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The hovercraft hums like a distant storm above the clouds, sterile and white, a limbo between District 12 and the Capitol. Effie sits primly on the padded bench, knees together, gloves off, fingernails bitten down to the quick.
Haymitch is across from her, one boot braced against the wall, hands in his coat pockets, eyes closed like he’s asleep—but she knows better. He’s listening. He always is. To the soft drip of the IV in the wall, to the vibration of the engines, to her breathing.
The children are in another compartment, resting under mild sedation. Katniss had fought it, naturally. Peeta had gone under quiet, like he does everything. Like he knows how to pick his battles.
Effie doesn’t speak. She’s learned that too, over the years. Some silences are safer. More sacred.
But then Haymitch says, eyes still closed, “You’re bleeding.”
Effie looks down. Her cuticle. Damn. She presses her thumb to her palm. “It’s nothing.”
He hums, low in his throat. Doesn’t press.
It’s always like this—coded concern, glances that last a beat too long, arguments behind locked doors and bruised wrists gripped in anger and fear. But never a slip in front of the kids. Never a single visible crack. That’s the deal.
It’s been years.
They became acquaintances in passing after his Games after she’d been assigned as 12’s escort, to keep an eye on him, years of seeing him destroy himself, only a young thing, — her a Capitol darling in training, it switched at some point, she can never point out, though, when it started, him barely twenty, broken, bleeding, and used up. She saw something then, some sharpness in him that hadn’t yet dulled. He saw a way out, maybe. A distraction. Or maybe just someone who looked at him like he wasn’t a corpse.
The first kiss had been a dare. The second, a fight. Everything after? A secret with teeth.
And then came the rest of the years. The Reapings. The Tributes. The ritual.
And still—still—they came back to each other. In private compartments. In dim hotel rooms. In the hollow ache between Games.
She touches her wrist now, instinctively, where his fingers had been this morning. A squeeze, brief, before the cameras started rolling. Always before the cameras. Never after.
The door hisses.
Effie’s spine snaps straight.
It’s Peeta.
She tries to arrange her face, to become the mask again. Pleasant. Polished. Porcelain. But Peeta doesn’t look at her.
He looks at Haymitch.
Then at her again.
And for one terrifying second, she knows—he knows.
Not all of it. Not the years. Not the history written in scars and hotel linens. But something. Enough.
“Sorry,” Peeta says, gentle. Always gentle. “I forgot my—”
He walks in, grabs something from the counter. A book. Her book. One she left out of habit, too tired, too shaken. And folded inside, like the cruelest joke, is a scrap of Capitol hotel stationery with her handwriting in ink—messy, private , unmistakable:
“Don’t shut me out again. Please. You’re not the only one who bleeds.”
Peeta sees it.
He doesn’t read it aloud.
Just folds it, silently, like a secret he's decided to keep.
And then—Gods, he looks at Haymitch. With pity. And understanding. And some strange, soft kind of admiration.
Katniss would never see it. Never look past the drink or the bark or the blood.
But Peeta?
Peeta sees everything.
The Capitol is a fever dream made of gold and glass, but the training center walls are quiet this time of night. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes Peeta’s thoughts echo too loud in his chest.
He finds Haymitch where he always is—half-drunk, half-shadow, fully angry at the world—in the lounge outside the suites. Lights off. Drink in hand. Feet propped up like he doesn’t have blood on them.
Peeta stands in the doorway for a second, lets the silence stretch like taffy between them.
Haymitch doesn’t look up. “If it’s about strategy, save it.”
“It’s not.” Peeta steps in. The door hisses closed behind him. “It’s about Effie.”
Haymitch exhales hard through his nose, like someone punched him in the lungs. “Whatever you think you saw—”
“I didn’t think , Haymitch.” Peeta’s voice is low, steady. “I saw .”
He crosses the room slowly, sits in the chair across from him—not like a tribute, not like a child. Like a boy who’s had enough.
“I saw the note,” he says. “And I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching. And maybe I shouldn’t say anything, maybe it’s none of my business—”
“It isn’t.”
