Work Text:
This ain’t for the best
My reputation’s never been worse, so
You must like me for me
After the war was over, Effie didn’t know why Haymitch stayed.
Presumably for Katniss, or to participate in the formation of the new government, or for any number of other reasons. But he lingered at her bedside with a strange determination.
Nobody wanted to be by her bedside these days. Her parents didn’t bother to reach out. All of her friends were either dead or didn’t want to see her. The children were preoccupied with their own injuries, physical and not. The rebels didn’t like her and the Capitol didn’t like her. Neither of them wanted anything to do with the last living escort.
She wasn’t enough of a traitor for the rebels to use to their benefit, and she was too much of a traitor for Capitol taste. Effie knew all too well that public opinion was a fickle thing. Even the doctors, who were supposed to be helping her, healing the wounds of her imprisonment and torture. They put plaster on her bones, stitched up her cuts, and gave her pills but they never lingered. She wondered if they were rebel doctors or Capitol doctors who had been converted. It didn’t really matter. Nobody wanted anything to do with her.
Nobody except Haymitch.
He didn’t talk much. Although to be fair, neither did she. He just hovered.
Sat in the chair by the window of the converted room in the President’s Mansion. He read gray file folders or books. She wondered if he was stealing them from Snow’s library. She never asked.
They talked sometimes. Little stilted conversations that meant nothing. She wondered a lot who or what was forcing him to stay. Guilt? Pity? Did he feel obligated after leaving her behind to be imprisoned? Every possible scenario that she imagined only made her feel worse.
Katniss would be leaving soon, exiled to District 12. Effie had heard the nurses whispering about the mockingjay outside her door. She wanted to say goodbye to her girl, but then thought better of asking. Katniss probably wouldn’t want to see her.
Would Haymitch leave with her? Most likely.
So why was he still sitting at her bedside, his head bowed over a book, not saying anything?
One day she finally asked, but only from a particularly harrowing round of physical therapy. For some reason it annoyed her that he was standing in her room waiting when she returned.
“Why on earth are you here?” she snapped, shifting into the bed.
She could never seem to get comfortable. After months of laying on the ground of a cold, damp cell Effie doubted she would ever find comfort again.
Haymitch seemed confused by her question. He shrugged awkwardly and grumbled. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Off building the new free world? Palling around with your rebel friends?”
“They ain’t my friends.”
“Really?” she scoffed. “You all seemed very chummy to me.”
He looked her up and down, but she only returned his gaze with a glare. It was rude, she knew that. Could practically hear her governess’ strict reminders of manners echoing in her ear. But war had a way of defusing any grace she had left.
“Don’t be difficult, sweetheart.” He lowered himself into the creaky chair with a sigh.
“I’m not being difficult.”
“You’re always difficult.”
“Well if I’m so positively unbearable to be around then why don’t you just leave?” she asked pointedly. “I’m sure there are much more important things that need your attention.”
He grumbled unintelligibly again and tiredly ran his hand through his hair. It was something she used to scold him for. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Who even was that woman who had scolded him over manners and drinking? Had that been her? It didn’t feel like it.
“Don’t wanna… you know… leave.” he said, his voice rough but quiet.
That was not the answer Effie had been expecting. She blinked. “Why…?”
He just shrugged.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Fucking hell, Effie…” he gestured helplessly.
“Language.” she snapped. They were properly arguing now. It was one of the only things they were good at. Arguing and sex. They didn’t have much practice when it came to discussing feelings.
“What do you want from me?”
“An answer, Haymitch. I want an answer.”
He sighed tiredly and she scoffed, pushing back against the pillows of her bed. She hated how much she wanted to cry. Everything was so hard. Why couldn’t he just leave her? Abandoned her like everyone else had. Leave her behind, just like he had a year ago when Katniss had fired that arrow at the sky.
Haymitch looked equally as tired. His hair was greasy and there were dark circles under his eyes. Although Effie doubted she looked much better. She had been avoiding mirrors. Couldn’t bear to look at how pale and thin and exposed she was now.
His exhaustion softened her, if only a little. She didn’t have much softness left, but the little that she did was reserved for him. Always for him.
“Why are you here, Haymitch?”
He shrugged again. “Didn’t want you to be alone.”
It was no declaration of love. That wouldn’t suit them at all, whatever they were. But it was enough to make Effie feel lighter than she had in weeks.
“Thank you.” she said softly.
He only nodded.
“Besides,” he cleared his throat, brushing off the small gentleness of the moment. “Everyone else in this mansion is a fuckin’ nightmare. Bunch of stuck-up, political, bitches.”
“Language.” she scolded again, although with much less bite. “And if memory serves, you have called me a stuck-up bitch on many occasions.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked, smiling that stupid grin of his. “You probably deserved it.”
“Mhm, let’s go back to you saying what good company I am.”
“Now I didn’t say that,”
“You said everyone else’s company is a nightmare, which logically, makes my company superior.” she pointed out. “You cannot back on your word now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yes.” she said, with the smallest hint of a smile on her face. “You said you enjoyed my company. And don’t you forget it, Haymitch Abernathy.”
He rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He then pulled the book he had left when he had departed last night. It looked dusty and dreadfully boring, but seeing as he was relying on her for good company, Effie decided to ask him about it. She conceals her happiness at their return to familiar banter. The warmth that flooded through her at the idea that he simply enjoyed being with her.
In a world where everyone wanted nothing to do with her, his warm and easy presence felt like a precious thing.
“Have you been stealing those from the library?”
“What’s Snow gonna do?” he snorted. “Lock me up from the dead?”
“I believe they belong to the estate, Haymitch.”
“The estate can suck my dick.”
“Must you really be so vulgar?”
“Yeah. It’s funny watching you get all twisted up about it.” he smirked at her over the novel. They lapsed into comfortable silence, which she broke a few moments later with another question.
“Read to me?”
He looked up. “Yeah. Sure.”
The pair of them ended up laying in her hospital bed together. He was surprisingly gentle, making sure she was positioned correctly, not putting any weight on her bad side. Cracked ribs seemed to be an eternal nuisance. But eventually she curled up comfortably against him, slotted into the crook of his neck like he had been made for her.
