Work Text:
Honey, when I'm above the trees
I see this for what it is
But now I'm right down in it
In retrospect, Effie knew….
Even if only in a subconscious, internalized way, she had always known her home wasn't the safest or the fairest place. That, she could admit to. Knowingly keeping her head buried in the sand simply because she didn't want to see what was right in front of her was more difficult.
But if she was being honest with herself, the real reason she had told Haymitch not to mention that Effie Trinket was the one dressing the tributes from District Twelve all along was because she knew the recognition would have brought a kind of attention she did not want. Being associated with the new, rebel-ish victor was a dangerous move.
Even in her self-imposed ignorance, she could acknowledge that.
Not that it made a difference. She was still assigned as Twelve's escort for the 51st Games.
"Ohh, you are going to be famous!" Proserpina squealed in front of her, her eyes wide as Effie held the letter bearing the official Presidential Seal and Snow’s signature.
"Don't be ridiculous, Prosie."
But Prosie was already jumping up and down with excitement.
Later that night, the two sisters sat curled on the velvet couch in their shared living room, champagne glasses resting half full on the low table before them. Prosie was still glowing from the news, but Effie’s smile had started to fade.
“You’re really doing it, then,” Prosie said more softly this time.
Effie nodded. “Yes. District Twelve.”
“Do you think it’ll be good? This isn't what you wanted to do.”
Effie hesitated. “I don't know. It’ll be... different. But I’ll manage.”
Prosie reached out and tucked a loose purple curl behind Effie’s ear. “You always do. And you’ll look fabulous doing it.”
Effie told herself it was an opportunity no one in their right mind would pass up. To be a part of the Hunger Games was to serve the very foundation her society was built on — a great honor, a great prestige. She should have felt grateful.
Then why was there a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach?
She didn’t think much about it.
*****
Tell me, when did your winning smile
Begin to look like a smirk?
It had begun as a nice evening.
The 54th Games were nearly over when Effie found herself in the Victor’s Lounge at the newly inaugurated Tribute’s Centre. Haymitch, Chaff, Mags, and a few other mentors were already there, half-sunken into sofas, drink glasses balanced lazily in their hands.
Twelve's tributes had died in the bloodbath, as often happened. Oh well, Effie had thought, better luck next year. But the way Willow’s eyes had sparkled when she’d offered the fourteen-year-old an orange muffin — her favorite — still haunted her.
So in the final hours of the evening, the remaining mentors lounged about, waiting for time to pass and the whole show to be over.
Effie hadn’t meant to intrude. She had taken the elevator to fetch Haymitch and unexpectedly ran into Mags. They struck up a conversation — casual, light — and the next thing she knew, she was on the couch beside Haymitch, her favorite strawberry cocktail in hand, one he had passed to her without a word but with a slight smirk.
"I swear it wasn't my fault!” Chaff exclaimed, the hand holding the whiskey in the air.
"You really shouldn’t be hitting on everything with long legs if you don’t wanna get in trouble, Chaff," Mags said dryly, eyeing him over the rim of her own glass.
"How was I supposed to know she was married to an Ex-Peacekeeper!?”
Before Effie could think about it a snort-like noise was coming out of her.
"As long as you don't get Haymitch in trouble. I've been bailing him out of bars often enough," she added, with a mock-scolding tone.
Everyone around laughed at her comment, even Haymitch rolled his eyes at her. And for a fleeting moment, Effie felt something light stir in her chest. A rare kind of ease. The victors were a hard group to crack, often closed off and wary, but over the years, she liked to believe she’d earned a sliver of their trust. Or at least, their tolerance.
Mags gaze turned serious all of a sudden.
"You gotta be careful Chaff. I know it’s been a while," she began, more carefully now, "but next thing you know, the black envelopes start arriving. You might not be as young as Brutus, but you still get attention.”
At that she looked confused to Haymitch beside her.
"What?” she muttered
He locked eyes with her for a second, long enough for his expression to turn into one of embarrassment, and he looked away, as if there was something he didn't want her to see.
When she looked around Effie noticed Mags was watching them both now with thinly veiled curiosity, like she knew something they hadn’t figured out yet. Effie tried to brush it off. Some private joke. One of those cryptic Victor things.
