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She doesn’t even call first, which he could argue is incredibly rude, but the words are dry and dead on his tongue because she’s just standing there, staring at him from across the meadow with a flock of geese between them, and for some reason he can’t get over the fact that her hair is blonde.
“Effie.” Her name is heavy on his tongue, but from the way her face lights up, it’s all she wanted to hear.
“Haymitch.”
It’s not much, but it’s a start.
-
It was only going to be for a few days, at first, but now there’s makeup in his bathroom vanity and he keeps finding glitter on his clothes.
-
Effie’s the one who helps him redecorate, claiming that his living room is far too drab if she’s going to be spending time in it, and he can’t bring himself to point out that she doesn’t actually live there because it’s nice to wake up to find someone making eggs in the kitchen.
“I’m not going shopping for curtains.” He says instead, sprawled on a couch that might actually be older than Katniss. She clicks her tongue impatiently.
“Of course you are, dear. Now what do you think about blue?”
-
He sees her scars for the first time months after he begrudgingly admits that baby blue had been a good curtain choice after all. They’re healed over now, angry white lines crisscrossing her back, but that doesn’t stop the heavy stone of guilt from settling in his stomach, making it hard to stand, to move, to breathe.
She freezes when he steps across the bedroom, putting a hand rough with callouses on her bare shoulder.
“Don’t you know it’s terribly rude to walk in on a lady dressing?” She whispers, but doesn’t move when he dips to drop a dry, shaky kiss on her collarbone.
“I’m sorry.” He breathes hoarsely.
She doesn’t answer.
-
They have Katniss and Peeta over for dinner and Effie insists on using the new china. He feels lighter than he has in a long while, the baby blue curtains flung open to allow the natural light of the setting sun to bathe his dining room in gold.
He lets his eyes linger on Effie, pleased to see her smiling at Peeta, the two deep in conversation about something or other. He isn’t listening to the words, watching her lips move instead, and he’s content.
Katniss is watching him when he turns away, finally, and he raises his wine glass to her in a gentle tilt.
Effie catches the movement and proclaims a toast is in order. They raise their glasses and Effie toasts to family, to friends, to love, and Haymitch can’t explain why his guts are twisting themselves into knots but he clinks glasses with her anyway.
-
It’s late and they’re on the sofa, reading quietly by the light of the lamps. He hasn’t comprehended much in several minutes, alternating between re-reading the same sentence over and over and dozing off. Effie is warm next to him, having slid down in the ancient sofa at some point to lean against his side. There’s so much couch, but they’re pressed together from knee to shoulder and it should bother him, someone so clearly invading his space, but all it does is make his mouth go dry and his brain buzz.
“Bed.” He grunts, finally forcing himself up and shutting his book. “Good night.”
“Good night, dear.” Effie murmurs, not looking up from her book.
He leans over, she leans in, eyes still on the page, and he kisses the corner of her mouth in a wordless goodnight.
It’s easy, it’s natural, it’s like they’ve been doing it for years.
He makes it all the way to his bedroom before he manages to breathe again, heart pounding and palms sweating, sinking down onto the edge of his bed and slowly falling apart.
-
He blurts it out by accident, without thinking, mouth acting without his brain’s conscious permission.
“Marry me.”
Effie, for her part, barely bats an eye as she continues stacking plates in the cupboard. “Of course, dear.” She tilts her head and examines the plate. “You know, I think you may have been right about this china. It doesn’t match the curtains nearly as well as I thought it might.”
He grips the edge of his sink, fingers slippery with soapy water, and wonders when he lost control of his life.
-
He’s watching her pad around the living room in her little bare feet, pale against the carpet. She’s opening the curtains they picked out together, lighting up the room a one window at a time, and he can’t take his eyes off the way the light makes her hair shine.
“And I told Katniss that we’d be happy to bring a dish over, so maybe we could make a dessert, or perhaps—”
“I love you.”
She goes silent, abruptly, and looking back, he supposes he probably should have done it a bit more, well, romantically. But then, when had they ever been a traditional couple?
She takes a long time to respond and he worries, panic sudden and sour in his throat, that he’s said the wrong thing. He forces himself up, out of his armchair, and makes himself approach her just as she turns, bathed in the light from the window behind her, and he starts at the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Effie—” He begins, but she’s already flying at him, and her arms are around his neck and she’s getting snot on his favorite shirt, but he doesn’t care because he finally finally understands.
-
She’s standing in his kitchen wearing one of his shirts, some old, thin, worn out thing he’s forgotten he even owns, and she doesn’t turn when he comes in, humming along to some old song he doesn’t recognize.
He comes up behind her and slides his arms around her waist, kissing the patch of skin where her shoulder blends into her neck, and she hums softly, leaning back into him.
“Eggs?” She asks, and he wonders if this is what perfection feels like.
“Sure.”