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He hears her laugh before he sees her.
It slices through the thick Capitol evening like a string pulled taut — silvery, surprised, real. Not the practiced trill she uses on cameras or Tributes' mothers. This laugh is raw around the edges. Unpolished. Almost human.
Haymitch sets his glass down a little too hard on the side table. The ice jumps.
He leans back in the plush chair no one actually finds comfortable and watches through the haze of blue light filtering through the window: Effie Trinket, sunlight caught in a bottle, and someone’s poured her out onto his balcony.
She's wearing a pale dress that falls like spilled cream over her knees, and her hair is pinned half-up, like she got distracted halfway through existing. She’s perched delicately on the edge of a seat, posture impeccable, fingers curled lightly around a champagne glass.
Beside her, a man — one of the mentors, young, sun-bleached, always smiling like he knows a joke you don’t — says something, leans in, and there it is again: that laugh.
That laugh that doesn’t belong to him.
Not that any part of her does.
Not that he’d want it to.
Except he does. Goddammit, he does.
He turns away.
Later, she finds him exactly where he knew she would: slouched on the velvet sofa in his assigned apartment, lights off, the TV on mute showing an old rerun of a Games ceremony. It’s always playing. On some channel, in some room, the slaughter never sleeps.
She doesn’t knock. Just opens the door like she owns it — owns him , maybe — and stands there, backlit by hallway opulence and a little unsteady on those ridiculous heels.
"You missed the dinner," she says. Her voice is measured, but there's a note beneath it. Disappointment? Challenge?
He doesn’t look at her. "Wasn't hungry."
"You also missed dessert."
He snorts. “Did I? Must’ve been devastating.”
She steps further in, lets the door sigh shut behind her. “He asked about you.”
That gets his attention. He turns, eyes like smoke and stormclouds. “Oh, did he now?”
“Apparently, he finds you ‘mysterious’.”
Haymitch scoffs. “Is that Capitol-speak for ‘rude bastard who won’t smile on cue’?”
Effie doesn’t answer. Instead, she glides — because of course she glides — to the liquor cart and pours herself something golden. She drinks without flinching. He tries not to watch the way her throat moves.
"He’s not like the others," she says after a moment. "He treats his Tributes with—"
“Hope?”
She falters. “Kindness.”
Haymitch shrugs. “Same thing.”
There’s a silence then. Heavy. Long. She doesn’t fill it like she usually does. Just stands there, glass in hand, gaze on the window as if she can see beyond the glittering Capitol skyline to the places they came from. The districts. The blood. The children.
“You don’t have to like him,” she says at last, softly. “But you don’t have to punish me for it either.”
His jaw clenches. The ice in his drink has melted.
“I’m not punishing anyone,” he mutters. “I’m just tired.”
She tilts her head. “Of what?”
“Of pretending I’m not angry all the damn time.”
The words hang there, too honest to take back.
Effie doesn't move. Just sets her glass down and says, very quietly, “Then maybe stop pretending.”
And with that, she leaves. No drama, no final flourish. Just her perfume lingering in the air like a question he’s not ready to answer
That night, Haymitch dreams of ocean waves and hands he doesn’t recognize. He dreams of silver spoons clinking against delicate porcelain. He dreams of her mouth close to someone else's ear.
And when he wakes, the pillow smells faintly like roses and bitterness.
He doesn’t remember ever letting her sit there.
Effie laughs.
Too loud. Too real. She hears it spill out of her mouth and instantly wants it back.
But it’s already done — the sound is floating in the warm Capitol air, sparkling like the wine in her glass, and a man is looking at her like he’s the one who conjured it.
She smiles at him, sharp and sweet, like a candy apple that hides the knife inside. He talks too much, flatters too easily, but he listens. More than she can say for some.
She doesn’t want to compare him to Haymitch. Doesn’t mean to. But her mind goes there anyway.
She chances a glance at the balcony door. No shadow. No slouching figure in the dark. He’s not coming.
Of course he’s not.
She wears the dress on purpose. Not for any man — don’t be silly — but because it’s soft. Because it reminds her of tea with honey, of her mother’s curtains in spring, of days before this job became a performance so exhausting she forgets where the real girl ends and the glittering mask begins.