He read from his boring book in a low, gravelly voice. She didn’t really listen to the contents of his words. Just the way his voice sounded and how his heart was beating under her palm.
They had never really cuddled before. Maybe drunkenly. Maybe when they thought the other was too asleep to notice. Cuddling had decidedly not been a part of their ‘co-workers who argued during the day and had mind-blowing sex at night’ arrangement.
Which was why Effie was surprised at how nice it was. How easy it felt.
It felt strange, that they had ended up here. There was no rhyme or reason to them. No throughline that could be followed, no sensible cause and effect. And yet here they were, delicately balanced on the precipice of a new world, together.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about, princess?”
It had always been a balancing act. A tightrope walk on a straight razor.
“Nothing.” she whispered, patting his chest. “Keep reading.”
Dive bar on the East Side, where you at?
Phone lights up my nightstand in the black
Come here; you can meet me in the back
It would be a lie to say she didn’t remember how it had all started. It had been late one night, a few years into her career as an escort, when she was awoken by the shrill sound of her bedside phone.
“What?” she snapped down the polished pink receiver.
No polite person in their right mind would dare call at such an hour of night. Of course, there was neither a polite person nor a person of right mind on the other end.
“Holy fuck, she answered!” the voice on the other end slurred. “Sweetheart, sweetheart…”
Effie sighed and collapsed against her pillows. “Chaff, I am not your escort. You do not get to call me whenever you need someone to bail you out.”
“No, no, it’s nothin’,” She could hear the drunkenness in his tone. There was loud music and shouting in the distance. “You gotta come get Haymitch.”
“Get him?” she asked skeptically.
“Yeah, yeah,” there was some stumbling and incoherent shouting. Effie pulled the receiver away from her ear, annoyed.
“Do you have an actual request or are you just trying to irritate me?”
“Alright, yeah, listen,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Your victor is fuckin’ wasted and I’m not done for the night. We’re in Elysium. Come get ‘em.”
She sighed again and looked to her bedside clock. Three in the morning blinked back at her. She was going to kill him. Maybe both of them.
“I am not available twenty-four hours a day, you know that right?”
“Is that a yes I’m hearing?” Chaff asked cheekily.
She pushed her comforter to the side and swung her legs over. “I’m billing these hours to Eleven’s game office.”
“Fuck me, are you in bed sweetheart?”
She ignored his leering tone. “Forty minutes, Chaff.”
“What are you wearing?”
He never received an answer.
Effie slammed the phone down in its cradle and hoped it was loud enough to bang in Chaff’s ear. She had no choice but to pull on a dress, throw on a lazy face of makeup and a wig, and call the car company. The private car pulled into Elysium, the neighborhood of Victor dive bars, thirty-nine minutes later.
A small amount of paparazzi cameras flashed as she pulled a stumbling Haymitch out of the bar. She hid behind a hand and her sunglasses, making a mental note to call her media contacts in the morning to make sure no truly awful pictures of either of them were released. He was very drunk, but he was at least conscious. There was no way she would have been able to carry him to the car on her own.
He mumbled under his breath about ‘bitchy party pooper’ as she shut the car door and snapped the game center address at the driver.
“Don’t call me that, please.”
“What?” he smirked. “A party pooper?”
“You know perfectly well which word I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”
She glared at him, but he only looked more pleased with himself. “I have just done you the very nice favour of dragging you off a sticky bar floor, paying your tab, putting you in a car, and I will be getting up early to send out NDAs and payouts in the morning. Thus far, all that you have done to repay me is act like a petulant child.”
“What?” he snorted. “You came running all the way to Elysium because your escort mommy senses were tingling?”
“Certainly not.” she scoffed. “Chaff called me.”
“Yeah, but you came running at my beck and call…” he grinned.
“You have a very deluded interpretation of tonight’s events.”
“Do you have a crush on me, princess? Do you wanna fuck your victor?” He was still slurring slightly, but his steely gray eyes were focused as he leaned closer to her. “Bad shit, I thought you liked to follow rules…”
Effie took the bait. She leaned in so they were hovering in front of each other, like opposing magnets that could get close but never touch. Her shiny acrylic nails dug into his thigh sharply.
“I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man in the city with a functional dick.”
She couldn’t tell if it was her soft, pseudo-innocent voice, her hand squeezing his thigh, or her rare use of profanity which caused his pupils to blow out.
Maybe he was just drunk.
They argued the rest of the way to the Game Center. But by the time the elevator reached the twelfth floor they were breathing down each other’s throats.
It wasn’t nice kissing. Nice kissing was for nice people, which neither of them were.
They kissed, but it was hard and biting. They pushed and pulled at each other, pulling hair, bruising skin. Her oval nails left little crescents in his skin. She threw her dress across the room and tugged at his belt. He pushed her down onto the bed and pulled at her panties and corset. She hated him so much. He was cruel, and disgusting, and a district lowlife whom she should never let touch her. But maybe he was still just as handsome as the year he had won his games. And maybe she liked the way he fucked her like he had something to prove.
They snarled and bit at each other. She moaned and bounced like a prostitute, which only made him go harder and faster. His fingers left bruises on her thighs and he made sure her muscles would be stiff in the morning.
The sun peeked over the skyline on a room filled with still air and heavy breathing. Neither of them dared to move. What had they done?
A stupid mistake. A minor slip. An isolated incident.
Yes, Effie decided. That was it. She rose from the bed and pulled on a silk robe, leaving him in the bed tainted with their sins without another word. The pins of her wig were digging into her skull. Her makeup long expired on her face. She had contacts to call and NDAs to send.
A singular, isolated mistake which she would never make again.
Third floor on the West Side, me and you
Handsome, you’re a mansion with a view
Do the girls back home touch you like I do?
But one taste was never enough.
They quickly became addicts, clinging to each other, to their secret vice.
Effie had once heard her mother say that people with previous addictions were more likely to become addicted to other substances. They should have known that his alcohol and her cigarettes would never be enough to satisfy their need to numb.
