her swallow the rest of her drink. The spell broke when she smashed the flute to the floor and started humming again. The tune this time was unmistakable. It was the same melody that played in the arena when images of dead tributes were projected into a darkened sky.

“Effie, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m having brunch!”

“Brunch? It’s 5am.”

“Mimosas make any meal brunch!”

“I don’t see a meal here, sweetheart. Have you eaten since yesterday?”

“Yesterday we had dinner with the children. You remember. They picked at the food, but they had the decency to use silverware.”

“That wasn’t yesterday. That was the day before. Have you eaten anything since then?”

“I never eat on the first day of the Games. Nothing settles well...”

He’d been too wrapped up in his own miserable sense of responsibility and tension on Day 1 to notice her eating habits or lack thereof.

“...But these mimosas certainly are delicious.” She snapped her fingers and the Avox stepped into the light again. Effie held up the empty pitcher. The Avox took it as soon as he was clear that she didn’t intend to throw it on the floor. “Bring us another round and two more glasses.”

“Hold up,” Haymitch said to the Avox. “Bring a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. Make sure the pitcher is plastic too. And bring some crackers. ...And an empty bucket, thanks.”

“And crepes! With strawberries and cream cheese, chopped candied pecans and a drizzle of maple syrup... and mimosas!” Effie added.

The Avox looked to Haymitch who quietly shook his head. “Let’s start with crackers and work up to the rest. I think you’ve had enough alcohol this morning.”

“Amitch Habernathy! Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot have!”

“Sweetheart, I’m just trying to help.” He went the long way around the rug to avoid stepping on shards of broken glass, and he sat beside her on the sofa.

Through worn layers of makeup, he couldn’t tell if her cheeks were pale or blazing. He raised his hand slowly to her forehead. She held her breath as he touched her. Her skin was clammy but held some warmth. “How many drinks have you had?”

The back of his hand still grazed her forehead as the answer barely escaped her throat, “I lost count.”

He assessed the pile of broken glass on the floor and believed it was enough to be concerned about her. Her body was slight under all those layers of clothes she wore. He’d stared at her enough to know it. Besides, she hadn’t eaten in a day and a half.

As he dropped his hand from her forehead, she caressed along his cheek, his jaw, his neck, then down the front of his rumpled T-shirt. “You’re so pretty,” she said.

She’d never touched him so personally. It almost scared the shit out of him because she felt so good. “I ain’t so pretty. You’re just drunk,” he reminded himself.

“I ain’t so drunk...”

Effie Trinket saying “ain’t” was drunk for sure, but he knew it would be pointless to argue with her.

The Avox brought Haymitch’s requested items in a bucket. They nodded to each other: Haymitch in appreciation, and the Avox in relief that Effie was no longer breaking champagne flutes.

“You’re pretty too,” she said to the Avox. All six of your eyes are pretty. But not quite as pretty as this guy.” Her palm still lingered on Haymitch’s chest, and she whispered to the Avox, “Have you seen him naked? Holy Mary Mother of God, he’s so fine!”

Haymitch wondered if and when Effie had actually seen him naked. He blacked out too often to know. “I don’t think any mothers of gods want to see me without any clothes. Let’s leave them out of this.” Making light of her comment was safer than picturing himself naked with Effie.

The Avox poured water into the plastic cup and left the crackers in the bag instead of laying them out on fine china. Haymitch waved him off with gratitude then handed her the cup of water. “Drink this slowly. It’ll help you sober up, and when you wake up later you’ll feel like a small train hit you instead of a big one.”

“I don’t want to be sober!” What she wanted was to forget all the death she’d witnessed that day, but she took the cup of water and drank anyway. Haymitch’s attentiveness was more intoxicating than the alcohol had been. “...Is this what it takes?”

“What? Water?”

“Me being drunk. Is this what it takes?...” For you to touch me, she didn’t say. She gripped his T-shirt.

“You’re not making sense, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ It means you’re pissed off, or worse it means nothing. I’m more than nothing. I want to mean more than nothing!” She let go of his shirt and shoved him. “I don’t want to look at you.”

But her eyes were still on him. Like inlets of a wild sea, he could drown in them if he let himself. She’s even more insane drunk than sober. But he couldn’t look away from her regardless.

“I have to go.” Effie set the water cup down and stood up. The room started spinning, so she plopped back down. “...My shoes are broken. I can’t stand up because my shoes are broken!”

“Your shoes are fine, honey. Do you want to take them off?”

“I love these shoes. Can’t you understand? How can you be so blind not to see that I LOVE them?”

“Okay, they’re great shoes. Maybe they’ll work better if you have something to eat.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a couple of crackers, eating one and handing her the other. “Food will keep some of the alcohol that’s still in your stomach from getting into your bloodstream.”

As soon as Effie ate the cracker, her long-empty stomach craved more. She took the bag from Haymitch and popped a handful into her mouth.

“Go slowly,” he said, “Like with the water.”

“Stop interfering!”

“Fine!” He sat back on the couch and folded his arms behind his head. “Do whatever you want.”

As she chewed the crackers, she bent forward to unstrap her shoes. Using his foot, he slid the table forward so she wouldn’t bang her head on it. She didn’t seem to notice his ‘interference.’

With a bit of food in her stomach and the high heels off her feet, she stood up and managed to remain standing even as the room spun. Haymitch put a leg up on the table, barricading her from walking in the direction of smashed glass. With an unsteady gait, she took the long way around the room. He followed her with the bucket of crackers and water.

As she wobbled through the living room, she unzipped her dress. “Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

“It’s definitely you.”

By the time she got to the hallway, she’d slipped the sleeves down her arms, and the dress spilled onto the floor in a puddle of chiffon.

His jaw dropped as she stood there in a baby blue corset, matching panties, and lace trimmed thigh high stockings. “...Holy Mary Mother of God.”

“I thought you said we were leaving mothers of gods out of this.”

“You changed my mind.”

“Oh...” Her stomach lurched, and she felt its contents pushing up against her esophagus. Shit. Throwing up was one thing that annoyed Effie more than bad manners. She commanded her stomach to settle down, but the will of her body to get rid of those last few mimosas and that large handful of crackers was more powerful.

She rushed to her bathroom, and vomited in the toilet. She crouched there in stillness while her guts churned inside.

Haymitch knelt behind her. “I’m right here, honey.” He touched her head gently and gathered her hair up into his hands. He’d never touched it before. Each strand was light and soft like a feather. Why she’d want to cover up this delicacy with wigs, he had no idea.

She threw up several more times until her stomach was empty. By then she was crying. He stroked her hair, feeling dangerously close to the brink of something inescapable. “How about I get you some water and help you into bed, okay?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, completely defeated. “Everything’s spinning.”

“Put your arms around my neck.”

She did what he requested. He picked her up off the floor and carried her to the edge of her bed. She was very drunk but not unaware of the sensation of his arms. Being there felt warm and safe and insanely good. When he let go, she didn’t like the absence. She cried some more, unable to contain the tears, emptying the contents of her heart as it had been with her stomach.

He poured her another cup of water and sat beside her, drawing small circles on her back while she sipped slowly. “The bucket’s here if you need to throw up again. I know you’re dizzy.”

She shivered. When those shudders turned to shakes, he knew it would be best to get her warm. “When you’re ready, let’s get you under the covers.”

“My corset...” Her throat hurt to talk. “Will you help me loosen it so I can take it off?”

Haymitch had loosened a fair number of corsets in the past twenty years. He didn’t know why he was so affected by this raw and vulnerable version of Effie. His hands trembled untying the laces at her back. He stopped when the corset was loose enough for her to unhook in front. If she couldn’t manage the hooks, then it would be staying on, because if he took off her corset there was no way in hell he’d be able to stop there, not with the way he was feeling.

“What do you need? A shirt? The robe on the hook in the bathroom?”

“The robe is fine,” she whispered.

He stepped away to get it for her, and when he came back, the corset had slipped several inches. There was no avoiding a view of her breasts, and he was only willing to be honorable to a certain extent. He was going to look for as long as she, drunk or not, would let him look.

She was refreshingly different than the woman he’d met yesterday in passing. Effie’s lingerie and the other’s hair were similar shades of blue, and maybe that’s why he thought of the comparison just then. Effie’s breasts were small enough to fit fully in his hands. They were firm from the fastidious care she gave her body, and he vowed right then to never taunt her again about those efforts. Her nipples were pink and upturned. She must be nearly 30, but her breasts probably hadn’t dropped a centimeter from where they’d been at 18. His mouth watered just looking at her.

When he glanced up at her eyes, they were on his, watching him watch her. He didn’t know whether her lack of embarrassment came from pride in her body or her altered brain state. Maybe he’d find out another time, or maybe this would be the only time he’d ever see her breasts bare. Either way, this had to be enough for now because she was still shivering.

He sat behind her and helped her into the robe. She fumbled with the corset hooks until the garment fell away. She tied the robe closed then peeled off her stockings. Bending forward made her more dizzy, so she sipped more water and ate a cracker before sliding under the covers.

Haymitch propped pillows behind and in front of her to keep her lying on her side. Then he lay facing her. He stayed on top of the covers because to climb inside with her, especially now, would be as much folly as unhooking her corset would have been.

Her eyelids were heavy.

“I’m gonna be here if you need anything. I’m gonna wake you up several times the first hour, then maybe once each hour after that. I’m warning you, so hopefully you won’t be as pissed at me. I know you’re tired, honey, but you drank a lot on an empty stomach, and your body has to process it. Throwing some up helped, but the alcohol in your blood could still rise for a while as you sleep. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

He thought of the thousands of times he’d subjected himself to the risk and certainty of alcohol poisoning. None of those times mattered to him because that was his life. But this was Effie, and for whatever reasons, her staying alive mattered a hell of a lot more to him than he would have expected.

As she dozed off, he listened to make sure her breathing was regular.

The first time he woke her, she hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep. She touched his face the same as before. “Sometimes I feel like my heart’s going to burst. You know?”

He really didn’t know what she meant by that, but he knew from personal experience that drunk people rarely make sense, even to themselves. He checked her pulse at her wrist. “You’re heart’s gonna be fine.”

When he withdrew his hand she said, “Don’t. Don’t let go.” She fell asleep again with him lightly holding her hand.

The second time he woke her, she teased, “I finally got you in my bed.”

“Finally?? I don’t remember you ever trying.”

“Trying appears differently to different people.”

The third time he woke her, she said, “I want to kiss you.”

“Another time,” he assured her, “When you’re gonna remember it.”

“I’ll remember it now.”

“I don’t think so, and I’m not willing to risk it. Someday when I kiss you, you’re for damn sure gonna remember it.”

The fourth time he woke her, she said, “You’re getting on that train tomorrow, and I hate it. Every time it takes you away from me, I hate it more.”

He was afraid of what she might say next. Soon she was going to forget this conversation, and that reality was a mixture of relief and agitation. Because he wasn’t going to forget.

The fifth time he woke her, she asked, “Why do you keep waking me up?” The bubble had burst.

The sixth time, she pulled her hand away. “Haymitch! Quit waking me up!”

The seventh time was an hour later. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

He lay in bed with her until noon, listening to her normal, even breathing and periodically checking the temperature of her skin with the back of his hand. He didn’t wake her again — because he didn’t want to hear her tell him to leave.

She woke up in the afternoon alone. Her head was throbbing, and the daylight hurt her eyes. She dragged herself out of bed, pulled herself together, and put on a pair of dark glasses.

The dress and corset she’d worn the day before were laying at the foot of the bed. Why didn’t I hang them up? She did so belatedly. I must have been exhausted last night. She’d worked the floor until early morning, making connections, trying to help escorts and mentors from other districts secure sponsors.

She passed through the living room and saw her wig on the couch and her shoes on the rug. Did I take those off here before bed? I can’t remember. I must have had too many drinks. That would explain the headache. She gathered them up and returned them to her room.

Haymitch was eating in the dining room. The Avoxes had laid out a full spread. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Like I was hit by a train.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes. My stomach hurts, but yes.”

“Eat a bit then. It should help.”

She sat down, and looked awhile at Haymitch’s eyes. Almost remembering... something. She took off her dark glasses and looked again.

“I think I had a dream about you last night.”

“You’re dreaming about me, eh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, something danced along the edges of her memory. It was almost... beautiful.

Haymitch smirked like he knew a secret. “What do you remember about the dream?” he asked.

“I licked my lips...” I wanted to kiss you. DID I kiss you? “...And you touched my forehead the way my mother used to when I was sick.” I wanted to touch you too... your face, your neck, your chest. DID I touch you?

“So, in your dream I was your mother?” He teased.

“No!”

“...Holy Mary Mother of God, no?” His grin was big enough now to show the gap between his teeth.

It was rare to see him gleeful. Effie loved it, but... “Wait. Those words were part of the dream somehow. Did I say them or did you?”

“Maybe we both did.”