It was only that night, at the penthouse, when he was much drunker that she finally got the truth out of him.
She had asked again, gently at first. Then more directly.
Eventually, the truth spilled out in fragments, raw and bitter. The black envelopes. The mandatory escort services. The one-night stands that weren’t really choices.
Capitol-sanctioned prostitution.
Effie didn’t cry. Not then. But she could feel her reality shattering just a little bit more. All she could do was sit still, her carefully constructed world cracking slightly at the seams.
And not for the first time, she wondered — perhaps it really had been better not to know.
*****
Showed you all of my hiding spots
I was dancing when the music stopped
And in the disbelief, I can't face reinvention
When the Quell was announced, Effie had to summon every ounce of composure not to be sick right there in Proserpina’s living room. The gathering was small, only a few acquaintances sipping champagne, but still, losing control would’ve drawn unwanted attention.
Her sister looked at her with wide, tight eyes. And the fact that even Proserpina's smile — always dazzling, always polished — was strained told Effie everything she needed to know. No one liked this.
Standing backstage during the interviews, the pit in her stomach hadn’t gone away. It hadn’t dulled. Surely this couldn’t be right. Katniss and Peeta had just won the previous year. They had earned their peace, their lives. And now they were being sent back?
Effie told herself — again and again — that President Snow must know what he was doing. That it wasn’t her place to question. Maybe she was just too close, too attached to the kids. Maybe she was being foolish.
But deep down, she knew. No part of her felt right anymore. Her skin felt too tight, like she didn’t belong in it. And she was afraid Haymitch had started to see the cracks forming in her careful mask.
“Any last-minute pointers, Effie?”
She blinked, startled, turning to see Peeta standing beside her.
“Huh?” she asked, distracted, eyes drifting toward Haymitch again. He stood in a shadowed corner, speaking in hushed tones with Cinna and — of all people — Finnick Odair.
Something was happening. Something important. She didn’t know what, but she felt it.
She wasn’t ready to confront Haymitch about it, wasn’t ready to ask to be let in. But she also couldn’t bring herself to stop him. Maybe, in some small way, she wanted whatever was about to happen to happen.
“I asked if there’s anything else you want me to remember from our prep sessions,” Peeta repeated gently.
“Oh,” she said, blinking her thoughts away. Her gaze softened as she reached out to smooth his lapel. “I don’t think so, dear. You always do wonderfully with these.”
She made sure his suit was perfect — every crease gone, every button secure. “You’re not the one I’m worried about.”
“That would be your Girl on Fire, right?” came Finnick’s voice from behind her.
Effie turned with a polite smile. “Yes, dear.”
Finnick responded with the most flirtatious grin imaginable. “No problem, Honey,” he said, half-mocking the Capitol endearment.
She rolled her eyes. Honestly, the boy was young enough to be her son — not that Finnick would ever guess. Her age was a well-kept secret. Still, she had been an escort long enough that it wasn’t hard to guess she was in the later side of 40.
Effie let out a quiet laugh just as Haymitch came to stand beside her, his expression clouded with something unreadable. Without a word, he rested a hand on the small of her back, his thumb gently tracing a circle. It was subtle, but it grounded her.
She glanced up at him, a silent question in her eyes.
Had he seen her watching them? Did he notice how badly she was unraveling?
Then, Finnick scoffed.
They both turned toward him.
“You know,” Finnick said, eyes flicking between them, “when Mags mentioned it a few years ago, I didn’t believe her. But now?” He gave a small shake of his head and walked away, offering no further explanation.
Haymitch frowned. “What the hell is the kid talking about now?”
Effie blinked, flustered. “No idea.”
But in truth, there were a lot of things lately Effie didn’t understand. And more than ever, she was beginning to wonder if she ever truly had.
*****
Haunted by the look in my eyes
That would've loved you for a lifetime
Leave it all behind
She truly hadn’t expected any of it. One moment, the arena exploded in a blaze of chaos, and the next, not even a full minute later, Peacekeepers stormed the penthouse.
A protection measure, she thought. Surely that was it.