It turned out sex and insults worked just as well.
It was like a game; they would argue during the day, have mind-blowing sex under the cover of darkness, and pretend neither of them felt anything deeper come dawn. Everything in the Capitol was always a game, and Effie had thought Haymitch was no different.
And that was where the mess should have stayed.
A secret vice. Sex, and nothing more.
Feelings were messy. Anything more than just meaningless hooking up would have been reckless, dangerous. Effie had spent her whole life avoiding mess. It was the only way to be successful in the city. It was the only way to win the game.
But she soon discovered that some feelings couldn’t be stopped. Some mess couldn’t be avoided, no matter how hard she tried. It was stupid really. Stupid and reckless.
She could feel herself constantly moving the goalpost for what quantified as ‘going too far’.
They got lazy. More comfortable. More free with one another. There was no rhyme or reason to why or how it happened. It just did.
Effie lounged on one of the sofas in the District Twelve penthouse. The children were dead, it was how games season always ended for them. A thick pad of paperwork was resting in her lap, as she went through the repetitive motions of filling everything out. Effie didn’t even care to think about how many children’s death certificates carried her neat, loopy signature.
Haymitch was slouched in an armchair, nursing a glass of something dark, staring blankly out the window at the glowing cityscape.
They were sitting in comfortable silence. The television was playing some meaningless evening show on a low volume. Her heels sat discarded on the carpet.
It was an oddly domestic scene, if one looked at it from a twisted point of view.
“You want one?”
Haymitch must have finished his drink because he was standing at the bar cart.
“Just a small one, please.”
He returned with two glasses, one much larger than the other. He set her modest glass on the coffee table near her head, before collapsing on the other end of the sofa near her feet.
“Thank you.” she said, not looking up from her paperwork.
He only grunted in response.
She had finished the paperwork for the girl. A little thirteen year old named Dasha. She had liked it when the stylist put blue ribbons in her hair and had been particularly fond of eating chocolate croissants for breakfast. Not that any of that was relevant to the paperwork. In all honesty, Effie tried not to think about it. The less she learned about the children the easier it was to watch them die.
But at some point halfway through the boy’s paperwork, Haymitch’s attention shifted. He pulled her stocking-covered feet into his lap and began absentmindedly tracing patterns along her calves. She allowed him to do that without a word. But then she felt him staring at her.
“What?” she asked, slightly irritated and without looking up.
“What?” he mocked. It was a terrible impression of her accent. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
She picked up her drink and carefully sipped it. “I have no idea what you mean, darling.” she said, innocently blinking her electric blue eyelashes.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Language.” she scolded, shaking his hands off her calf and drawing her feet back. “And I’m trying to work.”
“Games are gonna keep going for at least a week, lots of time to do paperwork.”
She checked off a few boxes. “I like to get it done early.”
Haymitch set his glass aside and shifted on the sofa. She glanced at him over top of her pile of pages. He was looking at her like a wild animal wanting to pounce. “What if I gave you something else to do?”
He ran one of his large hands up the back of her calf, pulling her a few inches down the sofa, closer to him. “Haymitch…” she warned.
“Come on, sweetheart,”
“I’m working.” she argued as he crawled closer, his hand found her waist.
“I’m not hearing a ‘no’…”
The stack of paperwork fell off her lap and onto the floor, scattering around her discarded heels. They were so close now. He was hovering over her, a firm hand on her waist and his knee applying light pressure between her thighs. She hated how much she wanted him.
She wanted to fall into his eyes, wants him to hold her, to break her bones with his strong hands. He was so raw, so real in a way that Capitol men never were.
“Take your wig off and suck my dick.”
He was a heathen. Disgusting.
A proper gentleman would never say such a thing. A proper lady would never oblige to such a crude request. So why did the bluntness of it, the roughness of his voice, send a fire burning in the pit of her stomach?
“I’m not taking it off,” she argued in a prissy tone.
“Come on sweetheart, nothing I ain’t seen before.”
“It’s hardly my fault you’re a vile man with no sense of privacy who refuses to knock before entering a room.”
“Oh, I’m the gross one?”
Their mouths hovered inches apart. She moved close, almost kissing him, before pulling away. Make him chase her. It was all a game. A delicate balance. Always, always a game.
“Positively vile.” she whispered.
Haymitch kissed her hard and messily, nipping at her lips until he drew blood. They tugged at each other’s clothes, not caring if anything ripped. She rocked her hips a little against his leg, making sure to give the little breathy moans that she knew drove him wild.
Effie knew she was perfect.
Perfect makeup, perfect nails, perfect undergarments, perfect moans, throw her head back just so to allow him access to her neck. A performance, a game, a careful calculation; it was all the same. Just because something wasn’t real, didn’t mean it wasn’t fun. They were taught that from a young age in the city. How to be perfection. How to be unreal.
Which was why Effie startled when he reached for the pins at the nape of her neck.
That wasn’t a part of their script. It wasn’t a part of their game. But he was looking at her with familiar eyes and his hair was falling in his face in a particularly handsome way.
“Can I…?” His voice had never sounded so soft.
She nodded.
His fingers easily found all five of her wig pins. He was gentle and slow in a way that made her heart skip. The hairpiece and the cap slid off easily together, and he discarded them on the floor. Blonde curls fell around her shoulders. They were a little flat from sitting under the wig, but he would surely laugh if she asked for a five-minute pause to go and tease them up.
She waited for him to laugh or change his mind, but it never came.
Instead he reached for one of the ringlets which rested on her temple and twisted it around his finger before letting go.
“Didn’t think it would be curly,” He cleared his throat and gently tried to replace the ringlet from where he had pulled it. It was an oddly childish action. Pure and sweet. “It’s nice.”
Haymitch rarely complimented her with such sincerity. She wondered if it was just pity motivating his kind words. It didn’t matter.
They went back to biting at each other's lips. He fucked her like he wanted to break her bones and they both pretended the small moment had never happened. It was easier that way. Easier to sling insults, and bitter bruises, and moan like a porn girl.
