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Effie hasn't felt this anxious in a long time.
Wait— no, not anxious. Anxiety is a bad feeling, and bad feelings are not appropriate for the Hunger Games. She is, decidedly, not feeling anxious about her tributes. Instead, she feels… hopeful! That's a much more pleasant feeling, and thus more appropriate for the occasion. She's hopeful for her darling tributes from District Twelve. Effie will admit, she wasn't sure how to feel about Katniss upon meeting the girl, but Effie would be a liar if she said she wasn't hopeful for Katniss. Haymitch had said she has… what was it, spunk? Whatever that means, Effie agrees— Katniss is full of potential. The same goes for Peeta, as well. She is hopeful for him, too. The charming boy has certainly captured more than a handful of hearts.
Oh, if only hope didn't hurt so much.
"Effie, what did you do to that man?"
Effie is drawn out of her thoughts by the question. She fixes her smile back on her face— practiced and flawless, as always— and buys herself time by taking a sip of her fizzy drink. The escort who asked is in charge of District Eleven, a short woman who loves to add inches to her height in her elaborate hairstyles. She and Effie have been on fairly good terms since she was designated as Eleven's escort a decade or so ago. Once the tributes are in the arena, they often find each other for a pleasant chat or two.
"Oh, please, Elvira," Effie chuckles. She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "You know if there's anything I could have done to get him like this, I would have done it years ago."
Elvira giggles into her own flute of drink, looking over Effie's shoulder to the man in question. Effie follows her gaze, unable to get enough of the sight. Across a room filled with sponsors and mentors, is Haymitch. He's not at his usual seat next to the drink table— instead, he's sat on a lounge while he entertains a few potential sponsors.
It's our tributes that have achieved this, Effie thinks to herself. She lets her mind wander again, recalling the events of the past week.
When this year's Hunger Games started on July 4th, as always, the two of them began as they do every year. Haymitch was tucked away somewhere in his ruined house, filthy and unconscious after drinking himself stupid. Effie's job for the last 23 years has been to fetch him and clean him up as best she can. This year was no different. The first day on the train to the Capitol was the same, too— Haymitch hiding away from his responsibilities, downing every bottle of liquor he can find. But then… Effie noticed he only had two glasses of dark liquor at breakfast. She chalked it up to being so drawn in to her tributes this year, unable to spare time to monitor the drunken mentor. That line of thinking stopped when Haymitch began to only drink from one bottle a day. The thick glass bottles were always nearby, but Effie had never witnessed Haymitch nursing them.
More surprises came as they progressed through the Games. Of course, Haymitch was absent for the Parades— he always is, but she can hardly blame him for that. But, she'd be the first to admit that he was rather helpful during training and for the interviews. Usually, it was left to Effie to prepare their tributes for the various stages. Haymitch might add a caustic quip or morbid insight, but it only served to scare the tributes of past years. He still makes such comments, but Effie learned quickly that Katniss and Peeta are different. They don't cower from him, they demand more of him. And, she's happy to note, it seems to have worked.
Effie watches Haymitch carefully from her perch across the hall. It's been so long since she's seen that smile on his face. It's not a genuine smile, she's not foolish enough to believe so, but it's charming and lopsided and draws the Capitol elites right in. She imagines his voice, lilted with his strange Twelve accent rather than slurred with heavy booze. Even from here, she can see how bright and clear his eyes are. Everything he's doing is a show, an act meant to draw people in, she knows that, and yet… she can't help but find her feet drawing her closer.
The click of her heels is masked by the sounds of the crowd around her. She passes other mentors and, as she looks at them, a strange chill settles over her. There are a few well-known mentors that are busy with sponsors, especially those from One and Two. Lyme, one of the mentors of Two, is thoroughly entertaining a few citizens who regularly sponsor Two. Her partner mentor, however, is distracted as he speaks in hushed tones to mentors from One and Four.
Effie slows her pace, curiosity piqued, and watches them. The mentor from Two scowls for a brief moment before fixing his face. Four's mentor sports a tight jaw and rigid shoulders, glancing over her shoulder at their shared adversary. Effie can clearly make out Four mouthing, "What do we do?" and she realizes that these mentors are nervous.