She assumed she would be taken somewhere secure. That the other escorts and victors would be gathered, that there would be an explanation, a strategy. Rounding everyone into one place seemed logical. Easier to protect.
It wasn’t until they shoved her into a small, sterile room, alone, and a Peacekeeper entered, face stern and eyes hard, that she felt the first edge of real fear.
They started with questions. Straightforward ones, on the surface.
“Where is Haymitch Abernathy?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, confused. “He was just—”
“And Katniss Everdeen?”
That startled her "Aren't you supposed to have her?”
The first slap came so fast she didn’t register it until she tasted blood. She was not prepared for it.
Effie certainly was not prepared for what came next.
Slaps. Punches. Kicks that landed once she was already down.
By the time they threw her into a tiny, dim cell, her ribs were screaming with pain. Each breath stabbed like glass. Her limbs trembled uncontrollably, and her face was wet — from tears or blood, she couldn’t tell.
They came back for her some time later. That was when the cuts starts. First her clothes, her wig, they take everything that makes her, well, Effie.
When that wasn’t enough, they went after her skin.
That pain - sharp and personal — was worse than anything else. Worse than the bruised ribs. Worse than the boots.
She cried on the cold floor. Cried until her throat was raw and the air refused to fill her lungs. Until numbness crept in and she almost welcomed it.
This, this was why she had wanted to remain ignorant all these years.
She tries to tell them, tell them she has no way of answering any of the questions they ask. Her self-imposed ignorance of years worked too well. Her mastery at turning a blind eye once and for all turning on her.
She tried to explain herself. “I don’t know anything,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to know.”
But there was no point anymore. No point in turning a blind eye, pretending she saw less than what she actually did.
She watched as the beautiful purple of her once lilac dress turned into scarlet.
It becomes clear quite rapidly that she has no information.
Still, for some reason, they continue.
Some days it's the knife. Others kicks and punches. Once they bring out water and some wires, she thinks she passes out for a few moments.
After that, they stopped with the wires.
Some days the guard taunts her, they call her everything from Haymitch’s secret fling to outright Abernathy’s Bitch.
The point he’s trying to make, she doesn’t see it.
At some point in the past 25 years she had come to know the games were cruel, she knew it wasn't right. But there was a part of her that had always learned that they were necessary. That pain served purpose. That order came at a cost.
But this? This had no purpose.
This was just violence for its own sake. She knew they were beating her for the sake of watching her bleed.
Maybe that’s all it had ever been.
Maybe none of it had ever meant anything.
Maybe we just like to watch each other bleed, a voice whispered from somewhere deep inside her.
And then, everything went dark again.
*****
Sorry, I can't see facts through all of my fury
You haven't met the new me yet
She opens her eyes slowly.
The white walls don't make any sense. For the first time they were not familiar. Her brain processes the beep sounds first. A hospital. Did they beat her up so bad they actually needed to give her some medical attention? No, they would've just let her die.
Effie blinked again. Once. Twice. The dull ache in her bones remained, deeper than any painkiller could reach. Her fingers twitched, and she felt warmth.
A hand. His hand.
Haymitch.
She knew instantly before looking.
His face was gaunt and weary, as if he hadn't slept in days. The way his thumb traced over her knuckles was gentle, apologetic.
He noticed her stir and leaned in, his voice cracking like it hadn’t been used properly in days. “Effie…”
"How are you feeling? Anything hurts too much?”
No. she didn't tink so, it really was better than it had been the last time.
"What…” she hadn’t time to think the thought through the haze of the painkillers before he was speaking again.
“You were supposed to come with us,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “We had a plan. A way out. But it all happened so fast. It wasn’t until you weren’t there…”
Effie closed her eyes again. Because now that she was awake, everything hurt in a new way.
Her body had been broken, yes. But her mind? Her belief in the Capitol? That had been gutted. And now she was left with the ashes of something she had once loved too dearly, too blindly.
Her eyes burned but she simply didn't have the energy to cry.
It wasn't until much later, when she had been checked over by a doctor and Haymitch had explained their whole situation more clearly and refused to leave that the question occurred to her.
“Prosie,” she croaked suddenly. “Where is she? Do you think she can come visit?”