Effie clung to that stupid ‘it’s nice’ for weeks.
After that first time they started having a lot more wig-free sex. Then her corset went. Then her makeup, her false eyelashes.
She remembered going to the bathroom once after they had had sex and catching sight of her completely bare face in the mirror. No boyfriend or short-lived fiancé had ever seen her in such a state of undress. Her own family hadn’t seen her natural hair since she was five. Why did Haymitch seem to enjoy it so much?
She tried not to think too deeply about it.
When he touched her bare skin with fascination and twisted her curls around his fingers Effie would wonder which District girl he was imagining in her place.
She had tried to be better. Prove to him that Capitol girls were superior. That she could bounce on his dick, moan at just the right times, do tricks with her tongue, let him come on her tits, all without smearing her lipstick.
But in the end he always wanted curly hair, bare face Effie.
It was pathetic, but she found herself happy to be his surrogate for whatever District woman he was fantasizing about. It was a thought she would never admit to aloud. But she wanted him. And if she had to play along with his hometown girl fantasy to keep him in her bed, then that’s what she would do.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked one night.
They were laying amongst the cool silk sheets of the penthouse, her on her back, him on his stomach. He was absentmindedly playing with her hair. This was their little moment of solace before they remembered they didn’t truly like each other.
“They’re worth much more than that, thank you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh-huh.” she hummed.
“Million dollar thoughts but you put out for free, huh?” he asked with a smirk.
“Oh, this…” she gestured to the bed. “This is not without price.”
“Really?” he snorted. “What’s it been costing me behind my back, princess?”
“Well, I don’t know what it’s been costing you but it’s cost me my sanity.”
“So you’ve got million dollar thoughts and no sanity?”
“Mhm. That’s what makes me such a successful philosopher.” she joked dryly.
He rolled his eyes.
“Sure. Successful philosopher and a shitty fuckin’ hooker.”
She smacked his arm playfully and scolded him for his language, pretending not to notice the small grin he had on his face as she did so.
That was the year that Effie dared to dream that maybe it wasn’t all a game.
Long nights with your hands up in my hair
Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs
Stay here, honey, I don’t want to share
“Where the fuck are we?”
“Can you not be so loud?” she hissed, dragging Haymitch by his arm. He stumbled, either because he was startled or drunk. “Other people live here.”
“Are you gonna tell me where here is?”
She held the tiny dangling key fob which was hooked on her purse to the door and pushed it open as she heard the lock click. The automatic light flicked on through her penthouse. She dropped her things on the entryway table.
“It’s my apartment, alright?” she whispered, but Haymitch wasn’t really listening.
He stared at his surroundings with drunken amazement, like he’d never seen a penthouse in his whole life. Effie shuffled, uncharacteristically self-conscious.
“Listen, everyone will be trying to order a car at two in the morning.” she argued despite the fact that he hadn’t said anything. “The Game Center is too far to walk and these shoes are killing me.”
“No, it’s, uh, this is fine.” he mumbled, waving her off awkwardly. “Fancy place.”
“Yes, well…” she shrugged, not really knowing what else to say.
They ended on the second floor in her bedroom, but not in their usual sexy way. She had removed her heels and retreated to put them in their proper place in her walk-in closet. When she popped back into the bedroom he seemed to be carefully examining the contents of her bedroom.
Years ago she would have scolded him and told him not to touch anything. Years ago she wouldn’t have even let him inside her private space like this.
She wished she knew why things were different.
“Self-centered much?” he smirked, holding up one of her trinkets. It was a tall pink candle with her face printed on the front.
“A fan gifted it to me.”
“A candle with your own face on it?”
“I believe it’s supposed to be ironic or something.” she smiled, rolling her eyes a little.
Effie loved being famous. It was gauche to say it, but it was true. She loved the fans, she loved taking pictures, she loved signing autographs. The gifts, the money, the attention. She loved to be loved.
“Cute.” His voice dripped in sarcasm.
She poked him in the side for his remarks and snatched the candle from his hand, replacing it in its designated spot on her dresser.
“Perhaps I’ll redecorate,” she said over her shoulder as she turned. She walked back to the closet, intent on changing. “Replace all my expensive art with modeling shots of myself.”
“Yeah, that sounds like you, sweetheart.” she heard him say.
She shimmied out of her dress and began to unlace her corset. Took off her wig and stockings when she was done with that.
“You should do nudes over the fireplace.”
Effie scoffed and rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see her. “In your dreams.” She slipped a green silky nightgown over her head and grabbed her robe before returning to the bedroom. “Only tramps and desperate no-names pose in the nude.”
He was laying spread out on her bed, his shoes and shirt discarded in a haphazard pile on the floor.
“And you ain’t either of those things?” he asked.
“Certainly not.”
He looked her up and down. Sometimes, even for just a second, she thought that she could see more than just lust in his gaze. He would look at her like he truly saw her, and then in a flash it would be gone. Back to being buried beneath all his sour jokes and hurt.
“Mhm. Shame.”
By the time she came back from washing off her makeup and doing her skin routine, he was in the midst of a very drunk sleep. Comfortably nestled in her mountain of pink blankets and pillows. If they weren’t going to have sex he could have just stayed in the guest room.
Effie braided her hair and tried not to read too much into it.
That was how people got hurt. And she was too proud to be hurt, especially by him.
She tried to keep her distance from him, which was easy in such a big bed. She didn’t think he had brought his knife into her apartment, but they had been hooking up long enough for her to know that his nightmares were not to be taken lightly.
But they had crossed a line that night. There was no sense in trying to deny it.
He had slipped into her life, her real life, while her guard had been down. An accident? On purpose? Nothing was for certain. But he was real. The way his hands found her hair, even in his sleep. She heard his bare footstep padding around her bedroom when he got up to relieve himself in the middle of the night. She ordered them coffees and brown sugar muffins for breakfast in the morning.
That was the morning, when they were sharing muffins and laughing over meaningless jokes, that Effie wished for a thousand things.