“—but she matters to me. She always has. She was the first person in this mess who treated me like I was more than just a pawn on a stage. And I don’t know what’s going on between you two, or how long it’s been—”
Haymitch shifts. That tells Peeta enough. Years. Longer than he’s been alive, maybe.
“—but I know what it looks like when someone’s hurting and pretending they’re not.”
Peeta’s hands are folded in his lap now, calm as a stormcloud.
“She puts on that smile and those colors and acts like everything’s fine,” he continues, “but she looked broken on that hovercraft, Haymitch. And I saw the way you looked at her—like you wanted to fix it, and didn’t know how.”
Haymitch doesn’t say a word. Just stares at the drink in his hand like he wants to throw it through the window.
“I’m not judging you,” Peeta says, softer now. “I just… I don’t get it. If you care about her— really care—why would you let her carry this alone? Why hide something that’s real, in a world where nothing is?”
That gets him. Haymitch blinks, slow, as if the words are a slap. Peeta lets the silence breathe. Lets it bite.
“People already look at her like she’s a joke,” Peeta says, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t have to be one more person who does.”
Haymitch finally looks up.
And Peeta sees it—the ruin in his eyes. The guilt, the fear, the grief .
“She’s not a joke,” Haymitch says quietly. “She’s the only thing that makes this whole circus even remotely bearable.”
“Then act like it.”
There’s no venom in the words. Just heartbreak.
Peeta stands.
“I’m not asking for details. I’m not even asking you to stop hiding, if you think that’s safer. I just… don’t let her keep bleeding for you in silence.”
He walks to the door.
“And don’t let her think she’s alone.”
When Peeta is gone, Haymitch leans forward, elbows on knees, and presses his hands to his face like he’s trying to hold himself together.
He whispers her name once—“Effie”—like a prayer or a curse.
Outside, the Capitol glows on, oblivious.
The Capitol is velvet and poison. Effie walks its halls like a ghost in high heels, painted smile cracked at the corners.
Her room is silent when she enters. No Peacekeepers. No messages. Just the sharp echo of the door sealing behind her and the weight of the whole week pressing against her spine.
She kicks off her shoes too hard. One hits the wall. She doesn’t apologize.
She finds it in minutes— the missing note. The one Peeta had no right to see.
It’s back where it shouldn’t be: folded neatly on her vanity. Unreadable, untouched—except it isn’t, is it? She knows.
She knows .
She grabs it like it might burn her, hands shaking. And then she’s crying. Silent. Sharp. The kind of crying that leaves no sound, just a terrible tightness in the throat. Her tears streak her makeup, curl into the fine lines by her eyes.
A knock.
Too loud. Too soon.
She doesn't answer.
He comes in anyway.
“Didn’t your District teach you how to knock and wait ?” she bites, not turning around. Not letting him see her ruined face. Not yet.
“I knocked,” Haymitch says, like that’s enough. “Didn’t think I needed an invitation.”
She scoffs. “Of course. You never need permission. You just show up when you feel like it, disappear when it suits you, and expect me to—what? Still be here? Still be loyal? Still be discreet ?”
She whirls on him now, eyes wild and rimmed with blackened mascara. “Well, congratulations, Haymitch. Your secret’s out.”
He leans against the doorframe like it’s a joke. “Is it, though? Mellark’s not gonna sing it from the rooftops.”
“That’s not the point !” she snaps, voice cracking. “The point is, I wrote something that was never meant to be seen and now it’s been read , and I—” She stops. Breathing too fast.
Haymitch shifts. Jaw tight.
She drops her voice, barely above a whisper. “I feel like I’m being split open. Again.”
That lands.
He crosses the room, slow. But his voice is still flat . Still guarded.
“I didn’t ask you to write that.”
Effie recoils like he slapped her. " Excuse me? "
“I didn’t ask ,” he repeats. Shrugs, eyes cold. “You’re the one who keeps putting things on paper like it matters. Like it means something.”
And that’s it.
She laughs . Bitter and shaking.
“You know what, Abernathy?” she says, jaw clenched. “Screw you.”
His brow ticks up. “Charming.”