She follows their gaze, scanning the crowd for the source of their ire. While there are a few other mentors in the general direction, it becomes abundantly clear they're speaking of Haymitch. He's the only one with a sizable crowd of attention. The dawning realization that these mentors— the feared, honorable victors of the higher districts— are worried over their tributes has Effie's shoulders squaring with pride. Her painted lips curve into a barely contained grin. The hope in her chest simmers into something warmer and solid.
Haymitch is leaning closer to his rapt audience as she continues her approach. He's got the full attention of a woman in particular, her shoulders wrapped in a very fine silk. While Haymitch doesn't ignore the others, Effie can see how his clear gaze pins this woman to the spot. In his hand, he's holding out a small code that patrons can scan with their own devices, allowing them to donate directly to District Twelve.
"Let's be honest," Haymitch is saying, that rakish grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "She's already got a stellar chance of winnin' this thing. But we both know that certain resources can turn that chance into a likelihood."
The woman chuckles and takes up his offer. Effie sidles up beside her victor, quietly as her heels will allow, as the patron finishes up her donation. A smooth, manicured hand pats Haymitch's cheek as his tablet gives a quiet ding— confirmation of money being transferred into the District Twelve account. Effie expects Haymitch to swat the woman's hand away, but instead he takes it into his own in a smooth motion.
"Thank you for your support," he grins as he kisses the back of her hand. It looks different on him than it would on a polished Capitol citizen, but it lands just how he intends. The new sponsor of Twelve smiles back, and adds a small boost to her donation.
She nods once to Effie, a simple acknowledgement of the escort's presence, before disappearing into the crowd. She'll surely sponsor another tribute or two, but Effie doesn't bother herself with that. The other citizens around Haymitch go to scan their donations in as well, and Haymitch thanks each of them in turn.
Effie quickly gives her own thanks to each patron. They don't turn to each other until the sponsors have turned away. Before Effie can greet him directly, he's plucking the fizzy drink from her hand and raising it to his mouth. It's not a strong drink, and he gulps it all down like it's water.
"Needed that," he sighs. On old habit, Effie rolls her eyes. She sinks onto the lounge next to him, noticeably more refined than his slouch.
"Sit up straight," she chides out of the corner of her mouth. He grumbles, but does as he's told.
Coal grey eyes flit about the crowd before settling on her— and they're almost the clearest Effie has ever seen them. She doesn't speak, and instead drops her eyes to the stolen flute in his hand. Haymitch shrugs and says, "Those kids conned me into drinking less."
"If it was that easy, I should have tried years ago," she jokes. It doesn't land as softly as she'd have liked, but it does get Haymitch's genuine smile to peek through. Still, his gaze darkens as he sets the empty glass on the floor.
"Just enough to keep me sane," he says as an explanation.
"Just enough to help them?" she asks. She meant this, too, as a chiding joke, but her voice is far more vulnerable than intended. The hope in her chest tightens.
"Something like that," Haymitch mumbles. It's as much of a confession of hope that she'll get from him, and she'll take it.
She goes to say something else to lighten the mood when Haymitch's attention is suddenly drawn to something above her. She follows his gaze, and sees Katniss on the large screen. The girl is filthy but alive after the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, and Effie has never been so happy to see a dirt-caked child. It seems like Katniss has finally stopped her frantic run through the woods. The cameras stay on her as she re-packs the small, orange pack she was able to get, and follow her as she makes her way through the wilderness. Effie looks to Haymitch, pleased to see Katniss so seemingly self-sufficient, only to find his brow drawn tight.
Now properly anxious, Effie looks back to the screen. Haymitch is muttering something under his breath, but she can't make it out. Did she miss something on screen? Is there another tribute nearby, waiting to strike Katniss down? The cameras shift focus, updating Panem on the surviving tributes as the daylight fades. Every line in Haymitch's body is tight while they cycle through, until Katniss is back on screen.
"It seems we have our first request," Flickerman is saying off-screen. Katniss is looking up at nothing, holding an empty metal canteen, and suddenly Effie realizes why Haymitch is so tense. Their girl hasn't found water yet. District Twelve is no stranger to tributes dying of thirst.
Effie wonders if Haymitch knows something she doesn't, since he makes no move to heed Katniss' silent request for aid. She scans her eyes across the scene around Katniss for as long as the camera will allow, but she can't see whatever it is Haymitch does. It's not until a larger map of the arena is flashed on screen that she gets her answer. The hosts step the audience through the map and the red dots that track the tributes. Sure enough, Katniss is on an adjacent path to a stream.