She wished she’d never let him into her apartment, into her bed. She wished they hadn’t grown so comfortable, so easy over the passing years. She wished they had never discovered how good they were at having sex. They should have never kissed. She should have never answered Chaff’s phone call. She should have never become an escort.
She wished he was exactly what all the tabloids said he was. A mean, old, washed up, drunkard. Sure, he was all of those things. But she wished she had never discovered that he was also surprisingly kind when he wanted to be. He was smart and fiercely loyal, she didn’t care if he pretended to never feel anything. She wished she had never seen him feel. He liked reading books, but was embarrassed about it because he’d never finished school. He hated coffee, preferred tea. Hated how the city smelled. Liked brown sugar muffins, hated puffy pastries. She wished she’d never learned any of his little ways.
She wished that they didn’t share laughs, share memories, share their lives.
Because all of it culminated in the pain of knowing that they could never have more than this. Secret stolen moments. Apartment muffins. Elevator kisses. Late night escapades.
It didn’t matter if she wanted it. She could never have more of him.
They should have stopped then and there. When their tired eyes met over coffee after a night of pure sleeping with no sex and they realized that the game had changed.
The goalpost had moved again.
They were getting too old for secret sex escapades. She could feel them growing too comfortable, getting lazier. Someone would catch them and then they would both be finished. But for the first time in her life she was stupid, and foolish, and maybe the tiniest bit in love. So she allowed it to keep happening.
One last trick in their long years of the balancing act.
She prayed they wouldn’t live to regret it.
Sometimes I wonder; when you sleep
Are you ever dreaming of me?
Sometimes when I look into your eyes
I pretend you’re mine, all the damn time.
The 74th Reaping had already gone drastic levels of poorly, Effie couldn’t imagine what the rest of games season had in store for them.
Naively, stupidly, she had been looking forward to seeing Haymitch.
It was becoming more and more apparent to her that he was the only man she ever wanted to spend her time with, but that proved to be a problem if she thought about it for too long.
But, as if to annoy her specifically, he had been incredibly drunk. More drunk than usual. Sometimes Haymitch played it up, because the Capitol was more inclined to leave him alone if he thought he was just an old, disgusting, drunkard.
However, Effie knew him too well for comfort. And she knew the difference between the two types of ‘Haymitch drunk’.
Today was genuinely awful.
At least the tributes didn’t seem too disagreeable. The boy was nice and polite. The volunteer girl had an attitude, but there were worse things to have. At least they didn’t seem clingy. Sometimes the younger tribute had a tendency to clutch to her skirts, afraid and unsure. In her early years she had let them, but she had quickly stopped. It only made it harder when their canons went off in the first five minutes.
But the tributes that year didn’t seem too bothered with her, and they hadn’t complained when she had selfishly left them behind in the living car of the train with Haymitch keeling over in his own sick.
She was far too tired to care.
Effie retired to her usual bedroom on the train. She unpinned her wig and set it on its stand, removed her heels, stockings, and jewelry. She had carefully folded away her clothes from the day and put on her silk robe that she retreated to the en-suit bathroom and began removing her makeup. It was only in the middle of her rigorous skin-care routine that she heard noises of movement from her bedroom.
The image of Haymitch in his underwear, haphazardly splayed out across her bed, should have been unsurprising.
Someone must have taken him to his room and cleaned him up. If she had to guess, Effie would say it was the boy. But that hadn’t stopped Haymitch from wandering into her room and collapsing on her bed. He could be so irritating sometimes.
“You vomited on the carpet.” she snipped.
“Sorry,” he slurs, his voice muffled as he was face down in a pillow.
He sounded tired, so Effie made a concerted effort to soften her tone. She sighed and crossed the room, abandoning her moisturizer. She removed her robe and began unlacing her corset.
“It’s quite alright.”
She discarded the steel-boned undergarment and removed her final layer of the silk, lacy shift and replaced it with a pink and blue patterned nightgown.
By the time that she was fully prepared for bed, Haymitch still hadn’t moved.
“Are you sleeping here or are you just stinking up my bed to annoy me?”
“Sleepin’.” he grumbled.
“Mhm.”
They were becoming increasingly lazy with their affair. Did it still qualify as a torrid sexual arrangement if they spent more than a few nights simply sleeping in the same bed? It had been something that was quite forbidden in the early days of their… situation. But somehow it had inserted itself into their routine.
Somehow.
Effie pushed the thought from her mind and climbed into bed.
Haymitch shuffled over to make room for her without being asked and with minimal groaning. She tapped the button which turned off all the light before curling up on her side. She watched the outline of his figure in the dark, the white noise of the train being the only discernible sound. She had thought he was sleeping.
“Whatsa matter?”
Apparently not.
“Nothing.” she whispered.
“You’re actin’ funny.”
“I am not acting any way.”
“Uh-huh.” He rolled over to face her. They both took solace in the darkness, as it allowed them to not actually look at each other. “Thought you’d be all fuckin’ exciting over the bratty volunteer. Might get promoted.”
She scoffed weakly. “I’m not getting promoted.”
Effie had given up on that hope a long time ago. She had proven many years ago that she was the only escort who could get Haymitch to show up to his interviews, on time and properly dressed. It was no small feat, and she preferred to pretend she didn’t know the reason she was the only one he listened to.
But it had been a detrimental mistake which had ensured her career never moved beyond District 12.
“I’m turning thirty-five this year.” she said softly. “I doubt they will renew my contract for the Quarter Quell.”
“They might.” he argued.
“They won’t.” An uncomfortable beat of silence overtook them. “Don’t fret.” she smiled, forcing cheeriness into her voice. “I’m sure they’ll assign you some newer, prettier young thing who you can argue with and vomit on.”
Truthfully, she absolutely loathed the idea of him having a newer, prettier escort. The idea of him sleeping with this imaginary unnamed escort set her nerves on edge. Would he wander into her room too? Sleep in her bed?
Haymitch, perhaps seeing through her act, ignored the forced attempt at levity.
“You’re pretty.”
He said it without irony, and Effie swore she felt her heart skip a beat.
“I’m old.”