Capitol events blur together. Names. Toasts. A thousand people saying nothing. But Haymitch — he’s the splinter under her nail. The ache that reminds her she’s still alive.
Inside, she finds him as expected: half-drowned in whiskey and self-loathing, eyes on something she doubts he sees. It hits her, again, how tired he looks. How utterly alone he insists on being.
She opens the door like she’s allowed. As if their shared years of surviving the unspeakable have earned her that right.
"You missed the dinner,” she says. She keeps her tone light — one of her many tricks. Not nagging. Not soft. Something in between.
His reply is a shrug in words.
They dance around the subject like always. Like cowards.
But tonight, it stings more than usual. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the guy made her feel visible for a moment. Maybe it’s the damn laugh still echoing in her own head.
She pours herself a drink — doesn’t flinch. Capitol trick. First lesson learned: don’t show weakness, even in the sipping.
Then she says it. About the guy. About kindness. She knows how Haymitch will respond, can practically taste the sarcasm before it comes.
But still. She says it. Hoping he’ll hear her this time.
He doesn’t. Or he refuses to.
And when he says he’s angry all the time, something inside her breaks a little. Because of course he is. They all are. But only he insists on bleeding in public and calling it honesty.
“Then maybe stop pretending,” she says. She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t let it tremble. She learned that, too. Long ago.
She walks out before she does something foolish.
Like reach for him.
Back in her room — sterile, curated, lifeless — she wipes off her lipstick with the back of her hand and stares into the mirror.
The mask is flawless. Not a hair out of place. Not a crack in the paint.
So why does she feel like she’s drowning?
They will see each other again tomorrow.
They always do.
In press rooms and elevators, in Tribute quarters and Victory dinners. In places where eyes are always watching and yet no one ever truly sees.
But maybe — just maybe — one day, one of them will stop pretending.
And maybe the other won’t run.
The next day, the sun rises over the Capitol like it’s got something to prove. It bathes the city in sharp light, illuminating marble and mirrors, making even the blood look golden. Haymitch wakes up in his bed with his clothes still on and a taste in his mouth like regret and old metal.
Effie Trinket is already in the meeting room when he arrives — ten minutes late, hair perfect, eyes unreadable.
She doesn’t look at him.
He spends the entire debriefing watching the way her mouth tightens every time the guy speaks. She nods politely. Smiles at the right beats. But there’s tension in her posture, like someone bracing for an earthquake no one else feels.
He shouldn’t care.
He should not care .
But when he touches her elbow — just lightly, just for a second — Haymitch sees red.
It’s ridiculous, juvenile. He knows this. But the fury comes anyway. Sudden. Stupid. Familiar.
Effie glances at him once during the session. He’s already watching her.
Their eyes lock. Just a second.
She looks away.
That night, there’s another reception. Another room full of champagne and ghosts. Haymitch hates these things — hates the clatter of cutlery and Capitol perfume and hollow compliments. But tonight he goes.
Because she’ll be there.
Because so will he.
Effie is laughing again.
Not the same as before. This one’s polished. Party-ready. Her mouth moves like clockwork, but her eyes are tired.
The same damn guy leans close, and Haymitch watches it like a crime scene. The way his hand hovers at her waist. The way Effie doesn’t step away.
Haymitch downs his drink in one go.
He doesn’t even think before he moves.
One second he’s in the corner, bitter and brooding, and the next — he’s beside her.
"Didn’t realize we were playing house," he says, voice smooth but sharpened like a broken bottle.
Effie startles, just slightly. Her mask doesn’t slip, but her hand tenses on her glass. The guy raises an eyebrow, amused. “Evening, Haymitch.”
Haymitch doesn’t acknowledge him.
"Effie," he says, and something in the way he says it makes her blink. Like she forgot her own name for a second.
“We were just talking about the training scores,” she says lightly, too lightly. “his male Tribute is—”
“I’m not here to talk about the kids.”
Silence falls between them like a dropped knife.
Effie straightens her shoulders. “Then why are you here?”
He should walk away. He should . But his heart is beating too loud and his hands are fists at his sides and he’s so tired of wanting things in silence.