She eyed him suspiciously. The dream had been sensual, erotic at times. I took off my clothes.. Or did you? You carried me to bed. Did we sleep together? Did we...

“You touched my hair.”

“It’s soft like feathers.”

“In the dream?”

“Sure. Why not.”

She recalled confessions of a bursting heart and wanting him...

Effie’s heart was racing now. She pushed her chair away from the table, stepped into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. To the Avoxes she questioned, “Where are all the champagne flutes?”

Of course they couldn’t answer. Confusion spread across her face. “Haymitch?...”

“You smashed ‘em up real good, honey. Like cannon fire.”

Honey? “In the dream?”

“Nope. On the living room floor.”

“What happened last night?”

“Last night I was asleep.”

“Then what happened this morning?”

Haymitch took his time before answering.

“I demand to know what happened between us this morning!”

“You were drunk. I took care of you.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s ALL?! You try taking care of somebody who’s drunk. It ain’t easy.”

She dropped back into her chair with chagrin. “I feel like I should thank you.”

“You already did.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You showed me your breasts.”

“What?” Effie’s face flushed pink all the way through her makeup.

“I figure we’re almost even now, since apparently you’ve already seen me naked.”

“What?! How do you know that?”

“You told my friend here early this morning.” He looked to the red-clad Avox for confirmation. “Right?” The man shrugged his shoulders, and quickly escaped to busy himself in the kitchen. “I recall your words were, ‘Have you seen him naked? Holy Mary Mother of God, he’s so fine.’”

Effie pressed her palms to her cheeks to try to temper the blood rushing there. “So THIS is what mortification feels like.”

“You’ve got nothin’ to be mortified about. You think I’m fine, and I think you’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You make me want to do things to you that I’m terrified and thrilled to think about. “See? We’re even.”

“Did you sleep with me?”

“I watched you sleep to make sure you stayed alive.”

The way he said it, all of it, set something warm into motion. It buzzed along her spine and down her arms. The sensation throbbed in her fingers. She felt it pulling her to hold his hand, but other forces kept her frozen. Just reach across the table and hold his hand! Why is that so intimidating?

Full of uncertainty she asked, “What’s going to happen?”

“I’ll get on the train.”

“Haymitch... when you do, I’m going to hate it.”

“...I know.”

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Now or never

(Hayffie ff ❤️. I initially shied away from this prompt because I didn’t think I could write it in a way that felt interesting. But I ended up having a great time with it, so much fun that this became one of my longest one-shots. — I make no apologies for the length of my posts in the feed or in the tags. I don’t apologize for any aspect of my free expression. For personal reasons, I write on my phone using the tumblr app, and the limitations are what they are. Like the limitations of my disabled body are what they are. For prompts, I reblog the prompt along with the link to my fic in case anyone wishes to reblog something shorter. — I write for myself, for my love of the characters and the process. When people comment on, like, or reblog my posts, I view those interactions as unexpected gifts. I have such love for writing that I’d do it old-school like Anne Frank, without any audience beyond my journal itself. This blog has been that for me for over 5 years, my space for coming of age and processing intensities in a strained and oppressive midlife. — I’m inspired now by prompts much more than I have been in past fanfiction efforts. So, thank you to everyone who offers them. And when people are willing to slog through my long fics and other posts, that is fabulous devotion to the characters/issues that are important to me, and I feel good to know I’m not caring alone. — 💛 Kim)

***

His facial hair was rough against her lips. The sensation triggered fantasy which played out more readily if she didn’t have to look at him. So she kissed him with her eyes closed whenever they fucked around. He was the same height as Haymitch. When she wore 5-inch heels, those added to the feeling of intimacy. It wasn’t entirely real, but it felt better than loneliness.

Their relationship was discrete, of course. Mutual discretion was a condition she established before getting involved with anyone, especially someone as high-profile as Seneca Crane.

As far as Capitol society was concerned, their connection was primarily professional, with occasional dinners at expensive restaurants. It was an image they’d been comfortable projecting, and it wasn’t far from the truth.

In moments that weren’t overly physical, she enjoyed his eyes. Blueish-grey with a streak of emotion, they were familiar enough to help her pretend. That’s why she’d first invited Seneca up to her apartment in the fall — to have sex with Haymitch in fantasy.

The sex was good enough. He was gifted with his hands, though he smelled too much like her. She wondered if he wore the same cologne as she did. And his body frame was smaller than the one she actually wanted intimacy with. By November, they’d become a regular *good enough* thing.

A dozen years earlier, they’d been schoolmates at the Academy. He graduated two years before her. She was softer then but already a force to reckon with. He was shorter in those days, sharp, obsessed with tech design. Ambition was an attribute they shared, perhaps the only one.

By 30, he’d become one of the youngest Head Gamemakers in history. He enjoyed the rush of adrenaline he experienced when executing the Games, and he relished the opportunity for artistry. The thrill and beauty he saw in death made Effie uncomfortable, but she viewed it as part of the job. He carried out the president’s wishes, though he confided in her that he didn’t fully agree with the way Snow ruled Panem.

On an evening in late December, they walked along a garden path covered in trellises draped with strands of fairy lights. Effie kept her hands warm in her pockets. It had been a long day, and she was ready to be home in bed, asleep, alone.

“What do you think about marriage?” he asked. The question was slightly more inspiring than if he’d asked her what she thought about the weather.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” she answered honestly, leaving out her occasional ludicrous fantasies about having babies with tiny purple wigs and predispositions for alcoholism.

“A union could be advantageous for both our careers. The publicity could improve your chances of promotion to escort for an inlying district.”

“And what do you stand to gain from a *union*?”

“You’re iconic, Effie. You represent the Capitol with style and positivity, and you execute your work flawlessly. You’re in good favor with the president. You could be a wonderful ally for me,” You could be a buffer for me, he didn’t say.

“Is there anything more?”

“Like what?”

“Really, Seneca, is THIS how you’re proposing??”

“Well, our families would support us. And there’s the matter of sentiment.”

“Sentiment?”

“I like you. I care for you, of course.”

She thought of Haymitch’s words from last summer, the night they almost... but didn’t.

‘I like you too much,’ he’d said, ‘I can’t fuck around with you and pretend it’s nothing. And that’s how it would have to be. That’s the only way it could be.”

Venia and Octavia insisted Haymitch loved her, but she believed that was still a pipe dream. She could keep waiting in vain, or she could choose a more sensible path.

“And there’s this...” From his coat pocket, Seneca pulled a black velvet box and flipped it open. Effie’s jaw dropped. The diamond was huge. It was far and away the loveliest ring she’d seen. She looked in those blueish-grey eyes that reminded her a bit of everything she wanted that wasn’t accessible to her.

Seneca pressed, “Say yes, and the wedding can be one of the biggest events of the year, rivaling even the Games.”

She imagined what her dress would look like. He was saying the right words to tempt her. They didn’t love each other, but maybe she could look past that inconvenient reality. Sometimes people married for other reasons.

“The press would go crazy,” he continued, “There would be red carpet interviews. We could invite everyone who’s anyone: stylists, victors, even Snow.”

Victors... Would he show up to watch me get married? 6 months ago, Haymitch had asked her what she wanted. He’d unzipped her dress and touched her body. He’d taken off his shirt and shown her his scars. Then he effectively told her a relationship between them was never going to happen, and he held her hand as she fell asleep.

Damn him.

She took her left hand out of her pocket. “Let’s see how it fits.”

Seneca had investigated her ring size, so the fit was perfect.

“Let’s show him,” she said.

“Show who?”

“Them. Let’s show them all.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Let’s get married. ...This spring.” She could plan a wedding in 5 months, no problem. Isn’t this the time couples usually cry and leap into one another’s arms? Shouldn’t this occasion call for a show of passion?

“This spring it shall be then.” When Seneca kissed her, she closed her eyes and embraced the same fantasy as usual.

***

Haymitch rarely received mail beyond his compensatory income from the government. In March, when the post delivered an envelope addressed to him in gold ink, he almost tossed the thing straight into the trash, recognizing it as an invitation to a Capitol party. Then he saw the name “Trinket” and the return address of Effie’s family home.

What’s this? He opened it right there on the porch with uneasiness gnawing at his stomach.

“You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of

Euphemia Rosalind Trinket -and-

Seneca Lucius Crane

Saturday, the first of May

At 3 O’Clock in the afternoon

Palazzo Annaeus”

What the hell is THIS! His stomach churned, and he vomited up a pint of white liquor on the ground beside the porch.

Memories flooded in... tracing up the seams of her stockings, unhooking her garters, feeling her body without a corset, running his fingers through her hair as she curled up in bed, so soft. So damn soft. Fear had screamed warnings about getting attached to her. Fear was always screaming.

When those Games were done, he’d left the Capitol with a strained sadness between them, like a rubber band stretched too long. Today it snapped and smacked him in the face. He felt the sting of annoyance and regret.

Damn her.

He couldn’t fix this. The only thing left to do was decide whether or not he was willing to watch it happen. He would have burned the invitation in the fireplace if not for the P.S. in her obnoxiously perfect handwriting.

***

Seneca had been right about one thing. Effie’s parents were thrilled that she’d decided to marry one of *the Crane boys,* especially the Head Gamemaker. Historically the Cranes had been part of the old guard of the wealthy from the Capitol, and they’d successfully diversified their financial interests in the years following the Dark Days.

Her parents spared no expense for *the wedding of the decade.* Effie spent the winter so caught up in the comfort of validation and the thrill of event planning that most of the time she evaded the sense of dread that nagged her when she startled awake in the mornings.

When she’d addressed the invitations, she considered adding a postscript to Haymitch’s, either “Fuck you” or “I love you.” Both feelings were nonsensical and nonetheless true. In the end she’d written,

“H — Please come. — E”

She checked the mail each day for his response card among hundreds, but it never showed up. Figures. He probably threw it away.

She didn’t need anyone to *rescue* her from the fate she’d chosen. If she wanted to call off the wedding, she’d simply come up with a logical explanation to save face; she’d apologize to Seneca and her parents; she’d put a stop to all plans, and that would be that.

The phrase “Mayday mayday mayday” was a distress signal used by Capitol troops during the Dark Days. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d subconsciously scheduled her wedding on the first of May because, apart from the fine details, opulence, and attention, her heart wasn’t in this.

***

“We’re here at Pallazo Annaeus,” Claudius reported from the red carpet which had been rolled out along the walkway to the galleria of the Crane family mansion. “Just a short time from now, fashion icon and District 12 escort, Effie Trinket, will wed two-time Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane.”

“Isn’t this exciting!!” Caesar was in typical form. “The air is positively electric!”

“So much so that my hair is standing on end!”

“As is mine!! Thank goodness for hair products.”

“And wigs! We’re seeing all of the ABOVE as the guests arrive. What a crowd!”

Their interviews with attendees were concise, asking which stylists designed their gowns and suits, and if they had particular wishes to share with the couple.

“Now here comes... Is that?... It is! Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the second Quarter Quell.”

“How touching. One advisor for District 12 supporting the other on her special day.”

“I LOVE it!! Haymitch, do you have any words for the happy couple?”

Haymitch stomped past them without pause. He hadn’t entirely sobered up from the bottle of whiskey he drank on the train, and he didn’t even try to resist flipping Caesar off when asked the question.

“A man of few words,” Claudius covered for a shocked Caesar. “We never know what to expect from that one.”

“He certainly does keep us on our toes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have stylish shoes!”

“Indeed!” Each of them spun around on tiptoe, and the cameras zoomed in on their footwear as a distraction from Haymitch’s persistent middle finger.

Just beyond the entryway, the galleria was packed already. Guests were dressed in yards of fabric and large hats. Floral arrangements lined marble walls covered with paintings, some of which were probably older than Panem itself. Haymitch slipped into the first empty chair he spotted, ignoring the usher who asked him, “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”

The question pestered. The bride. Shit. I’m here for the bride.

***

With every detail attended to, Effie curled her fingers around her father’s arm in the vestibule. Flower girls and bridesmaids entered the galleria first, then it would be her turn.

“My princess is getting married in a palace.” Her father kissed her cheek.

“Daddy! Careful of my makeup. Photos aren’t being taken until afterward.”

“Of course. It’s YOUR perfect day.”

Effie had certainly made everything perfect, except for this unrelenting nausea and desire to run away. She forced herself to breathe slowly. The last thing she needed right now was to throw up, ruin her white gown, and have the press start a false rumor about pregnancy. She had no desire to have children with Seneca. She’d made that clear, and he agreed.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Her father calling her “sweetheart” made every discomfort worse. Clearly she thought of Haymitch.

“I’m trying to be alright... but I don’t know,” she confessed.

Her father wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s almost time to walk down the aisle. Is that what you want to do?”

He asked it like she had a choice, but it was too late for choices.