“No, don’t you dare play aloof right now.” Her voice wobbles, hands trembling. “You think I do this for me ? The hiding, the lying, the pretending I don’t love you in front of children we’re supposed to shepherd to their deaths? You think I enjoy it?”
Haymitch opens his mouth. Shuts it. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to drag the words out by force.
“You’re the one who wanted it this way,” she spits. “No one can know. No one can see. We don’t talk about it, we don’t name it, we just exist in between rooms and between Reapings like it’s not killing me.”
Her voice drops again. Tired now. Small.
“I’ve given you everything. And you still won’t give me a name.”
Silence. Loud. Immense.
Haymitch finally moves. Steps toward her. His voice is quiet. Ash.
“If they find out, they’ll use you.”
“I know that,” she says, suddenly exhausted. “But they already use me, Haymitch. They use my voice, my face, my heels, my smile. And still—I keep choosing you . I choose you every damn year .”
A beat. He looks like he’s going to say something. Doesn’t.
She shakes her head. Wipes her face with the back of her hand, smearing glitter into a bruise-colored mess.
“Just go.”
“Eff—”
“ Go. ”
He leaves.
The door hisses closed.
And she sits in her ridiculous Capitol gown and weeps like the walls are listening.
Because they are.
The morning after their fight, Effie doesn’t come to breakfast.
Peeta notices.
Katniss doesn’t—not really. She’s too busy glaring at the toast, like it personally offended her.
Haymitch is already halfway through a bottle of something sharp and clear, pretending to be present.
But Peeta? He sees the empty chair. The untouched plate. The way Haymitch flinches when he thinks no one’s looking.
He excuses himself before the eggs are cold.
He finds her in the greenhouse—of all places.
The Capitol’s private wing has one. Glass ceiling, artificial sun. Flowers with petals like velvet and poison. The air is warm and humid, but she’s curled up on the marble bench in her sleep robe and bare feet, like she doesn’t belong in it.
“Effie?” he says, gently.
She doesn’t look up.
He sits beside her, close but not too close. He’s good at this—at quiet.
“I brought you a scone,” he offers, pulling it from his coat like a peace offering. “Lemon poppyseed. I know you like those.”
She gives the ghost of a smile. Doesn’t take it.
“I feel stupid,” she says softly. “For letting him matter that much.”
Peeta doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t have to.
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt,” he says. “Not with me.”
She laughs, brittle and sad. “Oh, but I’m so good at pretending.”
“I know.” He places the scone on the bench between them. “But I’ve watched you fix my cufflinks with shaking hands. And cry without making a sound. You don’t have to be good for me.”
And that cracks something.
“I’ve spent a decade trying not to be ,” she whispers. “Not to be loud. Not to be in the way. Not to be caught.”
“Caught doing what?” he asks.
“Loving him,” she says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Loving him quietly. Carefully. In pieces. Because that’s all he would let me have.”
Silence stretches.
“Do you think I’m pathetic?” she asks.
Peeta’s eyes soften. “No,” he says, fierce and honest. “I think you’re brave.”
She exhales. Slow. Heavy.
Then, softer: “I think I did something stupid last night.”
“What happened?”
“I let someone hurt me. Again. And then I came out here. And I tore up every flower I ever liked. Just to see if it would make me feel something.”
She gestures to the broken petals around the bench.
Peeta looks around. Pink and red and white scattered like snowdrifts.
He doesn’t scold her. He just nods.
“You felt angry.”
“I felt wrong .”
Peeta places a hand over hers.
“Then you felt,” he says. “That’s not nothing.”
Meanwhile, Haymitch sits in his cold room, staring at the paper in front of him.
He hasn’t written anything in years. Not since the first Games. Not since her .
The bottle is still full. He’s not drinking. He’s thinking.
Because she asked to be chosen . And he never did. Not really.
And maybe he’s not the kind of man who can write love poems or stand in front of the world declaring things—but he can fix things.
He can try .
He starts small. Just a list.