"C'mon, sweetheart," she hears Haymitch mutter. The red dot that follows Katniss is inching closer, but not fast enough.
The request to send her water is caught in Effie's throat. She's tried demanding things of Haymitch in the past, but to no avail. There's always a reason he won't do as she asks, and she knows there will be one now. Instead, her hand finds Haymitch's arm and clutches tight. The hope in her chest flares, threatening to strangle her as they watch Katniss on screen. The girl stumbles face-first into a mud bank and fails to get up. Effie can feel Haymitch's tension under her fingers as Katniss claws her way forward.
Her nerves a string about to snap when Haymitch whispers a quick, "Yes. There it is."
Bewilderment clouds Effie's mind as she watches the screen. Nothing has changed— Katniss is still on the forest floor, desperately crawling through the mud. She's not within range to see the water, so why is Haymitch so happy?
Then, it happens. Clarity draws across Katniss' face as those same, coal grey eyes take in the mud. Mud. It's slick and wet and sticks all over her, and it's exactly the motivation Katniss needs to propel herself forward. Effie's lungs release in a sigh of relief when Katniss finally finds her prize. Her tight grip on Haymitch's bicep releases.
"How did you know she would figure it out?" she asks him breathlessly.
"She's smart," is all he says. His eyes fall away from the screen. The tension throughout his body loosens ever so slightly, though Effie knows that neither of them will relax until their tributes are out of the Games. One way or another.
Something curious and tender pushes a query through Effie's throat. "Is that why you're helping her?"
Haymitch does not look at her. His charming mask from earlier slips, and she sees the fear behind it. Effie withdraws her hand from his arm like he's burnt her.
"Do you think she can win?" she asks under her breath. She doesn't mean to ask it— her lips spill the words against her will. Still… she needs Haymitch to answer.
The television screens and bright lights of the Games headquarters keep Haymitch's face illuminated. He returns his attention to a screen and watches the last few seconds of Katniss before the hosts move on. Shortly after, Peeta appears on the screen, but Effie isn't watching the television. She's watching Haymitch, and she does not miss the way he flinches at the mention of his other tribute.
Haymitch stays silent until he can pluck a drink from a passing server. This drink is a little heartier, more how he prefers, but he only drinks half. Effie watches as he schools his expression into something more approachable, no doubt for the nearby sponsors.
"Hope is a dangerous thing," he tells her quietly. "Only idiots hope."
That, Effie will admit, stings her deeply. Her heart churns angrily, and she has to fight a scowl off her face. Hope and anxiety mix together into an ugly mess in the pit of her stomach.
"Hypocrite," she whispers. Grey eyes find hers, a meaningless threat held in their depths. The threat is not all she sees, though… there is hurt, too, and the same spark she feels in her chest.
As much as his words are a slap in the face, it is also a cruel promise that this Haymitch will not stick around for long. It is an ugly reminder of the boy she first met 24 years ago— the boy who wore her uncle's clothes, who dazzled the audience, who picked something up for her… That boy is dead and gone, drowned by the man in front of her with decades worth of alcohol. And, as close to the surface as that old spark of life is, Effie knows that it will destroy Haymitch if neither of their tributes make it out alive.
Effie sighs unhappily and smooths her body into what it needs to be. Vibrant, refined, and welcoming. Anything else needs to be saved for later— or for never. The same must go for Haymitch if he's wanting to help Katniss.
"Fix your posture," Effie repeats. Her hands rise to Haymitch's face, and she uses her nails to brush out the worst of his hair. He leans away, of course, but it's very telling that he does not fight or embarrass her. Every line in him is stiff and resistant as Effie polishes and smooths him. "Now would be a good time to track down a few sponsors."
Haymitch grumbles something nasty about her, but she's gotten very good at ignoring him. He takes another sip of his drink— just a sip— and hands the glass to Effie. She grasps it, almost not knowing what to do with it. The weight it carries is more than just the liquor. When he finally rises, Effie's hand finds his.
"Do what you can for her," she says. It's as much a demand as a plea.
The mask fixes itself back over Haymitch's face, and he leans down with a false smile. He doesn't say anything, but instead seals his terror-ridden promise with a kiss to Effie's hand.