“Let’s go pay the piper!” As Effie started down the aisle on her father’s arm, she didn’t notice the splendor and fullness of the room, nor the oohs and aahs from standing friends and family. She didn’t notice the rose petals on the floor, nor her fiancé sweating like a pig about to be roasted alive with an apple in its mouth.

All she saw was Haymitch.

He stood at the edge of the aisle, in the middle of the room. In the years that she’d known him, he’d been clear about his disdain for Capitol events, yet here he was, no RSVP and very much himself in his regular clothes from District 12. She’d probably be irritated if she hadn’t missed him so much. He was standing right here, and she was still missing him. It took every ounce of restraint to not tell him so.

“Great dress, sweetheart.” He offered a subdued smile as she passed.

She looked back at him once, and her eyes felt like old glass, holding tears too hardened to fall. Then there was nothing to do but look forward.

***

Fear was screaming different words now at Haymitch. Stop this. This wedding. Stop this!

As she walked away from him, he could see that her dress had an open back from her waist to the top of her shoulder blades. The gap was bordered in ornate jewels, stitching, and fancy shit. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her skin, and he couldn’t stop thinking about touching her.

She glanced at him again as she handed her bouquet to a bridesmaid. Her eyes were pleading. He knew the look because of all the times he’d tried to ignore her feelings for him ...and his feelings for her.

The officiant addressed the audience, “We are gathered here today to join Effie and Seneca in matrimony. Family, friends, and honored guests, do you support this union and affirm that these two should be married today?”

Haymitch looked around as the audience responded in unison, "We do."

I don’t.

The officiant continued, “Will you surround this couple in love, offering them the joys of your friendship? Will you support this couple in their relationship? At times of conflict will you offer them the strength of your wisest counsel and the comfort of your thoughtful concern? At times of joy, will you celebrate with them, nourishing their love for one another?”

The automatons responded together again, "We will.”

Like hell I will.

“If any of you has a reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Haymitch sighed and shook his head. Someday he’d be the death of her, or she’d be the death of him. Maybe today was that day.

This felt like now or never. The bit of whiskey still in his veins helped it be now. He stood up and moved quickly down the aisle to the sound of gasps and murmurs all around him.

***

“What are you doing?” Effie was stunned as he gripped her wrist.

“Excuse us,” Haymitch said directly to Seneca, then he pulled Effie out of the room down a long hallway.

She went willingly, chastising him in hushed tones along the way. “Haymitch! This is highly inappropriate!”

“More inappropriate than us having this conversation in front of the entire Capitol?”

“What conversation?”

He pulled her into a room down the hall.

“Not so tight!”

He loosened his grasp on her wrist but didn’t let go.

“What are you doing, Effie?”

“Do I need to state the obvious?”

“Marriage?? Why are you even WITH him?”

“I don’t owe you explanations — or anything else for that matter.”

She was right. She owed him nothing. His edge softened, and he stroked her wrist with his thumb. “Why are you marrying somebody you didn’t even look at as you walked down that aisle?”

“I LOOKED at him.”

“For about five seconds, and what did you see?”

She hesitated, “He’s wearing a tie, not an ascot. We had a dispute about it this week, and I insisted he wear the tie.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about on your wedding day when you see the man you’re about to marry — a goddamn tie?”

“Why are YOU giving ME the third degree! What are YOU thinking about on my wedding day?”

“I’m thinking about how much I hate Seneca Crane. I don’t want him marrying you. I don’t want you fucking him.”

“Well, that ship sailed! We’ve been having sex for months, not that it’s any of your business!”

“Not my business?”

“Absolutely not!”

He was burning with a mix of emotions: anger, jealousy, frustration, confusion, desire, fear. “If it’s not my business, then why did you ask me to ‘please come’ today? What am I doing here? ...If it’s not my business, then why did reading your wedding invitation make me puke. Why can’t I stop thinking about you? ...If it’s not my business, then why do I want to be the one to take this dress off you. I keep holding your wrist because if I let go, I’m gonna touch you, and what would your *fiancé* think about that? What would YOU think about that?”

He’d never confessed so much to her all at once, and she was in a mild state of shock about it. “Last summer you told me if we ‘fucked around’ then you’d have to pretend it means nothing. You told me you can’t pretend that, so where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“I think you do. ...Let go of my wrist.”

“I told you what’s gonna happen if I let go.”

“Then let it happen.”

In a duality of reluctance and eagerness, he let go of her wrist and caressed her through the open back of her dress. She shivered and leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her, touching every inch of skin he could reach.

The wig she wore resembled her actual hair color, light golden, like wheat before harvest. In this moment, she was an angel. He’d kiss her if she’d just shut up, but she had things to say too.

“If it’s not your business, then why am I still here with you instead of out there marrying Seneca?” Her tone softened. “Why do I close my eyes and picture you every time I kiss him and every time we have sex? ....If it’s not your business, then why do I miss you so much?”

“Jesus, Effie. What are you doing to me?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“I think you do.”

***

From the doorway, Seneca cleared his throat. He’d been listening awhile. Effie tried to pull away from Haymitch, but first he had to untangle himself from the back of her dress.

“This isn’t quite what it looks like,” Effie laughed nervously.

“It looks like unfinished business,” Seneca said.

“Then it IS what it looks like,” Haymitch told him.

“Will you please excuse us?” Seneca asked, proper as fuck. “Effie and I have some things to discuss.”

“I’m not leaving.” Fear and desire for her wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll handle this,” she insisted. “Please wait in the hall.”

This was the Gamemaker’s house, his wedding, and his girl for god sake. What else could Haymitch do? Pull out his knife and slit the guy’s throat?? This was Effie’s world, not his. Without another word, he stepped out of the room, and he hated that she closed the door behind him.

Seneca confronted her, “I’ll say this quickly because our guests have already waited long enough. A marriage of convenience is prudent when the motivations for such a union are stronger than the desire for love. I’ve realized that’s not the case here. For me, and apparently not for you either.”

“Are you in love with someone else?”

“Someone my family regards as unsuitable. I’m sorry I didn’t speak about it sooner. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.” He glanced at the door, “But I see that you do. Frankly, this interruption is an enormous relief.”

Effie was slightly miffed to realize that Seneca would not be pining for her, but the interruption did lift her feeling of dread. “I apologize as well. I haven’t been forthcoming with you, or with myself. What do we do now? The Capitol is expecting a wedding.”

“The Capitol is expecting a show, and they’re getting that. Let’s walk out there together and announce that we’ve decided to cancel the nuptials and move straight to the reception. It can still be the party of the year.”

“But my parents...”

“I’ll reimburse your father for his investment in this. It’s the right thing to do. I do care for you, Effie, but I should never have discussed marriage as a hypothetical, let alone proposed and let it get this far.”

He held out his hand. “Shall we? Before any more time passes.”

She threaded her fingers with his in solidarity.

When the door opened, Haymitch was still there in the hall, fuming now at the sight of them holding hands.

“Seneca, give me another minute,” she said.

He let go of her and took several steps away.

She touched Haymitch’s arm and spoke into his ear, “The wedding is off. But we need time to appease our families and everyone else. Meet me at 9 o’clock at The Popina on 6th St. Do you know the place?”

He’d never been there, but it was a good call. He doubted the press would look for him at a swanky wine bar. “I know the one.”

She whispered, “I said I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me anything either. Regardless, this feeling between us isn’t going away.”

Seneca told him, “Keep following this hallway as it bends to the right. You’ll eventually reach a side door you can take out of here if you want...”

Haymitch didn’t trust him and didn’t want to leave.

“...Unless you’d prefer a walk back down the red carpet with the other guests.”

I don’t.

Effie urged him to go. “I need to set this right. Please don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

“I don’t wanna run out in the middle of a pile of shit.”

“Language! This wedding is not a pile of anything. It’s an event we need to finish differently than expected. Will you trust me?”

“Fine.” He answered without conviction, turning away so he wouldn’t have to watch them link hands again. Holding the handle of the knife in his pocket, he followed the hallway to the side door and left all that nonsense behind him. Did he trust her?? If she walked into that bar tonight without a rock on her finger, then maybe he just might.

***

Afterward, the red carpet commentary indeed made for a more interesting show.

“The only thing more exciting than a wedding,” said Caesar, “Is a kiss at the altar between the bride and groom after they’ve CALLED OFF the ceremony!”

“You may now kiss the woman in white who is no longer your bride!”

“Oh, Claudius, you’re so cheeky!”

“I can honestly say I’ve never seen a couple more happy to be NOT married.”

“Did somebody bring the sun INSIDE the palace? Because they were positively glowing.”

“The reception is still on, and did you hear their words about it?”

“Caesar, I was on the edge of my seat, and I couldn’t miss them, but say them again.”

“Seneca began, ‘May 1st, May Day, is not just one of folktales. Mayday was a cry of distress during war, terrible war. The Capitol responded and transformed that distress into peace.’

“Then...”

“Then Effie continued, ‘Instead of celebrating a wedding, we’ve decided to transform the reception we’d planned into a festival honoring the glory of the Capitol. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.’”

“Don’t you just love that?”

“I DO! I absolutely do!”

“Well, that’s the only ‘I do’ that we’ll be hearing this afternoon!”

Hysterical laughter ensued between the two.

“Claudius, the question on everyone’s mind revolves around the influence of a certain mentor from District 12.”

“Yes. Haymitch Abernathy interrupted the ceremony.”

“He pulled Effie away, and Seneca followed. When the couple returned hand-in-hand, they called off the wedding. The mystery is, what happened in between?”

“As you said earlier, we never know what to expect from Haymitch. That one is a wildcard.”

“We’ve been waiting for him to emerge from the palace so we can ask him, but as we noted before, he is a man of few words.”

“Maybe we’ll catch him at the reception.”

“The festival!”

“The festival, of course!”

***

By 10 o’clock, Haymitch had read the sign on the wall a hundred times. “Hedone says, ‘You can drink here for one; if you give two, you will drink better; if you give four, you will drink Falernian.”

‘Hedone’ he recognized as the Roman goddess of pleasure. He thought pleasure would be a fine devotion if it wasn’t pursued at the cost of other people’s lives or pursued to chase away demons. He was already chasing one bottle of Falernian with another. “Damn Capitol wine doesn’t get you drunk unless you chug two bottles. And this is the best they’ve got?”

He’d been there a couple of hours. During that time, his attention was divided between that sign reflecting on hedonism and the screen showing footage of Effie’s non-wedding reception.

They were *saving face* alright. Haymitch had rarely seen Effie kiss anyone, and tonight he’d watched her kiss her *former* fiancé every time someone clinked a glass. The kisses were pecks mostly, a game they were probably playing to host a fun party and show the Capitol there were no hard feelings between them. But as the kisses added up, Haymitch’s dislike for Seneca Crane became more palpable.

“Slide a bit,” she said, showing up beside him. She was hiding in a simple dress and a light layer of makeup. Her hair was pulled back beneath a scarf instead of a wig.

He scooted over, making room for her at his booth in back. “You’re late, sweetheart. Did Crane kiss all that makeup off your face?”

“And you’re drunk.” She caressed the back of his neck, content to be with him right now, drunk or not.

“Wasn’t drunk an hour ago after the first bottle of this Falernian shit. But the more you drink, the better it tastes.”

She drank from his glass, and he didn’t object. From his perspective right now, she could drink straight from his mouth or off his body.

He encircled her waist, pulling her as close as the setting allowed. He was relieved to see that she wasn’t married. His inhibitions were reduced, so she could do just about anything to him right now, and he wouldn’t object. He tried not to think about her having that kind of power.

She stroked his arm wrapped around her. “There’s a rumor circulating about you.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?” He kissed her neck after each question. “Do they think I’m fucking you?”

She giggled because the hair on his face tickled her skin and because she was anticipating his response. “Not quite, honey.”

“What then?”

“They think you’re fucking Seneca.”

“What the hell?!!”

“Caesar and Claudius predicted ‘the mentor from District 12 is having a torrid affair with the Head Gamemaker,’ and you pulled me away from the wedding in the hopes of taking my place at the altar.”

“They’re lunatics.”

“It’s a risky move breaking up a wedding. Who knows what people will say.”

“What do YOU say?”

“I say you look at my breasts far too often for you to be interested in Seneca Crane,” she chuckled.

“And what do you say about me breaking up your wedding?”

As she looked into his eyes, there was no approximation, no almost. It was a relief to not have to *pretend* that he was the one she wanted, but to just KNOW it. “I say, thank you. ...Sweetheart.”

What fantasies and real desires would be accessible with him? She’d know more in time.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Intoxication (part 2)

(NSFW. Sexual content. 🔥🔥 Intense Hayffie experimenting with emotional drugs as an alternative to forced sobriety in District 13. Hayffie trying to have a sexual relationship without falling in love, and basically failing at the latter. The tattoo I created for Effie is revealed.)