Things Effie likes:
Lemon scones
Music in the morning
The color pink
Books with long dedications
Being remembered
Being chosen
And then, below that, he writes:
Find a way to say it. Without fear. Without hiding.
Because she matters.
And because this time, if he doesn’t come to her— he’ll lose her .
And he can’t. Not again. Not her.
Effie doesn’t come back to the suite that night.
Peeta tells Haymitch quietly, over the sink, while Katniss is upstairs brushing her hair like it offended her.
“She’s staying in the greenhouse. I think she needs space.”
Haymitch nods. Doesn’t speak.
Because what is there to say?
I broke her. Again. She begged me not to let her be invisible. And I blinked. I made her hide for years and now she’s learned to disappear without asking permission.
He finds the ribbon the next morning.
It’s not hers. Not new. But she gave it to him, once, a thousand years ago, when he was still bleeding from nightmares and slurring through breakfast. She found it in the Capitol and said it was District 12 blue . Tied it around his wrist without asking.
“Something soft to hold onto,” she said. “Just until you come back.”
He never wore it. Tossed it in a drawer. Let it fade under dust and glass.
Until now.
Now he ties it to the neck of a small jar. Not fancy. Just clean. Glass. Empty. But inside, he places something else.
A photo.
Of her and him.
Not posed. Not preened. Just taken by accident, at some Capitol event. She’s mid-laugh. He’s looking at her like she’s the sun. He doesn’t even remember being photographed.
But he found it. He kept it.
He slips it inside the jar. Ties the ribbon tight.
Then writes, on a card in messy handwriting:
You were never invisible. Not to me.
—H.
And leaves it on the marble bench in the greenhouse.
No fanfare. No speeches.
Just something soft to hold onto.
Effie finds it that afternoon.
She’s still raw. Still unsure whether she’ll go back. Whether it’s safer to leave this aching thing behind.
But when she sees it— the ribbon —she chokes on a breath.
She thought he forgot.
She thought she didn’t matter in the ways that count.
But there it is.
That ribbon. That photo. That note in his shaky, reluctant scrawl.
Not a declaration.
A memory. A truth.
He saw her.
And maybe—just maybe—he still does.
It’s early when she finds him.
The Capitol suite is quiet, bathed in pale dawn. Haymitch is on the couch, pretending to read, not even turning the pages. The jar is still in the greenhouse. He doesn’t know if she saw it. He’s too much of a coward to ask.
Then—soft footsteps.
He looks up.
Effie stands in the doorway, still in her robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are tired, but she’s here .
She doesn’t say anything.
She just walks over and sinks into the space beside him.
He doesn't breathe.
Not until she leans—just slightly—until their shoulders brush.
She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t speak.
But she’s not leaving .
And that’s when he knows he still has time.
They sit in silence for what feels like an hour.
Then, Effie says quietly, “I hated you yesterday.”
Haymitch nods. “Yeah. I hated me too.”
A pause.
“Why did you keep me hidden for so long?” she asks, and her voice cracks.
He swallows.
“Because I didn’t think I deserved you,” he says. “And I thought if I let people know, they’d take you away.”
Effie blinks, slow. “So you kept me like a secret.”
“I kept you like a lifeline ,” he says. “But I made it feel like a shame. And I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry for a long time.”
She looks at him now. Really looks.
And he’s raw. Stripped bare.
“I don’t want half of you anymore, Haymitch.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I want mornings. I want scones and fights and the ugly truth. I want to matter .”
“You do.” His voice is low. “You always did.”
She starts to cry—not the loud sobs she used to muffle with pillows, but soft, tired tears.
And Haymitch, the idiot, the drunk, the broken man, does the only thing he knows how to do:
He holds her.
Arms around her shoulders, one hand in her hair. She curls into him like she belongs there. Because she does .
Then—without fanfare, without permission—he kisses her.
It’s gentle. Sad. Real. Like an apology and a promise and a prayer all at once.
She kisses him back.
Peeta sees them from the kitchen.
Just a glimpse. Two silhouettes tangled on the couch, holding each other like something fragile and saved.
He doesn’t interrupt.
He just smiles. Big and soft and knowing.