Haymitch went still.
Effie’s heart clenched.
“You don’t know, do you?” Her voice sharpened, getting as loud as it could get. “She was still in the city. She’s still in the city.”
A completely new type of panic started raising in her chest.
“There are people looking,” he offered weakly.
She felt angry. So angry. At Snow. At the Capitol. But mostly, she was furious at herself—for loving something that never loved her back. For giving everything she had to a system that discarded her the moment she became inconvenient. For doing god-knows-what to her little sister.
"I need to find Prosie”
In her fragile state Effie tried to get up, a tube coming out of somewhere, yanked with little care as droplets of blood stained her hospital gown.
His hands were immediately in her shoulders, trying to put her down gently. But she didn't hear any of it. Her little sister needed her.
And yet, it was only when the door opened and Asterid Everdeen stepped in—quiet and watchful— that Effie stilled. The woman didn’t speak, but her eyes swept over the hospital bed, then to Haymitch’s hand still clutching Effie’s, then back again to Effie.
There was no judgment in her face. Only recognition.
In the same quiet manner she had stepped in, she stepped out.
*****
After giving you the best I had
Tell me what to give after that
Effie tries. She really does.
She cleans up her apartment first. Scrubs it until the dust is gone and the silence feels less like a scream and more like a sigh. She makes it livable again. A place for breathing.
When that’s done, she does the same with her sister’s. Prosie would need a place to come home to.
She tries not to think too hard about it.
Instead, she focuses on Haymitch and the kids. On how they might be settling into what little remained of Twelve. Every week or so, they call. Quick conversations. Gentle check-ins. A lifeline, thin but steady.
Her hometown, once so pristine and lively, now feels like a ruin she can’t even recognize.
It was on the day of one of those calls that the news arrived.
A batch of remains had been found in a Capitol prison a few weeks prior. DNA testing had confirmed identities. One of them matched hers.
Prosie.
When the phone rings later that night, she barely has the energy to pick it up. But she does. Somehow.
She doesn’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence is filled only by a soft, involuntary sniff. Her face feels puffy, congested.
He knows. Of course he knows. It would have made the news by now.
“I’m so sorry, Effie,” Haymitch mutters. It’s the only thing he says, but it’s enough.
The sob bursts out of her, raw and unfiltered. Her cries echo through the empty apartment, but she doesn’t try to silence them. Not this time.
Effie allows herself to cry. Truly cry. In a way she hasn’t allowed in months, maybe years. The tidy boxes she used to lock her emotions in have burst open, and nothing fits back inside anymore.
Even in the wreckage of it all, she can feel his presence through the line, and it comforts her. She knows he understands the pain, Effie remembers telling him once that she was sorry for the loss of his brother.
“Nothing has ever hurt this much, Haymitch,” she whispers, after the wave has passed, her voice small and cracked. “I just don’t know what to do.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, soft as a breath, he replies: “Remember, Princess, positive attitude.”
The broken laugh that escapes her doesn’t sound like hers at all.
“It’s been ninety-seven percent of the battle for the last twenty-five years, Haymitch,” she murmurs, her voice hollow. “Look where it’s gotten me.”
*****
There'll be happiness after you
But there was happiness because of you too
Both of these things can be true
The air in District Twelve was quieter than Effie remembered. The kind of silence that didn’t exist in the Capitol — not heavy, not suffocating — but whole. Clean. Real. She sat on the worn porch steps of Haymitch’s house, the wood creaking gently beneath her as the last of the sunset spilled golden light across the sky.
Haymitch sat beside her, one boot resting lazily on the railing, a bottle of something half-finished dangling from his fingers. They hadn’t said much since dinner. The silence wasn’t awkward. Just... familiar.
Looking at the fountain in the center of the Victor Village a sudden memory flooded Effie's thoughts.
“Do you remember the fountains on Centurion Street?” Effie asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Haymitch blinked, then glanced sideways. “In the Capitol?”
She nodded, smiling faintly. “Prosie and I used to run around them every summer. She’d pretend to be a water nymph. She’d really get into character — arms waving, dress soaked, hair sticking to her cheeks like seaweed.”