“‘I’LL be her escort,’ he said. ‘I’LL look out for her,’ he said. ‘But I can’t promise she won’t get a scratch or two,’ ...Ha! The audacity to wink at me with those eyes and all the places they’ve been. How patronizing! Why did I expect HIM to keep ANY of those promises!” Effie ranted to herself as she paced her living quarters. She paused long enough to glance at her reflection in the small circular mirror. I’M the fool for trusting him.

It’s not like Effie would have escorted Katniss to District 2 or anywhere outside the relative safety of 13, but she should have INSISTED on... something. Though her heart knew that nothing was safe anymore.

“Thank god for Cinna. Still protecting our victor from beyond the grave. ...I hope somehow he’s in a better place than this.”

When the broadcast had shown Katniss shot down, Effie feared the worst, even knowing the design of the Mockingjay suit.

“What if one of those bullets had hit her neck? Her head? What if the loyalists had gunned down everyone in that tunnel?... Everyone except for Haymitch, of course. He’s preserved by a quarter century of alcohol. The only thing not bulletproof is his liver.” Her rant continued, but dark circles beneath her eyes told a more complex tale of worry. Effie hadn’t been able to sleep until they were back in 13.

She’d seen Katniss in the hospital. “Bruised ribs. A bruised lung! That child has already been bruised more than anyone should have to be in a lifetime. She deserves better. She will ALWAYS deserve better.”

Usually when Effie spoke to her ‘mirror on the wall’ about deserving things, she was thinking of herself, but not now. She realized — she believed — that she didn’t have the capacity to make the kinds of sacrifices required to be truly deserving.

She thought again of Cinna, wondering how his eyes had opened within the Capitol. She thought about her victors.

She had passed Haymitch in the hospital earlier without saying a word. She was angry with him for making promises that couldn’t be kept and angry with him for not keeping those impossible promises. She was more angry with herself for worrying about him and not being able to stop that feeling. And she was angry with herself for looking at him with her terror coated in the relief of seeing him unharmed.

She knew he’d recognized the look because he hadn’t pressed her for conversation. He’d let her walk away and fume by herself. Now she was angry too that he hadn’t followed her and angry with herself for thinking that he might have.

Even still, the knock on her door after an hour of pacing didn’t surprise her. She took her time opening it, glancing first in the mirror again. What am I doing? What am I even doing here?

She opened the door regardless. She didn’t stop herself. “What!?”

“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart.”

She didn’t ask him in, but she stepped to the side and left the door open. Familiar with Effie’s brand of agitation and nonsense, he saw the invitation for what it was. He ventured inside, sliding the door closed behind him.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked.

She pretended to busy herself with clothing and accessories on the table. “No.”

“Do you want to just be angry with me.”

“Yes.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

He stood beside her without touching. “What’s happening here?”

“Preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding...”

He captured her wrist and asked again, holding her pulse with his thumb. “No. What’s happening HERE?”

She tried to pull free, and he wouldn’t let go. “Haymitch!”

He stepped closer and loosened his grip. She didn’t withdraw her hand; she let him touch her, feeling exactly what her heart was doing. “Damn you.” She looked in his eyes this time and saw the reflection of her own intensity.

The wildness came out all at once and they were kissing. It wasn’t calm or familiar like the night before the Quarter Quell. This was not about comfort.

She bit his lip. Inadvertently? It didn’t matter. His mouth was rough with her too.

The bite stung. He tasted the metallic flavor on her tongue. His blood or hers? That didn’t matter either.

“Where?” he asked, “These bunks are so damn small.”

She knew what he was asking. “Anywhere... everywhere.”

He shoved her against a wall, “Haymitch! These walls are thin. The neighbors will hear.”

“The floor then,” he said, unbuttoning her shirt.

“The floor!? We’re not animals!”

“Yeah, we are,” he muttered into her mouth. She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t contradict him.

“The table,” he suggested.

“Civilized people EAT there.”

“Fine!” He let go of her, frustrated and in the frustration he just wanted her more. “This was a bad idea anyway.”

His irritation was erotic, and there’s no way she was letting this feeling go to waste. She positioned herself between him and the door. “If this is a bad idea, then why does it feel so good? ...Stay.”

The boiling reduced to a simmer. He reached behind her to make sure the door had latched. Then he pinned her against it, and methodically began taking off her clothes, starting with the turban. He interrupted her objection, “Shhh. No talking.”

Her hair fell to her shoulders, and he leaned in to smell it. “This is my favorite part of you.��

“Well, don’t get used to it.”

“We’ll see.”

“There are other parts of me you’re going to like more.”

Unbuttoning more of her shirt, he glimpsed a tattoo below her left breast. — a red tree branch scattered with colorful leaves shaped like feathers. The colors were natural: a bluebird rather than Caesar’s former hair, morning sky before rain rather than cotton candy. The branch curved with her breast and continued somewhere within her shirt. He traced the curve. “What do we have here?” Wanting more of her breasts could wait a moment.

“Something one of a kind.”

Like you. He didn’t say. Instead he pushed her shirt to the floor, wanting to see the rest. The branch transitioned into red ribbons, flowing and crisscrossing down her side and disappearing into the waistband of her pants. He tugged those to her hips, far enough to trace the ribbons which crossed the small of her back, hugging more of her curves. The ribbons separated at her spine, ending in a tiny pair of dancing shoes in the hollow of her sacrum.

“Jesus, Effie...” Capitol people are known for tattoos, but this one was unexpected. He wanted everything with her at once. “... I want to fuck you.”

“Shhh,” she mimicked his earlier statement, “No talking. ...It’s my turn.”

To hell with buttons. She pulled up his shirt, and he lifted his arms to encourage. The shirt caught on his chin, so she yanked it until it was free. It fell to the floor with hers.

“Are you trying to take my head off?”

“That depends on which head.” She toyed with the button of his pants.

He pulled her to him, unhooking her bra, stripping it away, and learning the shape of her breasts in his palms. Kissing her again would have meant taking his eyes off her body, and he didn’t want to do that yet. Without an alcohol-induced haze, everything was sharp along the edges, including his desire for her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced this quality of feeling. How much of this could he say without saying too much. Then again, maybe they were better off not talking.

The fine hair on his chest and stomach tickled her, gold and silver. Her smile wouldn’t stop.

“You’re beautiful,” he caressed her cheeks.

She knew.

“I’m a sure thing tonight, sweetheart,” she teased him with his sarcastic endearment.

He knew.

Still, he wanted this to stay as good as it felt right now. It had been longer for him than he cared to admit since the last time he’d had sex, and maybe the only time in 25 years that he wasn’t doing this drunk. Plus this was the first time with Effie. They’d been dancing around it for quite a while, and he wanted it good.

“Come here.” He lead her to one of the bunks. This time she didn’t object to the location. He could have fucked her against the door, as ready as she was.

They stripped down pants. His body was gorgeous. She stroked him in lieu of telling him so. “I don’t usually do this naked,” she said.

“And I don’t usually do this sober,” he admitted. His sexual experiences with women were usually just for him. The other wasn’t particularly relevant. But Effie was relevant, even when she was ignoring him. As her strokes turned to tugs. She definitely was not ignoring him.

He grabbed her waist and lifted her up onto the bunk. She wrapped her legs around his back, keeping him in front of her.

He kissed along the length of her tattoo from her breast to her hip, then slid his hand along the curves of the rest, stroking where he knew those dancing shoes lived in the hollow of her sacrum.

Why the shoes? He wondered without asking. He’d ask her later if she didn’t tell him first.

He rested his forehead against her chest and slid his palms up her thighs to the apex. He brushed against her with his thumbs circling.

She hadn’t expected this gentleness. Like this, he terrified her. She was too full of feeling.

“How do you want this, sweetheart?”

Keep going, exactly like this, she thought, but she denied the impulse. “Rough and impersonal,” she said, “...I don’t want to fall for you.”

He met her gaze, surprised again. She was pleading, but he kept touching her the same, even more tenderly. “Rough I can do, but not falling for me is up to you. I can’t make any promises.”

“That’s exactly why this can’t be too personal.” She said it with her hands behind his neck, stroking his hairline with her fingertips. Her touch tingled down his arms and legs and to his groin. He wondered if he could come like this, with just her hands in his hair.

This was personal. She was right. This wasn’t the time to fall for anybody, especially a Capitol girl who he knew all too well to be irritating as hell and now incredibly attractive in nakedness.

Effie moaned softly. “Are you going to fuck me or make me come in your hands because I’m close, honey.”

They needed to switch this up. Like now.

“Get on your knees,” he told her.

She hesitated, not used to men making demands of her.

“...If you want this rough, then get on your knees.”

She lifted her legs onto the bunk, and complied. He was quickly behind her grazing the length of her tattoo with his palm, and teasing her before slipping inside, all the way to her cervix.

The fit was perfect, curving to just the right spot. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying so, but her body betrayed her, with pleasure building so fast.

He clutched her hips, digging in and moving with a force that she certainly couldn’t call gentle. The ribbons of her tattoo danced in his hand. It was such a turn on, and curiosity got the better of him, “Why the red shoes.”

“To remind me that I make my own life... Oh, god... Haymitch...”

“‘God,’ works just fine, sweetheart,” he taunted as she clenched around him.

“Oh, you arrogant fuck... Oh, god...” she couldn’t help but say it again.

He reached around her body and flicked the sweet spot, without tenderness.

In the mix of pleasure and pain, she exploded with an intensity that wouldn’t be a secret from her neighbors after all.

“Honey, I like the way you make your own life,” he groaned, caressing the image of those tiny red shoes in the hollow at the base of her spine. It was erotic — the bit of gentleness that he couldn’t resist offering, the feeling of her skin, his sober awareness of her orgasm, the way her hair brushed against her neck as he moved inside her.

This was personal. This was just as personal as looking into her eyes. It wasn’t the how of it. It was her.

He tried to make it last because maybe this was a one time thing and this was all he’d have of her. And maybe they would be better off that way.

He didn’t think to ask, is this okay? This felt so much better than okay. He didn’t think to ask, where should I come? All at once it was just happening, and inside her was the only place he wanted to be. The release was almost better than liquor on his tongue, down his throat, into his veins. For a moment she was the best thing he’d felt.

As he came down from the high and his body eased, he could feel her crying.

Shit. He pulled out and lay beside her.

“Hey.” His voice was tender now. Screw what she’d said about the need for roughness. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head ‘no’ and laid it beside his.

He wiped his thumb across her cheeks catching her tears.

“I thought you might be dead,” she said, “Both of you. When Katniss was shot and the transmission stopped. I couldn’t know what was happening, and I thought maybe...”

“I’m here.” He kissed her cheeks, tasting salt and faint flowers, like a remnant of the froofy Capitol cocktail she used to be, and like what he imagined of the seashore. He wondered if she’d ever been there.

“We’re a team. ...I don’t want to lose you.”

He slid his hand up her spine and held her with their foreheads touching. “I don’t want to lose you either.”

Shit. This was so goddamn personal. They gave into the desire to let it be so. Who kissed who first was irrelevant. There was no clashing of teeth or tasting blood — just silk, like feathery leaves and ribbons, and dangerous words they thought but didn’t say.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Choice

(Hayffie pregnancy. 6 years after the Revolution.)

Effie sat at the vanity in her Capitol apartment. The tabletop was neatly stacked with cases of makeup and bottles of polish, lotions, and perfumes. Nearly everything was in its proper place. She slid her fingers along the mahogany surface and paused on the one item that didn’t belong there; a plastic container which held two pills, the first to help her cervix open and the second to help her uterus contract. “Help,” the doctor had said to simplify the science, but the word felt as out of place as plastic on glossy wood.

She looked up at the mirror. Her face was bare and her hair natural. It was difficult to look at herself with imperfections glaring back. 38 years of smiles, genuine and false, had brought lines to her cheeks and to the corners of her eyes. The creases stayed now, even when she wasn’t forcing a smile. The illusion of agelessness was becoming harder for her to effect.

“Pregnant?? You MUST be mistaken. It’s just a stomach flu.” she had said to the doctor with incredulity and indignation, “I simply can’t be pregnant. I’m too... old.” She held the thought but left it unspoken.

“There’s no mistake, Ma’am.”

The “Ma’am” comment didn’t help matters. She’d glared at him in annoyance.

“Would you like to see a scan and hear the heartbeat?” he asked.

Effie was stunned. “There’s a heartbeat?”

“We should be able to hear it with a vaginal ultrasound. Without one, it will be difficult to assess the gestational age since you’ve been on continuous hormones to prevent ovulation and menstruation for...” The doctor glanced at Effie’s chart. “...Many years.”

“Prevent ovulation... Hah! That’s a laugh.”

“Hormonal birth control is 99% effective when used correctly.”

“Well, OF COURSE I used it correctly!”

“I’m not implying otherwise, Mrs... “The doctor glanced at her chart again. “...Trinket. Even with flawless use there’s still a 1% chance of pregnancy. And, well, here you are.”