“You are fuckin’ not.” he scoffed.
“Language.”
“You’re in your thirties, Princess.” he grumbled. “That ain’t old, not by a long stretch.”
“Agree to disagree.” she said softly.
They settled into a second, much more comfortable, moment of silence.
“In Twelve being old is good.” he said eventually, his voice a low rumble. “Means you survived. Had enough food and care to last ya the while.” He paused, cleared his throat. “And you’re still pretty.”
It was so desperately earnest, Effie wished she was dead.
“Thank you.” she whispered.
She wanted to kiss him, but refrained.
Kissing before simply sleeping in the same bed was for elderly married couples. District sweethearts who shared rings, lives, and teacups. That wasn’t them. That could never be them. They hated one another. They had a dangerous, forbidden, sex affair. They had become comfortable with each other out of necessity because they had no other option. No vulnerability. No feelings. No mess.
Haymitch grunted and rolled over. Within minutes he was sleeping.
She could tell by the change in his breathing pattern.
Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you’re in my head?
‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Yeah, I want you
“Games are still on.”
If the Quarter Quell wasn’t already posed to be a nightmare, it certainly was now. And not just a headache inducing, extra paperwork to fill out, all the escorts are feeling nervous about their contracts being renewed, type of nightmare.
This was something bigger. She didn’t know what, but she could tell.
Haymitch had been acting differently. Cinna and Portia are more secretive than usual. Peacekeepers are more numerous in the streets. Dark cars with tinted windows followed her wherever she went. Sometimes she heard mysterious clicks on her phone line. It was a good thing she didn’t know anything. She refused to know anything, actually. It was the only way to stay safe.
And even if she did, she wasn’t stupid enough to say it down a phone line. She only acted that way.
But whatever Haymitch did know, it was eating him alive. He was standing at the edge of the tribute center rooftop, looking down at the busy streets. Perhaps he was wishing there wasn’t a forcefield so that he could jump and avoid whatever punishment the Victors would inevitably receive for their act at the interviews tonight.
He hadn’t even moved when she spoke.
But perhaps that was because he knew that there was nothing in the world that could invoke a cancellation of the games.
Effie leaned against the railing next to him and exhaled, feeling the cool evening air on her face.
“Do I dare ask where Cinna is?”
“Takin’ care of some stuff.”
It was just vague enough to maintain deniability. Cinna could either be inciting a riot or sewing a final hem on a dress. Not that anything they said on the rooftops truly mattered. The wind and city noise made it impossible to bug.
“Where are the kids?” he grunts.
“Waiting downstairs. Their car arrived after mine.”
“We should go down and tell them.”
And yet neither of them moved.
Usually Effie found silence unbearable. Which was why it was so surprising when Haymitch was the one to break it.
“Listen, if something happens—”
“I don’t want to know what’s happening.” she interrupted sharply.
Knowing too much is dangerous in the city. Get your tongue cut out. Suddenly your family disappears and an inconspicuous suicide note is left in your apartment. Nothing good ever happened to people with information. It was always safer to be dumb.
“I’m not tryna tell you what’s happening.”
“Well it sounded an awful lot like it.”
“Effie, just once can you shut your fuckin’ trap and listen?” he snapped.
Under normal circumstances she would have scolded him for his manners. That, or give him head on the roof of the tribute center.
But truthfully she couldn’t remember the last time things had felt normal. For nearly a year now, there had been something in the air that she couldn’t quite lay a finger on. The seriousness of his tone and the rare usage of her first name caused Effie to fall silent.
“Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, okay? I’m not gonna tell you anything.” Perhaps she should have been insulted by the fact that he didn’t entrust her with any information. But she had been telling the truth when she said she didn’t want it. They both knew it was safer if she knew nothing. “I need your fuckin’ head in it, okay? You can’t slip up now, that’s really important. Don’t say stupid shit, don’t go anywhere alone, don’t do anything that can be used against you. Got it?”
The severity of his warnings caused a cold chill to run down her spine, but she didn’t let it show on her face. She didn’t even blink.
Effie only nodded.
“Just swap out the gold wig, play nice with sponsors, and everything will be fine.”
“I’m not wearing a different wig.”
“Effie, I’m being fuckin’ serious—”
“No, no,” she choked. “This is the one thing I have, and I cannot… I won’t…” Whatever sob she had been stifling bubbled to the surface. “The children need to know I’m on their side, they need to know Haymitch.”
He pulled her into his arms, rubbing her back with minimal awkwardness. He smelled like the plain soap option in the showers. Was it wrong that she missed the slight smell of whiskey? She squeezed back and hated herself for never wanting to let go.
“They know.” he promised her quietly. “They know, but you can’t publicly take a risk like that, not now. The kids, they… they need you safe.”
For a fleeting moment she wished he had it in him to admit that he wanted her safe. That he wanted her by her side beyond as an extension of the team. Her heart was a greedy monster who only wanted more of him with each passing day. In the blink of an eye, or in a near decade of having sex, he had somehow infested every corner of Effie’s heart.
She tried not to resent him for it.
Tried not to resent that he would never feel the same.
She didn’t know what it was. The stress of the past weeks, the chaos of the night, his ominous warning, or the feeling of coming danger which crackled in the air. In that moment, Effie almost did the stupidest thing she possibly could.
Almost.
“Haymitch, I lo—”
“Don’t.” He removed her from his embrace like she had burned him, effectively silencing her. “What did I just say about stupid shit?”
He left her standing on the roof without so much as another word.
Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it too soon to do this yet?
‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Isn’t it delicate?
It had been nearly a year after the end of the war when Effie had accompanied Peeta back to District 12. She hadn’t intended to come. And she certainly hadn’t intended to stay. In fact, a very large part of her wanted to stay in the Capitol, just to prove that she could. That the unsinkable Effie Trinket wouldn’t be taken down by some silly war, a bit of imprisonment and torture, all the trials.
But in her heart of hearts she knew that she could never stay in the city. It wasn’t the home she had lived in all her life, not anymore.