"Because I didn’t like seeing his hand on you."
Effie inhales. Sharp. Barely audible.
The man coughs into his drink. “Right. I think I’ll leave you two to—whatever this is.”
He exits with a smirk. Haymitch barely notices.
Effie sets her glass down carefully, as if she’s afraid it’ll shatter if she blinks too hard. “What exactly are you implying, Haymitch?”
"I’m not implying anything," he says, voice rough. “I’m saying it.”
There’s a long pause. Effie looks at him like she’s staring into a locked door and considering whether it’s worth the key.
"You don’t get to say things like that," she whispers. "Not when you spend the rest of the time pretending I’m nothing to you."
He laughs — not because it’s funny, but because it’s true.
“I never said you were nothing .”
She takes a step closer. Just one. But it’s enough to tilt the whole world.
"Then what am I?"
And he opens his mouth to answer — but the words won’t come. They’re there, behind his teeth, boiling and desperate.
She waits.
He says nothing.
And finally, she nods, just once, like that was her answer all along.
"Goodnight, Haymitch."
She walks away.
He doesn’t stop her.
But his fingers twitch like they remember her skin. Like they weren’t done.
That night, he doesn’t sleep.
He rereads her file. He pours a drink and doesn’t touch it. He stands by the window until morning, listening for a laugh that doesn’t come.
He finds her in the hallway outside her suite.
Not the dining room, not the prep floor, not one of the Capitol’s thousand glittering cages — just a plain hallway with bad lighting and a too-clean floor.
She’s alone. Dressed down for once. No wig. No heels. Her real hair pinned back, loose and soft. Her real self leaking out at the edges.
He almost turns around.
Almost.
But her head lifts — just slightly — and it’s too late.
“Back for round two?” she says. Her voice is calm. Brittle.
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, like maybe they’ll keep him from doing something stupid.
She crosses her arms. “If you’re going to scold me again for existing in public, I’d appreciate a memo next time.”
“I’m not here to fight.”
“Then what are you here for?”
He doesn’t know how to answer that without sounding pathetic.
To see you. To be near you.
To remember what it feels like to want something that isn’t a bottle or a numb night.
Instead, he says:
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You never mean to,” she cuts in. “You never mean anything, do you?”
Silence.
Something cracks open in him.
"You think I don’t feel anything," he says, stepping closer. "You think I don’t look at you every time we’re in a room together and want to forget all the reasons I shouldn’t."
She doesn’t move.
"You think I didn’t notice when he touched you? That I didn’t want to tear his goddamn hand off?"
"Then why didn’t you say something?" she asks, her voice rising. "Why do you only show up when it’s too late? Why do you only look at me when someone else already is?"
His jaw clenches. "Because I’m not good at this."
“No,” she breathes, “you’re not .”
And that should be the end of it. That should be the moment she turns and walks away again.
But she doesn’t. And neither does he. There’s a beat. Then another.
And then—
Her hand slaps against his chest, flat and angry, like she’s trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once.
He catches her wrist. Their faces are too close. Their breath is one thing.
"You’re such a bastard," she whispers.
"And you’re impossible."
“I hate how you make me feel,” she says.
“I hate how you don’t leave.”
And then he kisses her.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.
It’s messy, teeth and breath and years of biting back what neither of them could say. Her hands in his shirt, his grip in her hair, the tension snapping like glass under weight.
She tastes like wine and fury. He kisses like he’s drowning.
It’s desperate. It’s inevitable.
They break apart like they’re surfacing for air. Her eyes are wild. His hands are shaking.
“This changes nothing,” she says.
“Right,” he mutters. “Nothing.”
A beat.
She leans in again, just enough to brush her lips over his — soft this time, almost gentle.
Then she steps back.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she says. And walks away.
He stands in the hallway for a long time after she’s gone.
And for the first time in years — he doesn’t want a drink.
He wants her.
And God help them both.
They don’t speak of it.
Not the kiss.
Not the anger.
Not the fact that her lipstick was smudged on his mouth when he stumbled back into his room that night like he’d survived a hurricane and lost the eye of it somewhere between her hands.