Apparently the odds were not in Effie’s favor. She considered the irony and clung to the possibility of a false positive.

“It’s MS. Trinket! And YES I need to see a scan.”

The ultrasound was quick, and moments later Effie was listening to a heartbeat and looking at an image of what appeared to be a microscopic teddy bear, only without ears yet.

“That’s human?”

The doctor stifled a chuckle. “Indeed, Ms. Trinket, your baby is human.”

“My... baby?”

“And in perfect development for 9 weeks gestation.”

“9 weeks?”

Oh, my God... Haymitch.

“And perfect,” the doctor said that word again.

“This is NOT perfect. This situation is not even remotely perfect! I did not intend for this to happen.”

“I understand,” the doctor sympathized, “Would you like for me to explain your options?”

“Yes. Please... Can’t someone else VOLUNTEER for this?” Effie focused on not hyperventilating as the doctor described medications and procedures used for abortion. He also described the course of pregnancy if she chose to not terminate.

In the end, Effie carried the pills home in that plastic container. She also took a digital copy of the ultrasound. Though she wasn’t sure why, because the thrumming of that tiny heartbeat would probably be stuck in her mind forever.

The vanity mirror and the birth control had been tricksters. Effie felt like a fool. An imperfect fool... with a perfect “baby” inside her. Of course any baby she conceived WOULD be perfect. “Nothing but the best for my girl,” she recalled her mother’s oft-spoken words.

Would this baby be a girl too if she let it happen? Or would it be a boy?

Effie stared at the pills, then stared again at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t see a baby. She couldn’t feel anything inside her. She felt alone.

She sent Haymitch a message. “I need to see you. Can I come tomorrow? — E”

He sent a teasing response later that evening. “It would be my pleasure to make you come tomorrow. — H”

Effie couldn’t help but smile, before she started to cry.

***

Six years had passed since the Revolution, and Haymitch considered himself at this point to be a fairly functional alcoholic. One of the ways he stayed functional was to work. His expertise in strategy made him a sought after consultant by both government and businesses in the Republic. But he rejected offers at that life. He decided instead to raise geese.

“A goose farmer?” Effie had laughed years ago at his plans, thinking he was joking about a brand of liquor that was popular in the Capitol. “Yeah, right, I’m sure you’ll be *farming* that *Goose* day and night.”

“Nice try, Sweetheart. But I’m not joking. My mother raised geese. She turned a decent profit on their eggs and meat. Not enough to keep from having to put my name in extra times each year at the reaping, but enough to survive awhile.”

“I didn’t know.” Effie had developed a habit of laying her hand on his chest and stroking the hollow between his collarbones as an offering of tenderness whenever she pitied him. Haymitch hated to be pitied, but he let her do it because the way she did it felt so good.

“Now you know.” He pulled away slowly. Feeling good with her, with anyone, for too long was dangerous. “Some eggs hatched last week. The goslings are still in the incubator. Do you want to see?”

“They’re inside your HOUSE?!”

“For now,” he chuckled, taking her hand and leading her to another room. On a table was a heat lamp glowing red above a slotted crate filled with the chatter of baby geese.”

“I declare! Haymitch Abernathy is a goose farmer. I never imagined myself saying those words.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a total career change; I’m still a drunk too.” He winked at her, then lifted the lid off the crate.

The goslings still had their downy plumage. They were balls of fluff, and Effie’s eyes lit up like a little girl. The light came from inside her, much deeper than her gold mascara.

“Do you want to hold one?”

“Hold one!? Goodness, no. I have no idea how to do that. I’d probably squeeze the poor thing to death.” She watched Haymitch pick up a gosling and cradle it in his palm. Those hands were lethal in The Games because they had to be. Those hands clutched a knife in sleep. And those hands had such capacity for gentleness. She knew.

“Hold out your hands; you’ll be alright.”

She hesitated.

“Honey, I know how soft your hands are. Trust me; you’ll be alright.”

Effie cupped her hands like a chalice. She squealed a bit as he placed the gosling into her palms.

“Shhh,” he said to soothe them.

“Ohhhh, it’s feet are walking on me!” Effie fussed.

“It’s just a baby, Sweetheart. It’s not going anywhere. You’re alright. You’ll be alright.”

“It tickles,” Effie giggled, natural like a girl again, discovering pleasure in something new. “It’s soft.” She looked at Haymitch. Then back to the gosling she said, “Hello, you.”

Haymitch watched her with amused enchantment. In the months since the Revolution, her appearance had become less clown-like and more authentically her. He was still figuring out who that was, and he guessed she was still figuring herself out too.

“Take it!” she hollered suddenly, “It just defecated in my hand. Take this thing!”

Haymitch laughed as he put the gosling back with the others, and Effie ran to the bathroom. He closed the crate and followed her.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I feel defiled. This sink is not enough. I need a bath.”

He held her hips from behind, looking at her in the mirror. “You don’t look defiled, not yet. I love this shirt and skirt thing you’te wearing.” He slipped his thumbs under the hem of her blouse, caressing her skin in circles. “I need a bath too. Do you want company?”

She turned around to face him. She might be squeamish about baby things, but Haymitch she could handle. She slid her arms around his waist and untucked the back of his shirt . “Well, I didn’t ride all this way for nothing.”

***

The other way Haymitch stayed functional as an alcoholic was to walk. He walked a lot. The fences that surrounded District 12 for the first 42 years of his life had been cleared away with the rubble during the years of reconstruction. The forest was wide open, and he spent a lot of time in it, just moving. Katniss had warned him years ago to step loudly.

“After everything we’ve been through, I’d hate to mistake you for a deer and shoot you. You probably wouldn’t taste very good.”

“I’m definitely not dear, Sweetheart,” he’d retorted, “Don’t mistake me for that.”

She paused. “Yes, you are. And I’m not the only one who knows it.”

So Haymitch stepped loudly today as usual. As he walked, he wondered about Effie’s message, short and urgent. If she needed a quick fuck, surely she could have gotten that from somebody else without having to ride across the country. Most of the time that’s not how it was with them anyway. Not anymore. Sex between them was loaded with feeling. Way too much feeling for his comfort, but it was too good with her to just stop. He hadn’t been with anyone besides Effie in at least a year. Work, walking, and drinking filled his days and nights. When he wanted more, he took the train to see her, and he never turned her down when she asked to visit.

A couple of months had passed since his last trip to the Capitol. He wouldn’t acknowledge how he missed her and how it felt to receive her message. Last night he dulled the feelings with Scotch. Today he walked and watched the sun move across the sky. The train was scheduled to arrive this evening. Alone in the woods he pretended to not be counting the hours.

***

The monotony of a train ride which she’d taken countless times gave Effie too much space in which to consider and reconsider whether she should have even gotten on the train. Running to the bathroom to throw up during the first few hours of the trip certainly didn’t make anything easier.

She had messaged Haymitch yesterday on inmpulse, in shock really. In the stillness now, reality was sinking in. What would it serve to tell him that she was... pregnant. She could barely think the word. How would she say it out loud? Besides, she was reasonably content with the way things were, and this could screw up everything, not just with Haymitch, who’d grown on her in ways she didn’t understand. But EVERYTHING.

Her glory days as a true fashion icon and escort had died with The Games. But she was still Effie Trinket! She picked herself up and adapted. She fashioned a career within the Republic’s efforts to promote democracy and to honor the fallen. I organize marketing and tours for the entire Memorial Complex for goodness sake! The place would fall apart without me. Effie hadn’t NEEDED anyone for a long time, maybe ever. She couldn’t understand why she suddenly felt alone and vulnerable.

I’ll get over it. Maybe I’ll just get over it. But what if I don’t get over it? Get over WHAT even? Oh, why didn’t the universe just stick to the cards! I had written them out exactly how I wanted my life to be.

She didn’t know.

Somewhere in the stillness, ethics got the best of her or came from the best of her. Haymitch should know about the pregnancy, not just because she felt alone and vulnerable, but because telling him was the right thing to do, regardless of any other decisions she would make and regardless of the consequences.

***

Haymitch sat on his porch beside a purple umbrella. A smile crept over his face as he touched the lace fringe. One gust of wind would destroy the thing, but Effie always prioritized style over function. She probably even had a back-up in her suitcase. She may be impractical but definitely not stupid.

He kicked off his boots and pulled off his socks. Picking out the stickers could wait; he wanted to see her. The door was unlocked; she’d found the spare key. He changed its hiding place periodically. Unfortunately if he moved it when he was drunk, then finding it when he sobered up was sometimes a challenge. Fortunately he didn’t have many hiding spots, nor did he have much inside his house worth stealing. He just felt safer with the doors and windows locked. Not that much safer, but enough to get some sleep occasionally.

Inside he took his coat off and dropped it on the floor.

“I’m in the dining room, Haymitch,” she called out, knowing that surprising him in his house could be dangerous. The one surprise she had for him already felt dangerous enough. “The train arrived early, so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Haymitch peered around the corner of the nook she called “the dining room.” Effie sat at the table with a glass of Scotch in front of her. A silk scarf which matched her umbrella draped loosely over her head, wrapped once around her neck, and the fringe hung in front just above her breasts. Her blonde hair peeked out from beneath. Her makeup was light, almost nonexistent. Her dress hugged her curves without flamboyance

She was hiding. This understated appearance was Effie’s way of hiding.

He didn’t know why she was hiding, but he wasn’t complaining. He loved her like this.

“This is ‘the drinking room,’ Sweetheart, and I see you’re off to an early start.”

As he crossed the room, she stood up and stepped into his embrace. He smelled of pine trees, crushed mint, and sweat. He was damp and dusty and probably ruining her clothes, but she didn’t care. Not today. Today she leaned into it all, because what if this was the last time she’d have the chance?

He pulled back just enough to unwrap her scarf and drape it across the back of her chair. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good” is such a short word, she murmured, closing the distance he’d created.

“I have longer options for you,” he whispered into the corner of her mouth.

“Then kiss me. For as long as you want. Just once, without holding back.”

Her breath was cinnamon. It had been weeks since he’d tasted her.. Something was up, but he’d figure it out later.

“Just one kiss?”

“For now.”

“Okay. I won’t hold back if you won’t eith....” He didn’t get to finish that last word before she started the game.

Time moved with the speed of their mouths, slowly at first and then quickening. She slipped her hands under his shirt and her fingers played over the muscles along his sides. Through the past few years he’d become stronger with work. She delighted in his body, but wouldn’t admit it.

“Cheater,” he muttered without breaking their kiss. Her dress was too form-fitting to lift, so he held her waist and caressed her through the fabric. His thumbs traced her ribcage and settled on her stomach, jolting her back to reality.

“Haymitch, wait,” she ended the kiss, trying to find her breath.

“What’s going on, Sweetheart?” He said the endearment without any sarcasm. “How about we sit down, and you tell me, okay? Can you do that?”

Effie nodded, slumping into her chair. He pulled up a chair too and sat close enough to touch her. He just wasn’t sure if she wanted him to touch her. So he waited.

She pushed the glass of Scotch toward him. “I poured this for YOU. Let’s start with this.”

He swallowed the liquor in one gulp, wary.

“You’ll need another.” She poured him a second glass, which he drank as quickly as the first.

“If you want to get me drunk you should just hand me the bottle.”

“I don’t want you drunk, just prepared.”

“Prepared for what?”

She reached into the bag beside her chair, pulled out a disc and slid it along the same path as the Scotch.

“What’s this?”

“Just watch it.”

“Now?”

She nodded.

Haymitch reached behind him and plugged it into the nearest viewer.

The microscopic teddy bear without ears filled the screen. The tiny heartbeat filled the room.

“Jesus, Effie. What is this?” he asked again, already knowing and not yet believing.”

“It’s an ultrasound... It’s... my ultrasound.” She whispered ‘my.’

“When?”

“Yesterday. Well, 9 weeks ago. I mean, the ultrasound was yesterday. But 9 weeks ago...”

Haymitch did the math.

“How did this happen?”

“Isn’t it a little late for the HOW talk? One of my eggs and one of your sperm had a party and made... that.”

“Mine? Are you sure?”

Effie started to simmer. “OF COURSE I’m sure!”

“How can you be sure?”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone besides you in over a year, Haymitch!”

His jaw dropped, and she immediately softened. She hadn’t meant for that reality to slip out. It said too much about her feelings. It revealed depths of her that she didn’t intend.

He reached for the bottle of Scotch, and poured himself a third glass. “Do you want one?”

“A baby?”

“I was going to say a glass of liquor, but let’s go with your question first.”

He looked right at her eyes, right into and through her. He hadn’t walked away from her, not yet.

“A baby?” she wondered, “In THIS world? Who in their right mind would want to have a baby after so much horror?”

“I’m not asking about *anybody in their right mind.* I’m asking about YOU, Sweetheart.” The endearment was soft again.

“That’s NOT funny!”