The new government had seized all of her ‘games assets’, leaving her with a considerably more modest fortune. One that she didn’t know how to live off of in the city. Escorting was abolished as a career, and she was far too old to go back to modeling. And even if she wasn’t, Effie was positive nobody would hire her. District people hated her because she was a Capitol citizen and Capitol citizens despised her for her involvement with rebels, which took Effie a while to understand.
She never really thought of herself as being involved with rebels.
In her mind, she had only ever been involved with Haymitch. She had only ever wanted to take care of Katniss and Peeta.
Her treasonous reputation had started to take its toll the many months in which she had stayed in the Capitol as Peeta’s companion. When the doctors finally issued him a clean bill of health to return to District 12, it took very little convincing for Effie to tag along.
And even less to get her to stay.
“Walk into town with me?”
She looked up at Haymitch, who was standing in the archway of the living room. He had been allowing her to live in his house in Victor Village without a question of rent or compensation. Sometimes he even called it ‘their’ house, which was a liberty Effie still felt far too scared to take.
But she wanted to take it.
Her clothes sat in his dresser, a new collective of floral patterned skirts and white cotton blouses which she had sewn by hand. Even in the districts she couldn’t resist the indulgences of a pretty fabric or a lace adornment. Her few items of now very minimal makeup on his bathroom shelf. Every day she made them tea in his kettle. She had scrubbed his floorboard clean and repainted all the rooms nicer colours.
In every sense of the word, she had made herself at home in his life.
“Sure,” she smiled, closing her magazine and unfolding her feet out from under her.
She pulled on her most worn pair of wool stockings and boots. She steals one of his jackets because she has yet to buy a proper district jacket. But a part of her is becoming attached to his old work coat. Before she wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a hideous garment. But war had a way of putting things into perspective. She still painted her nails with whatever varnish she could find and tied off her braids with pretty ribbons.
But maybe pretty nails and hair bows could find a way to coexist with old work coats.
What a disgustingly metaphorical thought. On their way out Haymitch tossed some old corn from the feed bucket into the geese pen. Effie didn’t like the geese. They were loud, dirty animals, and she was scared of their teeth. But Haymitch liked them. He drank less and collected eggs every morning. And so Effie waited a small distance away from the fence and smiled when Haymitch told them to share the corn.
“Are we headed to any particular destination?” she asked as they started their walk.
Cars in District 12 are few and far between, even more so after the bombing. Some of the old farmers who had come back for the rebuilding had trucks which occasionally passed up and down the dirt roads. Mostly they just walked.
“We’re runnin’ low on those tea bags you like, wanted to see if the last train brought any more in.” he said. “Can stop by the bakery and see the boy too.”
Tea bags and visiting Peeta, whom they saw every day for dinner, seemed like a pretty feeble excuse to go into town in Effie’s opinion, but maybe he just needed the air. When she had first come, and her nightmares had been particularly bad, he used to make up excuses to go into town just to get her out of the house and on a walk.
“Alright.” she smiled. “Oh! Can we go to the Hob? I swear I’m not buying more fabric—”
“You can buy all the fabric you want, princess, I don’t fuckin’ care.”
“Language.” she said, with no real malice. At this point it was more of a pavlovian response than anything. “But no, I don’t actually need more, but I want to see who’s working the fruit stand.”
Haymitch looked at her skeptically. “Why do you care who’s working the fruit stand?”
“Because,” she replied, elongating the last syllable. “If it’s Kolton Brightstone, I have a sneaking suspicion he’s involved with the fruit people’s daughter.”
“Involved…” he scoffed.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” she challenged.
“You’re insane, that’s what you are.”
“A young man does not work a fruit stand which does not belong to him without any ulterior motive, Haymitch.”
“Why does it even matter who’s involved with who?” he asked, in an incredulous tone. “There’s not even a thousand people living in the district, of course people are gonna get involved.”
“Would it kill you to at least pretend to be interested in local gossip?”
“Yes.” he deadpanned.
Effie rolled her eyes and lightly hit his arm as punishment for his sarcasm. But then she rested her hand in the cook of his elbow and he let it stay there for the rest of the walk.
The rebuilding effort of District Twelve was a slow and continuously ongoing process. Slowly but surely people began to trickle back; old residents who had survived in Thirteen or even new families looking for a fresh start after the war. The new government sent as many building supplies as they could, and Effie thought it was rather nice the way people banded together to rebuild their community. Neighbours helping neighbours, specialized skills in exchange for warm meals, never taking payment unless it was persistently offered.
Nothing like this would have ever happened in the Capitol.
“Did old man Pickan ask you to drive the truck next week?” Haymitch asked as they passed a group of people laying down the brickwork for a new house.
“No, not at all. Why?”
“He cornered me a few days ago, asked if you would.” he shrugged. “I told ‘em he should ask you.”
Some of the district people were still weary around her. Understandably so. But there was also the fact that many of them didn’t know how to drive, and when the train arrived with supplies they needed as many drivers as they could scrounge up to get it all distributed. So if her Capitol drivers license was the key to getting people to like her, so be it.
“I’d be happy to drive, he just has to ask. I’ll drop by on him tomorrow and say that you mentioned it.” she said airily. Haymitch nodded as he opened the bakery door for her.
“Alright then.”
“Oh, perhaps I can bring him some bread!” Effie said cheerily as they entered the modest bakeshop. “It’s just us, Peeta!” she called to the back.
She knew he was there because the air was warm from the ovens running, and the air smelled like freshly baked dough.
“Hey,” Peeta comes from the back room with flour on his apron and wiping his hands on a rag.
“Good morning, dear.” she smiles. “Is Katniss not here?”
The girl was hopeless with the baking and the customer service parts of the small bakery business, but had a penchant for hanging around the bakery anyway to keep Peeta company. Effie thought it was very sweet, but Haymitch only rolled his eyes every time she said so.
“Hunting,” he explained. “We have some frozen rabbit for dinner but I think she wanted something fresh.”
“Oh, that would be nice.”
“Can I get you guys anything?” he asks, ever her polite boy. “Or were you just stopping by?”