They don’t talk about it the next morning either, when they sit across from each other at breakfast and pretend the toast is more interesting than the memory of her fingers in his hair.
She’s polite. Of course she is. Effie could be bleeding out in diamonds and still find a way to smile through it.
And Haymitch —
Well, he’s never been more sober and never felt more wrecked.
They fly back to Twelve that evening.
The train feels different. Tighter. Like the walls have shrunk around them. Like the air is thick with all the words they won’t say.
That night, for the first time in months, they both retreat to the mentor quarters and—
There’s only one bed.
It’s not a secret.
They’ve shared it before, in that clumsy, accidental way: after long nights, after too much wine, after he’d passed out on the couch and she couldn’t be bothered to move him. But that was before.
Before the hallway. Before the kiss. Before her voice in his mouth and his name caught between her teeth.
Now, the bed is a border.
She lies stiff on one side, spine straight, arms folded. She wears one of those silk nightgowns he’s always pretended not to notice, but tonight it feels like a knife against his skin.
He lies on the other side, staring at the ceiling like it might offer a clue about how to breathe again.
The silence is unbearable.
But breaking it would mean acknowledging something happened.
And neither of them is ready for that.
So they sleep — or pretend to.
Except he hears her shift.
And she hears him sigh.
And somewhere around 3 a.m., when she thinks he’s asleep, she whispers:
“I didn’t mean for it to go like that.”
His eyes open. He doesn’t answer.
Not because he doesn’t want to — but because if he does, he’ll say everything . All of it. Too much. So he stays quiet, and listens to her breathing. And imagines a world where he could roll over and kiss her without breaking them in two.
He wakes to the scent of her perfume — faint, like the ghost of a memory. There’s sunlight slipping through the curtains, but it feels too honest, too unkind.
She’s not in the bed.
Not on her side. Not anywhere in the room.
For a moment, panic claws at his chest. Irrational. Immediate.
But then he hears the clink of a teacup in the small kitchen down the hall.
She’s still here. She didn’t run. Neither of them did. Yet.
Haymitch drags himself out of bed. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. Good morning feels like a goddamn joke. About last night sounds worse.
He walks in to find her at the counter, pouring tea with deliberate elegance, like it’ll hold the tension in place.
She doesn’t look at him. Not right away.
“Would you like some?” she asks, voice neutral.
He blinks. “What?”
“Tea,” she says, motioning to the cup. “It’s the least awkward beverage I could find.”
He huffs a laugh, almost grateful for the dry sarcasm. Almost.
“I’ll pass,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your delicate peace with my peasant taste buds.”
That earns him a glance. Half a smirk. A flicker of something familiar.
They sit in silence for a moment. She sips. He leans against the counter like it might hold him up.
Then she speaks, quiet. Almost too casual.
“So. About last night.”
He flinches. “What about it?”
She raises an eyebrow. “You kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Don’t be childish.”
“Don’t be cryptic.”
There’s a beat.
Then:
“I didn’t regret it,” she says softly, setting her cup down.
He looks at her — really looks.
Bare face. Soft eyes. Wrinkled silk.
Too human. Too close.
And still, somehow , untouchable.
“I didn’t either,” he admits. “That’s the problem.”
She falters.
He takes a breath.
“Effie… I’m not someone who should be wanted.” His voice is raw now, cracking like the space between them. “You think you know me. But I’m angry. And broken. And I drink because I can’t stand to remember the things I’ve seen. I can’t stand to feel them.”
Her lips part, but he holds up a hand.
“And when you walk into a room, it’s like my ribs stop working. Like my heart forgot it’s supposed to hurt in private. I don’t know how to want you without ruining it.”
Silence.
She swallows.
“Well,” she says carefully, “that’s the most romantic tragedy I’ve ever heard before breakfast.”
He exhales a shaky laugh, unsure if it’s relief or ruin.
Then she steps closer.
Not touching. Just… near .
“You don’t ruin things by wanting them, Haymitch,” she says, eyes fixed on his. “You ruin them by pretending you don’t.”
And that’s it. No kiss. No dramatic declaration.
Just that truth, sitting between them like a lit match.
And in the quiet that follows, he wishes — for the first time in years — that he believed in second chances.