“I’m not trying to be funny. ...I just notice you’re not drinking.”

Effie reached into her bag again and pulled out the plastic container. “One pill for my cervix to open. Then one the next day for my uterus to contract.”

“You haven’t taken them.”

She shook her head ‘no’.

“Why not?”

The tiny heartbeat kept echoing through the room. Neither of them reached to turn off the viewer.

Effie closed her eyes. “Because of THAT. Because that could become a baby... my baby... our baby. It’s a lot to think about. It could change everything. Even not having it could change everything.”

When she opened her eyes, his were still on her. “It’s been at least a year since I’ve had sex with anyone but you, Honey. Something’s changed already.”

She didn’t expect that response. Everything felt wide open, like her organs might fall out, or maybe it was that thing some people call a soul. He was close enough to touch, but she didn’t touch him.

“When I didn’t care about anyone, it was hard enough. But now...”

“Now what?”

“Now I never stop being scared.” He said it. He’d never said it before.

She caressed his shirt sleeve. “I’m scared too.”

“You’re alright. You’re going to be alright.” He covered her hand with his.

She wanted to ask him the same question that he had asked her, Do YOU want a baby?

She was afraid that his answer would be ‘yes.’ And she was afraid that his answer would be ‘no.’

Mostly she was afraid of her own answer, the one she hadn’t yet spoken.

[ellanainthetardis]

pretty please can you write one where Hayffie are quarantined, it would be so funny

Lmao I added it to the list but from my perspective right now it’s not that funny. My contract is suspended until schools reopen and I won’t get paid. Also it’s a tiny bit scary. But yes once this whole thing blows over and I’m not here being paranoid about viruses, I will write it bc at that point I guess I will find it funny ;) 

[ellanainthetardis]

Hello:D I was wondering if you would write a Hayffie Hogwarts au with Slytherin Haymitch and Hufflepuff Effie? Maybe at a Quidditch match or something? Established Relationship please! Thank you:)

I wrote a one shot once that could be considered as a prequel (here) but really it can stand alone ;) [x]

The Hufflepuff Girl WithRidiculous Hair

Haymitch didn’t really careabout the looks he and Jo were getting but he was aware of them. TwoSlytherins in the Hufflepuffs stands weren’t exactly inconspicuous, all themore so when the Quidditch match opposed the badgers to the snakes. He supposedpeople were too used to sitting by Houses, even at that kind of events. Thatbeing said, Beetee and Finnick weren’t drawing that many looks despite the fact they were in Ravenclaw andGriffindor respectively. The problem was definitelythe Slytherin thing.

“Look at that!” Chaff laughed,punching his arm in delight as he pointed upward at the feint one of theChasers had just pulled.

On his other side, Effie loopedher arms around his and propped her chin on his shoulder, clearly a littlebored.

“Haymitch flies better than anyof them.” she told Chaff before pouting at Haymitch. “I do not understand whyyou did not try out.”

“’Cause I’m such a team player, sweetheart…” he snorted.

“Plus, only Purebloods ever makethe team.” Johanna shrugged from the bench below, not even bothering to turnaround.

Effie pursed her lips at theother girl’s eavesdropping but didn’t comment, probably to avoid making a scenelike only those two could.

Haymitch wasn’t sure how he hadended up in such a group of friends. He and Johanna got along well but, sincethey were in the same House, it was expected. Chaff… Chaff had become his bestfriend on the first day of school despite him being a Hufflepuff. It was Chaffwho had befriended Beetee and Finnick first and that had in turn brought themto Wiress, Annie and Blight. Then Chaff had fallen in love with Livia, making him forced to be around Effie most ofthe time…

And once Effie had decided shewanted something, there was no stopping her from getting it. And she haddecided early in their fifth year that she very much wanted him.

Which was how he had ended upwith a Hufflepuff girlfriend he sometimes wasn’t sure he even liked because her voice was irritating and she was ridiculous.

Lately, her hair was dyed a palesky blue with purple strikes.

He kept telling her it made herlook like a clown.

“I am bored.” she hummed againsthis ear. She wasn’t much into Quidditch.

He liked the sportwell enough but his muggleborn self would always prefer football and he wasn’treally interested in knowing if his House would win or not.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asked.

She beamed at that and noddedwith a grin, immediately bolting to her feet, a hand outstretched for him. Whygirls always wanted to hold hands, he wasn’t sure. But, hey, she let him kiss her and sometimes, if she was in a very good mood, he was allowed to cope afeel over her robes so… He would hold her hand.

Chaff tossed him a disappointedlook but Haymitch shrugged and his best friend rolled his eyes, understandingonly too well that when a girl wanted to gofor a walk, you went for a walk.

They didn’t make it far from theQuidditch pitch before she pushed him against the trunk of a tree. It was anice day, not too cold for the season, and he wasn’t in any hurry to get backto the castle so he kissed her back, holding her close, trying not to smileagainst her lips because really…

He might have been just a tinybit in love with the Hufflepuff girl with the ridiculous hair…  

[ellanainthetardis]

I know this is a very random prompt (and I understand if you don't write it), but I would love to read a story about Effie's hair. I would love it if it was one that matched with important parts of her life e.g. being compared to her sister when she was young, dying her hair for the first time, getting her first wig, Haymitch seeing her hair, it being cut off in prison and growing back in MJ etc.

This is a very longone, more Effie centric but there is hayffie in there of course.

Since it is so long,there won’t be a prompt tomorrow but I will be reblogging the vampire au because… the requested sequel is coming on Wednesday;) [x]

Dye, Wig And Style

1.

Lyssa’s hair is perfect.

Even at eight, Effie can see that very clearly.

She watches from her sister’s doorway as theirmother lovingly brushes Lyssandra’s hair. The hairbrush never gets stuck in thelovely straight blond strands like it does with Effie’s. From there, it looksglossy and soft, something you would like to run your fingers through… It looksa bit like liquid gold and it is sopretty.

Lyssa is a very pretty girl as a rule, though,everyone agrees on that and nobody agrees more than Effie. She loves hersister, worships the ground she walks on, even if, at eleven, Lyssa tends toconsider a mere baby. Even when she’s jealous of the high heels she’s not yetallowed – having to make do with babyheels, as Lyssa dubbed her shoes – she can recognize her sister’ssuperiority. It is so very obvious that it’s not that difficult to admit.

She wraps her silk dressing gown tighter aroundher, shivering a little in the big cold corridor. She wants to go in, she wantsto jump on the bed – or rather sitproperly and fold her hands on her lap like a lady ought to – and marvel atthe beauty of her mother’s dress, she wants to join in the hushed whispersabout the boy Lyssa likes, she wants to tease her sister about the blush on hercheeks…

She knows she wouldn’t be welcomed and that shewould only be intruding.

Mother will only have time for Lyssa tonightbecause their parents are going out to one of those glamorous parties Effiedreams of attending. Elindra’s dress is a deep crimson, there is a bustierembroidered with tiny sparkling gems – that she thinks are rubies – and a puffyvoluminous skirt that spirals around her mother’s thighs but never moves, keptin place by metallic wires Effie marveled at in the shop. Geometric forms arethe latest fashion – or so her sister claims.

“Euphemia, what are you doing here?” Elindra’svoice suddenly asks. “Wandering the corridors in your night clothes. Truly. You should know better.”

There is nothing hush hush about it and the tone doesn’t bide well for her.

“I forgot my book downstairs, Mother.” sheexplains innocently, waving the aforementioned book for her to see.

Elindra sneers a little. “Books. I do not understand why you choose to waste your time likethis. It is magazines you should read. You do so need to learn about current celebrities’ affairs. You almostembarrassed me with your lack of knowledge at your latest pageant.”

“My apologies, Mother.” she mumbles.

“Do not mutter, Euphemia. It does not become a lady.” Elindra huffs. “Now.Where is the nanny? Why do we pay thatwoman, I wonder… Ah, Tadius. Very good. Be a dear and make sure your daughtergoes to bed.”

Effie whirls around with a bright smile. Herfather got caught walking out of his room and looks startled by the task thatis required of him.

“Don’t we have a nanny for that?” he frowns.“We pay her enough.”

“It might be time to find a new one.” Elindraconcedes.

Effie and Lyssa exchange a disappointed glancebecause they like they current one – but nannies and governesses have beenwaltzing in and out of their lives every few months since they were born and theyare used to it.

“Very well.” Tadius sighs, outstretching hishand with hesitation. “Come along, Effie.”

She beams as she takes it and she lets herfather steer her back to her room. It is a veryrare treat when their father tucks them in. He seems embarrassed and not quitesure what to do. She’s a bit disappointed when he leaves her at her door with astern reminder that she shouldn’t wander around wearing night clothes becauseit is improper, but she feels filled with a warm fuzzy feeling when he pecksthe top of her head and bids her goodnight.

She’s tempted to hug him but controls thespontaneous idiotic gesture before it can get her in trouble.

The Trinkets don’t hug.

They verypolitely shake hands or exchange air kisses.

Once the door is closed and she’s alone again,she tosses her book on the bed and wanders to the dresser in the corner of herroom. She sits down to grab the hairbrush. There has been no miracle when shelooks in the mirror though. Her hair still looks wild and impossibly curly, abit reddish where the light directly touches it, not at all liquid gold butmore like dark honey… Ugly.

It is no wonder their mother likes taking careof Lyssa’s better, really.

With a soft sigh, she places the brush at thetop of her head and runs it down very slowly.

“One.” she whispers. She counts out loud as sheruns the hairbrush down.

A hundred brushes each night.

Elindra promises it is the only way to haveglossy shiny hair.

Effie wantsglossy shiny hair.

She wants to be pretty like her sister.

2.

Effie watches the hairdresser’s reaction in themirror like a hawk.

The woman doesn’t betray anything. She smilesand happily chats and Effie has been answering in kind since their mother has lefther and Lyssandra at the salon. Everyone had oohed and aaahed atLyssandra’s purple hair. Everyone also agreed that Effie badly needed a dye jobtoo, once she had taken her wig off – which is why she’s here in the firstplace, because Elindra finally caved and authorized her to dye her hair instead of just wearing wigs.

She’s nine and she knows this will change herlife.

She will finally be pretty like her sister.

Elindra warned her there would be no walkingaround with her hair in its natural unruly state, even if it doesn’t look its usualplain color. If she wants to be allowed to forego wigs, she will need to takecare of it. It means straightening it every day and making sure it lookshealthy.

Effie doesn’t really mind wigs. She loves them,even. It’s funnier to be able to change color and style every day. But Lyssaproudly wears her hair natural and Effie wants to be like her so she begged and begged…

“Here.” the hairdresser says, done assessingwhat needs to be done with her. She presents her with a card on which there areseveral shades of purple. “You can choose the one you would like.”

She glances at her sister, a few chairs away,who is laughing with her own hairdresser as she gets her hair trimmed. There’sanother woman doing her nails at the same time and Effie looks down at her ownhands, at the impractical fake nails that she keeps damaging – to Elindra’sutter annoyance. She so desperatelywants to look like Lyssa…

But even with the same shade of purple, sheknows she will only suffer in the comparison, so she takes the card and studiesit very attentively and then turns the page back and smiles when she spotssomething she likes. She points at the small square. “This one.”

“It’s pink, Miss.” the woman winces. “Your mothersaid purple.”

“She won’t mind.” she lies.

“Still…” the hairdresser insists. “Purple is really the latest rage… Everyone haspurple hair…”

“Precisely.”Effie grins, flicking her soon-to-be pink strands away from her face. “I do notfollow trends. I launch them.”

She makes her claim haughtily, as if there isevery ounce of truth to it. For a moment, she allows herself to believe it.It’s a game after all, just a game, and in that game she’s famous. She’s… An actress. Or maybe a model. An escort, why not?

She doesn’t want purple. Purple will only makepeople remark how well it suits Lyssandra and how sad it is it doesn’t becomeher as much.

“Miss…” the woman hesitates.

“Please, Olivia.” Effie cuts her off in thesame polite but dismissive tone her mother often uses. “Dye my hair pink.”

She flashes her a charming grin – or what shehopes is a charming grin – and the hairdresser caves.

It takes a long time for the whole thing to bedone but when she sees her reflection in the mirror, Effie gapes. For a fewseconds. Time enough to remember ladies do notgape like common girls.

But she’s beautiful.

Straight hair that falls to her shoulders, thestrands a vibrant bubblegum pink that makes her heart soar with how bright itlooks.

“Mother said purple.” Lyssa comments when shejoins her, done with her own beauty treatment.

“Pink looks better.” she claims.

Her sister runs her fingers in her hair with asmall smile. “It does look good butyou will get in so much trouble…”

She juts her chin in the air and refuses to admitshe might be getting a tad nervous. “But it looks pretty.”

“Yes, but purple is fashionable, not pink.” Lyssa sighs. “Mother won’tlike it.”