“Just one of the marble loaves, if you have any to spare.” she said with a smile.
“‘Course,” He disappeared momentarily into the back before returning with her requested loaf. Haymitch leaned over the counter and stole a muffin, but she refrained from scolding him seeing as he hadn’t really eaten breakfast.
“This for our dinner tomorrow?” Peeta asks as he begins to wrap the loaf.
“No, I thought I’d take it to Mr. Pickan later.” she replied.
“Sounds nice.” Peeta smiled. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it hell of a lot more when a pretty lady gets behind the wheel of his truck next week for supply day.” Haymitch grinned, taking a bite of his muffin.
“Oh, you’re driving next week?” Peeta asked.
“I believe I am,” she replied. “And don’t say such crude things about Mr. Pickan, he’s a very nice old man.” she scolded, looking in Haymitch’s direction.
“He’s still got two workin’ eyes, sweetheart.”
“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” She collected her bread off the counter and left a few coins in the tip jar, as Peeta always refused to take their money. “Thank you, dear!”
“Of course.” he smiled. “See you tonight.”
“Tonight!”
“Later, kid.”
The rest of their excursion into town passed in a relatively similar fashion. They went to the New Hob, which according to Haymitch and the children was different than the one the Peacekeepers had destroyed.
They browsed the selection of tea bags, before Haymitch selected a muted green tin per Effie’s recommendation. When they passed the fruit stand the young Gallostone boy was indeed working alongside the fruit people’s young girl. The positively adorable scene caused Effie to gasp dramatically and squeeze Haymitch’s arm, which he only rolled his eyes good-naturedly in return.
They spent the walk back to Victor Village playfully arguing over the merits of district weddings.
“You barely know them, why do you care if they get married?”
“Because weddings are lovely, it doesn’t matter who the bride and groom are.” she argued. “Also, I’ve never seen a district toasting before…”
“Right, because burning bread together is just fascinating stuff.” he mocked. “People don’t even watch that part of the wedding anyway, all that shit happens after.”
“Why do you always have to ruin my fun?”
“Man’s gotta have a hobby, sweetheart.”
She nudged him with her shoulder and squeezed his hand, her stomach fluttered a little when he squeezed back. She was far too old to be acting like a silly teenager, but there was a way about him which rendered her sense of logic utterly useless.
There had always been a way about him. She had just never dared to dream that it could be more than what it was. Never dared to imagine that even when the world had changed so much, they could have found this little bit of solace in each other’s lives.
They went in through the back door, the geese honking in celebration of their arrival home. He kicked off his muddy boots as Effie carefully lined her up next to the doorway. They unpacked their small purchases. Effie placed the marble bread in their breadbox so that it didn’t get stale. Haymitch struck a match and put the kettle on to boil without asking. When he placed a mug on the counter in front of her, a steady hand automatically rested on her waist for just a moment.
“Thank you.” she whispered.
“Uh-huh.” he grunted in return. She caught his hand before he had a chance to walk away. It took very little prompting for him to encircle her waist and kiss her.
They were interrupted only by the shrill call of the boiling kettle.
Effie absentmindedly tugged at her hair ribbon and shook her long braid loose. Her hair had only gotten curlier and blonder now that she didn’t keep it sequestered under wigs every day. Haymitch poured, and she watched how carefully he pushed the bobbing tea bags down with a spoon. Some of his hair fell into his handsome face, always so handsome. A million different things yearned to escape her lips, things she had been desperate to say to him for years, but it had been too dangerous. She had been too proud. Both of them too stupid, too scared, too mean.
But a small part of her was still that person she had been before the war. Maybe even a large part. Because truthfully, people didn’t really change. Just circumstances.
They still straddled a delicate, self-imposed, line.
They avoided real discussions about what their relationship was. Haymitch would always drink and Effie would always hate that. She would always do things which annoyed him. The things that they’d done during the Hunger Games would always haunt them, the scars of war would never fade. Haymitch would never marry her no matter how much she wanted it. Effie knew she would always live in the shadow of his teenage sweetheart, no matter how often he denied it. She did her very best not to be jealous of a dead girl, perfectly preserved in his memory and bathed in the rose coloured light of nostalgia.
Effie had decided to make peace with the fact that he would always struggle to say the words, and that no amount of war or time would ever change that.
But some days are special.
Some days are so, so blessed. In that little way, where the oven matches light on the first strike. Where Peeta’s bread is extra warm. Where nightmares have become fewer and farther between. Where her heart doesn’t feel so heavy, and it doesn’t feel like she’s always frantically trying to stay afloat.
Some days, when he hands her a warm mug of tea and he knows her well enough to look concerned when he catches sight of something in her eyes.
“You alright?” he asks, his voice low and as gentle as he could manage.
Effie nodded and reached forward tentatively, pretending to straighten the bottom of his wool sweater. “I love you.” she whispered, for fear that if she kept it inside any longer she might burst.
To his credit, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t push her away, throw her out of his house, put her and her bags on a train back to the lonely Capitol.
He didn’t say it back either.
She knew that he couldn’t. She knew that Haymitch would forever associate his love with putting people in danger, with putting them to death.
But instead, he set his mug to the side to wrap his arms around her, tentative and gentle. She folded herself into his embrace, buried her face in his chest and relished how warm he was. The feeling of his hand cradling her head and his heartbeat beneath her palm.
He may not be able to tell her that he loved her, but he certainly showed her.
After that day, Effie got a little freer with her words, a little braver. She said the words more often, either when she needed to say it or he needed to hear it. And even without his words in return, the greediness that had always lived in her heart made itself scarce.
He made her breakfast and she loved him. They shared jackets in the winter and she loved him. He chopped firewood because he knew how easily she got cold and she loved him. He kissed her with a gentleness they had only found in their old age, held her hand, brought her cheap rings and bits of lace at the Hob. All tiny little things which amounted to a million silent ‘I love you’s.
And some days, very special days, he felt brave enough to whisper it back.
It seemed that against all odds, despite all trepidations and doubts, their delicate balancing act had landed on solid ground. And Effie just knew, it would be enough.