Haymitch snorted. “Let me guess. You tried to keep her in line.”
“Desperately,” Effie laughed. “She was chaos wrapped in silk. And mother would always lecture both of us. I knew it was my duty to keep Prosie as composed as possible.”
“Prosie,” he repeated, tasting the name like it was unfamiliar. “What kind of nickname is that?”
Effie smiled wider. “Well, you should see a three-year-old trying to pronounce ‘Proserpina.’ It didn’t go well. Prosie stuck.”
Their laughter drifted lazily into the twilight, warm and soft like the fading light.
But as the laughter ebbed, the stillness returned. And with it, the ache.
Effie exhaled slowly, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “It’s bittersweet,” she confessed. “All the love, it’s still here… But now it also hurts so much. And I’m not sure it’ll ever not hurt.”
Haymitch didn’t respond immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter than usual. “It won’t.”
She turned to look at him.
“But it becomes bearable,” he added. “Eventually. And who knows — knowing you, the loving part will be the one you remember and feel the most.”
Effie blinked back the threat of tears and gave him a small, genuine smile. “I hope so.”
Without a word, Haymitch reached over and wrapped his arm around her. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
From a short distance away, Peeta stepped onto the path with the intention of calling them in for supper. But as he saw them together — their silhouettes outlined against the last hues of day, wrapped in a silence only two people who had been through too much could share — he paused.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Peeta turned quietly and walked back toward the house, deciding they could come in when they were ready.
*****
There is happiness
In our history, across our great divide
There is a glorious sunrise
Dappled with the flickers of light
From the dress I wore at midnight, leave it all behind
And there is happiness
She visits twice every year. Never on his birthday, though. That felt too heavy, too final — as if acknowledging it might invite a new opening for caos.
But every spring and every fall, like clockwork, she returned to District Twelve.
It was on one of those visits, they went out to a party at the Hob. Or what would have passed as a party in Twelve. The place had changed since the war — rebuilt, but still carrying the spirit of what it had once been. There was music, soft and rustic, drifting through the crowd. Haymitch wasn’t much for dancing, but she dragged him up anyway.
Effie wore a simpler dress than the ones she used to favor, but it shimmered in the same purple hue as the first dress he’d ever seen her in. The ends of her hair were still dyed lavender — a quiet nod to her past — and her makeup was more soft, subtle but her eyeshadow still had hints of sparkle.
They danced slowly, awkwardly at first, but then the rhythm settled between them. Her hand in his, his arm around her waist. Familiar. Steady. They moved as though they had danced this dance a thousand times before, even if they hadn’t.
At some point his hand stopped in the strap of her dress.
"I must say I like this dress a lot better than that purple monstrosity you were wearing when we met. You looked like a bloated grape with heels higher than your morals."
Effie gasped and swatted his shoulder lightly. "Rude. That was couture."
"It was ridiculous. But I’ll give you this — you pulled it off. Somehow."
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, resting her head briefly against his chest.
"Is this the new cologne I sent you for Christmas?" She looked up at him “You smell like... effort.”
He snorted. "Don’t let it go to your head, Trinket."
"Too late," she replied, grin tugging at her lips. "You’re going to ruin my reputation if you keep acting like a gentleman."
"Good. Yours could use some ruining."
She laughed, tipping her head back. It echoed off the beams of the Hob’s ceiling, light and free — and for once, unguarded.
When he kissed her — soft, unhurried — it wasn’t new. They had done it a hundred times before. Just another in a long line of moments that belonged only to them. Unspoken, unclaimed, but deeply theirs.
Much later, as the sky began to pale and the horizon bled into golden pink, Katniss stepped outside with her bow slung over her shoulder. She paused, catching sight of them as they stumbled back along the dusty path to his house.
Effie was barefoot, heels in hand, laughing softly at something Haymitch had muttered. He had one hand at her back, steadying her as she walked. Neither of them noticed Katniss watching from the treeline.
The moment looked like a memory that had been waiting to be made.
There was history between them — tangled, fractured, and real. But there was also the quiet warmth of two people who had survived it all and still found something gentle in each other. A partnership.
There was happiness.
And sometimes, that was enough.