“Pink is a kind of purple.” she argues, gettingreally agitated now but trying hard to hide it. “And if I am pretty, won’t shebe happy?”

Lyssa pouts but eventually runs her fingersthrough her hair again. “You are alwayspretty, Effie.”

“Mother does not think so.” she laments,looking at their reflection.

Lyssa is still a lot more beautiful with herbright blue eyes and her fake feather eyelashes Effie isn’t yet allowed. Shelooks grown up. She’s twelve but every head turns in her wake.

“Of course, she does.” her sister soothes her.

She wishes time would freeze or that their motherwould forget them but, unfortunately, ten minutes later Elindra waltzes back inthe saloon with her arms full of shopping bags. She stops dead in her trackswhen she spots her youngest daughter.

It is a disaster.

She makes such a scene Effie doesn’t know whereto hide.

The hairdresser gets a earful and Effie knowsshe is next on the list but that it will probably wait until they are back inthe car on the way home. A part of her is still overjoyed when the salon’sowner, who hastily came out of her office, says that they can’t die her hairpurple now, that it would damage it, that they need to wait a few weeks…

At least she gets to keep her pink hair.

Olivia doesn’t get to keep her job, on theother hand.

Effie is devastated and mortified because itwas her tantrum that put the woman introuble. However, no matter how many times she tries to explain, nobody willlisten to her.

She’s crying when Elindra drags her daughtersout of the shop but an icy glare from her mother convinces her to swallow backthe sobs – and to do it fast. Lyssaslips her hand in hers and she clings to her sister’s fingers like to alifeline. She feels sorry for the kind woman she has accidentally gotten fired,she feels sorry for herself…

The second the car’s door closes behind themand the driver starts the car, Elindra launches into a rant about how Effie always has to be an embarrassment and about how she should just take example onLyssandra.

“I think pink suits Effie.” Lyssa manages tocut in when her mother takes a breath.

“That isbecause you are too sweet on your sister.” Elindra snaps. “And do not get involved in conversations thatdo not concern you, Lyssa, dear.”

Properly chided, Lyssandra remains silent forthe rest of the drive. But she often squeezes Effie’s hand in support and forthat she is grateful.

Later on, once she escaped the madness and sheis back in the safety of her room, she studies her reflection in the mirror anddecides pink is her favorite color.

3.

Effie storms to her room, sweaty and disgustingfrom her third round of the day on a treadmill. It doesn’t matter how manyhours of exercising she squeezes in an afternoon though or if she sticks tosteamed vegetables and soup: she doesn’t get any less chubby.

Puberty sucks.

Being thirteen sucks.

Being thirteen and chubby when your sixteenyear old sister is a successful model sucks even more.

Effie goes straight to the shower, having longperformed the art of not getting a glimpse of herself in the mirror while inthe bathroom. She hates her reflection. She hates the disappointment in hermother’s eyes every time she glances at her.

She is supposed to go to one of Lyssa’s fashionshows tonight. A treat if there ever was one because ever since she put onweight, her mother hardly takes her anywhere. Elindra’s embarrassed because herfriends giggle behind her back about her curvy daughter.

Effie likes fashion though and she loves fashion shows so she’s determinedto look her best. She puts her dress on first, a lovely white and silver piecethat manages to hide any small pouch on her not-flat-enough stomach. Then shecomposes herself a cheerful face with make-up. She’s getting very good at this:inventing herself masks with eyeshadows and lipsticks…

The last thing to do is put on her blue wigbut, naturally, that is when she starts wasting time. Her hair won’t stay inits bun and the wig looks crooked, forcing her to start over and over again.She gets so frustrated she seriously wonders if she shouldn’t just take hermother’s advice and shave it all. What is even the point of having hair sinceshe will never ever allow anyone tosee it?

The thought is fleeting though.

She tears the hair tie off and runs her fingersthrough the strands, making a face at the reddish hues. She hates it. But notenough to get rid of it.

She thinks she is too vain for that.

Better ugly hair than no hair at all.

4.

Herwhole body is hurting.

She’s been going from fashion shows tophotoshoots and back to the catwalk for days on end. She has been crazily busylately and, although she is happy with the attention and the fame that comeswith it, she cannot help but be tired.

She waits for the steam to clear from themirror after she steps out of Stelan’s shower, eager to start her morning.There will be more photoshoots that day. Faun Harwyn’s latest collection iscoming out and she is its face, his star model…

At only seventeen.

The last couple of months have been crazy butshe thinks she did pretty well for herself.

She has a job, fame, money that she will beable to get her hands on in a few months when she would turn eighteen, and anolder boyfriend who is rumored to be the next great photographer. Even hermother is impressed.

The bathroom door suddenly opens and Effiestartles, her eyes growing wide. Stelan makes a face, still looking a bitsleepy, as he rubs his orange dyed hair.

“Sorry, babe. I thought you were gone already.”he mumbles, pressing a kiss on her shoulder.

“Stelan…” she protests, embarrassed to becaught looking like this. She doesn’tmind being naked. She is very confident in her body nowadays. She worked reallyhard to chisel it to what it is now and she looks perfect, if she said so herself. But the bare face and the plainhair? She looks for something to hide behind but comes up empty handed…

“Don’t worry.” he chuckles. “I’ve seen plentyof models during prepping. I know you all look like crap under all that powder– we all do really, that’s whatmake-up is for.”

He brushes her wet hair aside to press anotherkiss on her shoulder and leaves her the bathroom. There is no malice to hiswords and she knows he’s right. Only District people and Avoxes would walkaround looking plain. Beauty needs to be nurtured.

She has always known she doesn’t look goodwithout artifices.

So why do the words hurt so much?

5.

“Come on…” Haymitch insists, an amused note inhis voice.

She bats his hand away and turns to her otherside, showing her his back. “No.”

The Sixty-ninth Hunger Games are dragging inlength and they have been fooling around for days, bored out of their minds andabsolutely done with the Capitol’s thirst for blood, waiting for a victor thatwould allow them to put this season behind them. They are a well-oiled machinenow, on a professional level as well as on a more… intimate one. Wasting time in bed – or against a wall – isn’t theworst way to wait for the end of the Games as far as she’s concerned.

Besides, staying locked up in the penthousealso allows them to avoid the hungry crowd for a little while. Effie loves thefame, she does, but… There are timeswhen the fame is harder to bear than others.

“I’ve already seen every inch of you,sweetheart…” he scoffs, nuzzling her nape with his nose, unwilling to take nofor an answer. “I’ve seen you without make-up…”

“Only because you are a rude man who does not understand the concept of knockingbefore entering a room.” she retorts. “And it is different anyway.”

“Why?” he pouts, snatching another pin from herpink wig. She’s too slow to bat his fingers away, this time.

“Because I say so.” she snaps. “You are allowedto take my bra off but not my wig.”

The clasp of her bra immediately comes loose inanswer and she takes the offending piece of lingerie off. It’s the last thingshe had on her anyway because they never got around to removing it. It is a bitridiculous to be naked only from the waist down in the arms of an equally nakedman.

And she’s more comfortable like this anyway.

She doesn’t ask or wonder why he hasn’t lefther bed yet. She supposes he’s aiming for another round as soon as he will beready for it – hence why he is teasing her instead of storming out. The wig isan old and familiar argument between them. He often requests that she takes itoff and she always refuses, even if he argues that she looks ridiculous withher wigs and make-up and puffy clothes… She knows she looks even worse withoutthem. And if he finds her ugly when she looks at her best, she doesn’t want toknow what he will think of her at her worst.

“What are you afraid of?” he taunts, trying tosnatch another pin. She grabs his wrist and brings his arm back around herbefore he can do much damage. “Are you actually bald under that? ‘Cause I’vebeen joking about it all this time but… That’s it, sweetheart? You’re bald?”

It started as a joke but she can feel him gettingmore and more serious.

“I am not bald.”she denies. “Do not be preposterous.”

He tightens his grip on her waist, tugs hercloser to his chest. She feels him shrug. “It’s okay if you are. Won’t lie…It’s probably not that sexy but… It’s fine. You can show me… Won’t make fun ofyou for that…”

“For heaven’s sake, Haymitch, I am not bald!” she snaps, not at allassuaged by the hand that distractedly runs up and down her front. She huffsand puffs and huffs again. “Very well. Since you wants this so much… Let mebook an appointment at the salon. I haven’t dyed my hair in years, it is very plain. And it willneed straightening too… Once I am somehowfit to be seen without a wig…”

“I don’t need any of that shit.” he grumbles. “Hell, I don’t want any of that shit. Iwant to see you. I want to see whatyou look like when you’re not busy playing at being a parrot.”

“I am ugly.” she replies. The words pass herlips before she can think them through. It is not like her to flaunt her flawsor her weaknesses and she immediately brushes it aside with a dismissive hand.“Everyone is ugly in their natural state, Haymitch. Grooming is…”

“Am I uglyto you, Trinket?” he sneers.

“Of course not!” she protests. “It is not whatI meant…”

“You see me getting… groomed every day?” he challenges bitterly. “I’m pretty muchnatural all the time, sweetheart. You never seemed to mind. Or what… You just wanted a taste of theexotic caveman? Should have made you pay for it like everybody else. Would havemade some money out of it, at least.”

He tries to take his arm away from her but sheholds fast to is.

“It isn’t like that.” she breathes out. “You know it isn’t like that.” She rollsaround and cups his cheek. He won’t meet her gaze but he isn’t really trying tobolt away from the bed either, she will take what she can get. “I do not thinkyou are ugly. You are handsome andyou know it.” She brushes her thumb against his lips until he finally meets hereyes again. He doesn’t look pleased, he has that particular expression thatusually means he will go on a binge soon. “It was a poor choice of words.” she admitsquietly. “I just meant… It is different from the Districts, here. You knowthis…”

“But I’m from a District.” he scowls. “And Iain’t one of your Capitol playboys. I just want to see you, what’s wrong withthat?”  

Plenty is wrong with that because it’sflirting with a line they have always been careful not to cross. Mentor andescort fucking each other is onething. Haymitch and Effie having sex, on the other hand…

“I am ugly.” she repeats. She feels ashamed butshe doesn’t want to vex him again. He will forgive her any offense in time – orhe will grow too desperate for a quickie to care long – but… She doesn’t wantto hurt him. The Capitol hurts him enough as it is.

“Bullshit.”he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And cut the crap. You’re the most arrogant personI know. The insecure woman act… It’s not you.”

“I am certainly not insecure.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste at the notion. “I am oneof the most beautiful women in Panem, thank you very much.” She licks her lipsand looks away. “When I wear the proper make-up and…”

He grabs her chin and gently forces her to lookat him again.

“You’re actually serious.” he snorts indisbelief. “You think you need that crap.”

“I do need it.” she argues. “And mind your language, won’t you.”

“Tell you what…” he frowns. “When did I everlie to you, sweetheart? If you need it, I’ll tell you. If you don’t…”

“I am not actually keen on being told I look… plain.”she hisses. “Why must you…”

“Trust me a little.” he cuts her off. “You’veseen every bad thing about me. You’ve seen me puke, you’ve seen me freak out‘cause of bad dreams, you’ve seen me wasted out of my mind… Pretty sure you’veseen me cry a time or two when I was too wasted to care…”

“It is different.” she sighs.

“How?” he scoffs.

“Because nobody is requesting you to be perfectall the time, Haymitch.” she growls. “I come with an expiration date. You do realize this, I hope? I am paid to be beautiful, to be a fantasy… Fantasies are not supposed to be any less thanperfect. Fantasies…”

“You ain’t a fucking fantasy. You’re flesh and blood.” he spits out. “I don’twant you to be perfect. Fuck, Effie,you’re so far from perfect it’s ridiculous.”

She pouts, a bit hurt by that assessment butalso strangely pleased by what he is trying to say.

“Everyone wants perfect in the city.” shewhispers.

“I’m not from this city.” he reminds her. “I hate this fucking city.”

“Seriously, Haymitch, language.” she rebukes, studying him with rapt attention. “Isuppose… I suppose if you want to see thisbadly… But be warned I am not playing coy. It is really not pretty.”

She sighs, sits up, and starts unpinning herwig. He sits up too and his fingers are back in her synthetic hair, making amess rather than helping. He seems eager to have it off though and she’sreminded of children unwrapping presents. It is strangely endearing.

Eventually the wig loosens and he tosses itaside to attack the bun she keeps her hair in. She lets him do that by himself.She stares at the wall as he frees her curls and she braces herself for thecomment she knows is coming.

Haymitch doesn’t lie.

Not to her and never to make her feel better.

She feels her hair tumble on her shoulders,feels his fingers tentatively running through the strands…

“It’s reddish…” he murmurs, almost in awe.

“Certainly not.” she huffs. “It is the light. Iam blond. There might be reddish hues in there but I am blond. Strawberry blondif you must be specific.”

He’s not listening to her, she can tell. He’stoo busy burying his hands in the wild mane of curls, crumpled by a whole dayunder a wig.