And thinks:
“Good. About damn time.”
Effie gives him time.
She’s quiet for a while after that kiss, sitting on the couch, her hand resting in his, both of them breathing the same air like it means something more than it did before. No words. Just the steady pulse of their shared space.
But Haymitch? He’s not good at waiting. Not good at silence when it’s too heavy. So he asks, carefully, when she finally shifts closer, “Are you sure about this? About us?”
Effie looks up at him, eyes bright with the exhaustion of a thousand fights, a thousand days of pretending to be someone else. But now? She doesn’t have to pretend anymore.
“Am I sure?” She smiles a little, tired but genuine. “I think I’ve been sure for a long time, Haymitch. Just didn’t think you’d catch up.”
He doesn’t answer right away, but he grips her hand tighter, something steady and strong in the way his fingers fit with hers. And in the silence that stretches between them, he knows he’ll keep fighting for this—for her.
A few months pass.
The war is over, but the bruises haven’t healed. Not yet. They take it slow. Little steps. First, it’s the way they sit close at breakfast, no longer hiding their glances or their touches. Then it’s the way Haymitch no longer drinks in secret. No more late nights at the bar, no more pushing her away when she’s too close. They work together, in the strange, messy way they always have.
Katniss, though—she doesn’t notice. Not at first.
She’s busy. The Capitol’s broken, and the Districts need rebuilding. The world is starting over, and Katniss is still too wrapped up in being the Mockingjay to notice the little changes around her.
It’s a late evening when it happens.
Peeta, ever the perceptive one, notices first. They’re all in the kitchen, just hanging around after dinner. Katniss is at the counter, scraping the last of the dishes, and Haymitch and Effie are standing beside each other, silently working together to clear up the table.
Effie glances at Haymitch, her lips curling up in that small smile of hers, the one she only lets him see. He’s leaning toward her, just a little too close for someone who’s supposed to be acting normal.
Katniss doesn’t see it.
But Peeta does. He leans in, his voice low enough so only Haymitch hears, “So... how long have you two been married?”
Haymitch freezes. The plate in his hand stills. Effie’s eyes widen, just a bit.
Peeta, completely oblivious to the sudden tension, grins. “You two have been a little... off, lately. I’m assuming that’s why. And hey, you didn’t even invite us to the wedding.”
Effie coughs, trying to hide a laugh, but the tension in the room thickens anyway. Katniss, still oblivious, looks at Peeta, then at the two of them standing together, their arms brushing ever so slightly.
And then, it clicks.
She blinks. And then—“Wait...”
Peeta grins wider, his hands on the counter. “You didn’t think we’d notice , did you?”
Effie sighs and rubs her forehead, a smile tugging at her lips. “We’ve been married for a while now, Katniss. Long enough that we’ve forgotten how to explain it.”
Haymitch looks at her, a quiet fondness in his eyes that no one else sees except for Effie. He nods slowly. “It wasn’t a grand affair, Katniss. No Capitol extravagance. Just us, a couple of drinks, and some... quieter moments.”
Katniss stares at them. Blinks again.
Her brain, still a little slow from everything they’ve been through, processes the words— married , a while , quiet moments —and finally she lets out a slow laugh. “Well, damn. I guess we were a little busy rebuilding the world, huh?”
Peeta chuckles softly, nudging Katniss with his shoulder. “I think we owe them a toast.”
Effie smiles then, a real smile that starts in her eyes. “I’d like that.”
Haymitch, for the first time in a long time, laughs—no sarcasm, no bitterness, just a quiet joy that fills the room. “We’ll raise a glass for the new beginning. But only one glass. I don’t want to make a habit of it.”
Peeta grins and clinks his glass against Haymitch’s. “You two... you’re alright, you know?”
Katniss raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, you could’ve told us sooner.”
Effie shrugs, teasing. “You were busy.”
And for the first time in a long time, they all laugh together.
Effie reaches for Haymitch’s hand, their fingers intertwining. No need for words now. No need for explanations. They’ve survived everything together. They’ve rebuilt themselves and each other, piece by piece, and now—finally—it’s their time.