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Haymitch sat on the porch, a dog-eared book unopened on his lap, and a bottle of something pale at his feet. He’d cleaned the porch for her—swept away dead leaves and cigarette butts—but left just enough mess to pretend he hadn’t.
“You’re late,” he called.
“You didn’t give me a time,” she replied, brushing dust from her coat. “But thank you for noticing.”
He tried not to smile. She tried not to let it matter.
Behind her, she dragged a suitcase far too large for a weekend visit, her heels clicking defiantly against the cracked stones of the walkway.
Inside, they did their usual dance: she complained about his pantry, brewed proper tea from her stash of Capitol tins, and asked if he’d eaten anything green this month. He grumbled, insulted her hat, and made space for her on the porch swing.
Haymitch looked away, toward the skeletal trees just beginning to bloom. He hated how she did this. How she would just come and go like it was nothing. Like he didn’t ache when she brushed past him. He knew there had always been something between them. A thing unspoken, dressed in Capitol colors and survivor’s guilt. But he didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know if he deserved it.
"How are the children?" She asked, before taking a sip of her tea.
"You know they aren't children anymore, Effie."
"I know, but they always will be in my eyes. How are they?"
"They seem to be getting by just fine. I've invited them over for dinner tonight so you can all catch up."
"Oh, splendid! What a wonderful idea."
He loved moments like this. The swing creaked gently beneath them, as they quietly sipped their tea. It was strange, this quiet. Not the kind he’d known before—grief-laced, bottle-deep, the kind of silence that clawed at his chest. No. This was different. And Haymitch found himself thinking—maybe this is what peace feels like. He hadn’t thought he’d ever get this. Not after the arena, not after the rebellion, not after Lenore Dove. He thought he’d used up every ounce of peace he was allowed in this lifetime.
“You don’t have to keep coming here, you know,” he said quietly, shifting the tone.
“Oh, don't be ridiculous.” She stared into her cup. The porch swing creaked as it swayed gently, Effie’s shoulder brushing against his with each slow motion.
"Sometimes I wish you'd just stay."
Without saying a word, she just reached over, slow and gentle, brushing her hand against his. He didn’t flinch.
"Eff..." He turned to her then, eyes darker than the tea cooling in their mugs. She was close. Close enough to see the faint shimmer at the corners of her mascara, the softness that came only when she wasn’t performing. She smelled like citrus and clean linen.
Her hand cupped his cheek.
He leaned in.
Their foreheads touched first, tentative. Then his lips grazed hers—barely there, a whisper. She tilted closer, eyes fluttering shut.
And then—
He jerked back like he’d touched fire.
“I can’t,” he rasped, standing so suddenly the swing groaned beneath her. “I can’t do this.”
“Haymitch—” she began, rising.
"I still feel her with me, Effie." Effie didn’t ask who. She knew. "I loved her more than I thought I could love anything. It was the kind of love that sticks. It changed the shape of me. I wake up some mornings and think I hear her humming. When the Capitol took her, they didn’t just kill her. They killed everything good in me.”
A tear slowly trickle down Effie's cheek. "Haymitch, that's not true. I still see the good in you I saw the first time we met all those years ago. You were always so kind and gentle, even in the darkest times. I see it so clearly when you are with the children. Our victors. They wouldn't have gotten through any of this without you, Haymitch. Which makes me certain that Lenore Dove would be so proud of the man you've become."
"You've always been allergic to negative thoughts, haven't you?"
Effie laughed, gently smiling through the sorrow. "Someone has to combat your overbearing pessimism."
Letting his face drop into his hands, Haymitch let out a loud sigh. "I always believed I could never love another. So when I look at you and—hell—feel something, it scares me. Because if I let it in, if I let you in…what does that make me?”
“A man that is still loving her. That’s allowed.” She reached for his hands once more. "I am so deeply sorry, Haymitch. Life has been so unkind to you. I wish I could take all this pain away."
He shook his head, turned away, hands trembling. “I wanted to kiss you,” he admitted. “I wanted to. For a long time.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“But it felt like—like opening a door I locked the day Snow took her away from me.”
“I’m not asking you to stop loving her, Haymitch,” she said. “I would never do that."
Haymitch hesitated, soaking in her words, "But what if there’s not enough left of me to love someone else?”
Effie’s thumb traced a small, comforting circle on his hand. “Then I’ll take what is left,” she said. “Even if it’s just sitting beside you on this swing.”
He didn’t reply. He just sat there, her hand in his, eyes shining with things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. Maybe decades. Lenore’s name would always live in the air between them. But for a moment Haymitch realized that maybe grief didn’t have to mean shutting the door forever. Maybe, someday, it was allowed to open again. Even just a little.