“It’s curly.” he remarks. “Didn’t expectcurly.”

He coils a strand around his finger and watchesit bounce back in place.

Effie clears her throat and keeps her eyes onthe wall. “I told you I needed to straighten it…”

“Don’t you fuckingdare.” he almost snarls, petting her hair almost protectively. “So beautiful… It’s the make-up all overagain… How do they make you think you need all that crap? You’re so much betterlike this… So much better…”

Her heart is racing in her chest but sherefuses to believe him just like that. She refuses to… “Please, do not mock me.You can just say it is…”

“If you say uglyone more time, I’m gonna fuckingflip, sweetheart.” he grumbles, using his grip on her hair to pull her into akiss. “Fucking beautiful.” he mumblesbetween two pecks. “Fucking shame tohide it.”

It takes her a while to accept he isn’tactually playing a prank on her or pretending so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings– when has Haymitch ever worriedabout her feelings anyway? She only starts to believe him because he seems veryeager to have her again all of a sudden and because he spends the whole timepetting her hair. He is still playing with it afterwards, once she is unusuallyallowed to cuddle against his side.

“Don’t dye it. Don’t straighten it.” herequests.

“You like me ugly.” she accuses. “I should haveknown.”

“Who said it was ugly?” he snarls, apparentlyoffended on behalf of her wild curly plain hair.

“Everyone?” she snorts. “It is so common andunoriginal… Nobody likes that around here.”

“Then, they’re blind.” he declares. “’Causeyou’re fucking beautiful. Just like this. All that shit… That shit doesn’tmake you beautiful, it makes you like them.”

She gets a thrill every time he calls herbeautiful. Nobody has ever looked at her plain face or her plain hair andcalled her beautiful. All peopleusually see are the flaws that nothing hides.

“Being like them is what allows us to survive.”she whispers, low enough that it won’t carry much further. Just in case.

“Just another mask then.” he taunts. “Masks areall well and good, sweetheart… But don’t forget who you are underneath.”

She presses a kiss to his heart.

It’s an answer and a promise.

6.

He tugs the wig off her head because she is tooexhausted to do it herself.

The Quell’s Reaping took too much out of her,the knowledge that the train is rushing to the Capitol where a certain deathawaits the children doesn’t help. The fact that she has been forced to callHaymitch’s name…

She kept up her cheery persona for the childrenbut she cannot do that with Haymitch.

So she lets him undress her like a doll andslip her nightgown over her head. She lets him wash away the make-up from herface because it gives him something to do, an excuse not to think about what isgoing on, what almost happened and what isgoing to happen as a consequence. And she lets him take pin after pin offher wig, her unfocused eyes staring straight ahead.

“ Now,that’s fucking stupid, Effie.” hespits out when the braid tumbles loose from the wig.

It is neat and she loves how it looks on her.It makes her look… fiercer, not aspowerless as she feels. It makes her braver.

“It is just a braid.” she whispers.

But they both know it’s a lie.

It is a Katnissbraid.

It is a statement.

Just like the golden tokens.

She stands with Katniss. She stands with hervictors.

She might be wearing a Capitol mask but sheknows who she is underneath.

7.

She looks at the wall with a  blank stare when they cuff her to the chair.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t try to flee when theybrutally cut her hair and then shave it.

Her cheek is still stinging from an earlierblow. She thinks the bone might be broken. She thinks she will never make it outof here.

I don’t know anything, she keeps repeating like a mantra,like a shield. The words don’t protect her. Nothing can protect her now.

She doesn’t know if she really wants to beprotected anyway.

Regardless of if he meant to or not, Haymitchleft her behind to die and that thought hurts more than their punches and theircruel gibes.

She’s stubborn about not letting them see howmuch she’s hurting. From the feeling of betrayal. From the torture – that sheknows to be tame still, she knows it will get worse, she knows… From anything.

She sees the blond strands falling to the floorin the corner of her eye but she doesn’t react. She keeps a neutral face, ablank stare, she pretends she doesn’t see. Eyesbright, chin up… The smile, she cannot quite muster. Chin up, though. Always.

Effie Trinket has her pride and they won’tbreak her so easily.

They won’t.

She remains collected even as they push her andcall her names, even as they tell her she was nothing but Haymitch’s fuck toy, a District whore, and that no decent man will everwant to touch something as ugly as her ever again. Haymitch’s bitch, they call her.

She doesn’t protest the title.

Her stoicism annoys them and it makes them moreaggressive.

She knows she should give them what they want,that it would end quicker if she did. She should cry and scream and beg formercy. She will come to that soon enough, she suspects. But not yet.

Not when they just stole her hair

Not when they just stole her armor.

She only breaks down later. Once they throw herback in the cold little cell with Portia’s battered body.

Then, she touches her bald hair and shecries.

8.

Effie wishes she still has a gift for notcatching her reflection in a mirror when she steps in and out of the shower.

Haymitch’s room at the presidential mansion isso lavish that it regularly throws her. She hasn’t been here long. It took along time for the hospital to release her – she understands it was mostlyHaymitch and Plutarch’s meddling, that the two men felt she was safer in herhospital room for the time being because the new rebel President was callingfor blood – and she still feels a bit disconnected from reality.

It’s difficult for her to admit she’s not inher tiny cell anymore.

Her memories are sluggish. She doesn’t know howlong she was locked in there all alone. She doesn’t know if she dreamedHaymitch scooping her up from her bed of filth and blocking her eyes from thepainful light that blinded her. She doesn’t know if this isn’t a more elaboratehallucination or maybe drugs that the guards gave her for kicks out of boredom.

She only knows that the thing that looks backat her in the mirror isn’t her.

It’s a corpse that forgot to die.

Her every bone are jutting, as if eager topierce the thin layer of flesh. There are dark bruises still that are takingforever to fade and accidental fresh ones because she cannot bump into anythingwithout it leaving a mark anymore. There are scars, swollen and angry looking,her back is the worst and she’s happy not to have to see it on a regular basis.

There was a brief period, a couple of years,when she had learned to love herself without make-up and wigs – mainly becauseHaymitch kept telling her just how beautiful she was, and she had started tobelieve him.

Now…

Now she has hollow cheeks and there are deeplines at the corners of her eyes. Now the blond peach fuzz on her head makesher want to throw something at the wall.

She wants to get angry – at Haymitch, maybe,because she needs someone to blame for all of this, she needs someone she canhate for what happened to her.

She doesn’t have the energy for it – and sheneeds Haymitch too much right now, he’s the only thing keeping her sane, theonly one who is there for her, the only one who accepts her for who she iswithout condition.

She startles when someone knocks on thebathroom’s door. Her heart hammers in her chest and her first reflex is to lookfor a potential way to escape – naked and still dripping wet, that doesn’tmatter at all.

“Sweetheart, you’re in there?” Haymitch’sfamiliar voice asks and she relaxes. He left before she woke up that morning,presumably to check on the children.

It’s odd between the two of them but Effiedoesn’t have enough energy to care about that either. She usually falls asleepclinging to him, fighting against her exhaustion to stay awake, staring at thebright lamp on the nightstand because she never wants to be in the darknessagain, and when the nightmares come – and they always come – she lets him hold her and whisper in her ear untilshe’s sure this is the real world and not a dream.

They share his room and it’s weird how not weird it is. They’ve known eachother for a long time, they know how to make space for each other. Effie doesit automatically, a bit wary that he will get tired of her and turn her away.He, on the other hand, seems worried about her suddenly starting to hate him.

He needs her, she thinks in her most lucidmoments, as much as she needs him.

He pushes the door open before she can call forhim to come in. He never waits for her permission anyway so she never bothers givingit. He gets nervous when he doesn’t know where she is and he never leaves heralone for long, if he can he asks her to come with him. She thinks he’sterrified sick of losing her again.

It makes her feel warm inside.

It’s a nice change from feeling dead and empty.

He frowns when he sees her standing there andimmediately snatches a towel from the rack where she insists he keeps them –because he has a bad habit of leaving them damp on the floor and it just won’tdo, it won’t, and she doesn’t mindthat he laughs at her with unmistakable relief when she lectures him about itor that he claims she will be ranting about manners with the last breath in herbody. She lets him rub her dry, not really minding the fact that she’s nakedeven if they haven’t been intimate since her rescue, and she helpfully liftsher arms when he wraps it around her chest to keep her modest.

“You’re okay, yeah?” he asks quietly. “You’rehere.”

It’s half a statement and half a question. Hewants to know if she’s having a flashback, she figures.

“Yes.” she answers, a bit laconic.

His face softens and he forces a small smilefor her. He brushes his hand on her shoulder, up to her nape. It’s new, thisconstant need of him to touch her. In complete contradiction with her suddenaversion to being touched.

He’s the exception though.

He’s always been the exception to a lot ofthings and it doesn’t surprise her this is another example of it.

She relaxes when he squeezes her nape, thefamiliar gesture having long become a source of comfort. It used to bepossessive. Then it became a proof of affection.

“I’ve got something for you.” he says and hesounds a bit smug, very pleased with himself. She follows him to the bedroompart of the suite and she blinks at the heap of blinding fabrics on the bed,next to empty shopping bags. There are shoes too, she realizes, heels and flatboots. And wigs. When she doesn’t move, he clears his throat awkwardly.“They’ve reopened shops on Main Street so…” He shrugs. “You can’t go alone yet, it’s not really safe for you, but… Ithought it might cheer you up…”

It is certainly an improvement over the greyuniforms they gave her.

She isn’t sure how she feels about colors.She’s been locked in a grey cell for months, then in a white hospital room… Ina sense, the grey is familiar.

And now colors…

She brushes her fingers against the fur of ablue dress’ neckline…

“Thank you.” she whispers. And she means it.

It’s not the clothes that touches her as muchas the fact he went to get them.Haymitch hates shopping maybe more than he hates fashion. But he went andbought all this for her and that… Sheturns around and plants a kiss on his lips. It’s a chaste thing but his eyessoften so much that, for a minute, she thinks he might cry. She’s a bit too aware he’s been hanging by a threadlately, still fighting against his rampant alcoholism because she and thechildren need him when it would have been easier for him to drown in the nextbottle. She doesn’t think he will hold on long on that front but sheappreciates the attempt nonetheless.

“Thank you.”he replies with a shrug, almost sheepish, hands in his pockets.

Her eyes fall on a bubblegum pink wig and shepicks it up automatically, turning it over in her hands.

“You hate wigs.” she remarks. “Do you… Do youwant me to wear them now?”

She cannot blame him. She looks awful. There isnothing remotely attractive to the peach fuzz on her head. Certainly not whenhe liked tangling his fingers in her hair so much.

“I want you to feel better.” he grumbles.“You’ve always liked you wigs in public and you’re not exactly thrilled aboutyour new haircut so… I thought you’d want them.”

She analyses his answer carefully beforeturning to him with a small frown. “But do youwant me to wear them? I know I am not really pretty to look at and you have tolook at me almost all the time. Do you…”

“Hey.” he cuts her off firmly, taking the wigfrom her hands and tossing it back on the bed before cupping her cheek. “Idon’t care what you look like and I don’t mind looking at you, let me tell you.I’ve spent months thinking I wouldn’tget to look at you again. Sweetheart,I can spend the rest of my life doing nothing but that.”

It’s more of a declaration than she everexpected from him and she blinks, completely unprepared and taken aback.

“I look terrible.” she argues for the sake ofit.

“Kinda do, yeah.” he snorts. “But you’ve beenthrough hell, princess. Even you can’t do that with style. It’s fine, it’ll getbetter.” He presses a kiss against her forehead. “You’re beautiful to me.You’re always beautiful to me.”

She takes a step forward and lets him wrap hisarms around her, burying her face in his neck. I love you she mouths against his skin.

If he understands, he doesn’t let on.

But his grip tightens.

9.

“If anyone knew I do that for you, myreputation would be done for.” he grumbles but keeps on carefully running thehairbrush through her blond curls.

A grin bursts on her lips. She doesn’t bothertrying to hide the amusement in her voice. “You love it.”

Her accusation prompts him to snort but shehears no denial.

And Effie lovesthose quiet nights. She was sitting cross-legged on their bed, brushing herhair, ready for the night, when he came out of the bathroom and sat behind her.She didn’t ask him to take the brush out of her hand. He knows when it’s coldthe shoulder she injured during the war hurts her – and, she also thinks, heenjoys it because he worships her hair.

“Youlove it.” he retorts.

And she does.

She thinks back to all those times she watchedher mother brush Lyssa’s hair and wished she would have done the same with hers…This is one hundred times betterthough. Not only because it is a proof of caring from Haymitch’s part butbecause it’s a secret they share, something intimate.

She leans back against his chest and hediscards the hairbrush to wrap his arms around her and press a kiss against herglossy curls.

And, as far as she’s concerned, it’s perfect.