Work Text:
The thing about home, Effie Trinket would later decide, was that nobody ever bothered to tell you when it changed. People talked endlessly about finding home, returning home, building a home. No one ever warned you that one day you might wake up and discover it had quietly become something else entirely.
The Capitol had recovered beautifully, that was the official consensus, at least. The streets gleamed, the gardens had been replanted, the cafés were crowded again. Children ran through the squares where memorials stood beside newly restored fountains. Life had returned. Different, certainly, but returned all the same. Effie sat on a bench overlooking one of those fountains and watched a little girl chase a flock of decorative birds across the square. They fluttered away with far more grace than the geese in District 12 ever had. The thought arrived so naturally that it took her several seconds to realize she'd had it. Again. There seemed to be no end to it, District 12 appeared everywhere these days: in bakeries, in gardens, in weather, in songs; The entire Capitol could not seem to stop reminding her of a place it had spent seventy-five years looking down upon. Effie rose with a sigh.
— Honestly... — An elderly woman walking past glanced at her and Effie offered a bright smile. — Not you! — The woman hurried away and Effie couldn't really blame her.
People had become somewhat wary of strangers talking to themselves after the war.
By the time she reached her apartment, she had firmly decided to stop dwelling on District 12 altogether, it was becoming ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. Her apartment was lovely: spacious, elegant, filled with all the comforts she had once imagined missing while she was away. Fresh flowers sat on every available surface; a rack of carefully organized clothes occupied an entire wall. The sitting room looked as though it belonged in a design catalogue. Everything was perfect, which was perhaps the problem. Nothing was crooked, nothing was muddy, nothing looked lived in. Effie set her handbag on a side table and stared at the room. The silence stared back. In District 12, silence had never lasted very long. Katniss would appear needing something, Peeta would arrive carrying bread.
Haymitch would be-
No.
Effie immediately turned toward the kitchen. There would be absolutely no finishing that thought. Instead she prepared tea. Then another cup. Then a third. By the end of the afternoon she was simply drinking tea out of stubbornness. The next morning wasn't much better, neither was the morning after that. Food seemed less appealing lately, sleep came reluctantly, the books she'd once enjoyed remained unopened on her bedside table, she found herself standing at windows for no reason. Thinking about roads, thinking about forests, thinking about Victors' Village.
Thinking about-
No. Again. Absolutely not.
Three days later, Plutarch Heavensbee arrived at her door carrying pastries and an expression Effie immediately distrusted. She opened the door.
— Plutarch.
— Effie.
— Why are you smiling like that?
— Like what?
— Like you've already won an argument we haven't had yet. Plutarch considered this.
— That's fair.
— Go away.
— I brought pastries. — Effie looked at the box.
— That's emotional manipulation.
— It's working.
— Unfortunately.
He stepped inside, as usual. Because some habits survived revolutions. Plutarch settled into her sitting room as though he owned the place while Effie fetched tea. When she returned, he was already studying her, that should have been warning enough.
— You look dreadful.
Effie nearly spilled the tray. — What an extraordinary thing to say to someone who's offering you refreshments.
— You look tired.
— I look refined.
— You look exhausted.
— I look elegant.
— You look miserable.
Effie sat down with great dignity.
— I refuse to be insulted in my own sitting room.
— Then stop making it so easy.
— You're impossible.
— So I've been told, several times. — Plutarch accepted a pastry. — How long has it been since you've visited District 12?
Effie blinked. The question landed with surprising force.
— I fail to see how that's relevant.
— That's not an answer.
— Several months.
— Six.
— Excuse me?
— Six months.
— Have you been keeping track of my travel schedule?
— No.
His smile widened.
— You have.
Effie hated when people were correct, it happened far too often. Unfortunately, Plutarch was. Six months, two weeks and four days. Not that she'd been counting, certainly not.
— That's hardly unusual.
— Is it?
— Of course it is.
— Then why do you know the exact number?
Effie reached for her tea, a tactical retreat that her mother had taught her before. Plutarch watched her over the rim of his cup.
— You're unhappy.
— I am perfectly content.
— You sighed at a flower arrangement.
— It was a disappointing arrangement.
— Euphemia.
— The colors were competing with one another.
— Euphemia.
— And the roses were entirely wrong for the season.
— Effie.
She set down her cup.
— What?
— You're homesick.
For a moment, the room was silent. Then Effie laughed. A sharp, incredulous laugh.
— Don't be absurd.
— I'm serious.
— For the Capitol?
— No.
The answer came too quickly, far too quickly. Plutarch's eyebrows rose and Effie immediately regretted everything.
— Interesting.
— Not interesting.
— Very interesting.
— Not even slightly.
— Then let's hear it.
— Hear what?
— Where you'd rather be.
Effie opened her mouth. Closed it, opened it again, and, somehow, the first thing that emerged was:
— The bread is better there.
Plutarch stared.
— The bread?
— Peeta's bread.
— Ah.
— And the strawberries, even though I'm allergic.
— Naturally.
— And the geese.
Plutarch blinked.
— The geese.
— They're dreadful creatures.
— Yet you miss them.
— That's beside the point.
— Is it? Effie folded her arms.
— I have developed an entirely reasonable attachment to certain aspects of District 12.
— Reasonable.
— Entirely.
— Including the geese.
— Unfortunately.
Plutarch smiled. The sort of smile people wore when they had discovered something. Effie disliked it immediately.
— Have you heard from Katniss recently?
— Last week.
— And Peeta?
— Yesterday.
— And Haymitch?
The question escaped before she could stop it. Silence. Plutarch didn't say a word, which somehow made everything worse.
Effie looked away.
— The weather has been unusually pleasant.
— Effie.
— What?
— You're impossible.
— I prefer complex.
And for the first time that afternoon, Plutarch's expression softened: not mocking, not amused, just kind.
— You're homesick.
This time, Effie didn't argue. Because suddenly, horribly, she wasn't sure she could. And that was the beginning of the problem.
──────────── ✦ ────────────
The message arrived on a Thursday. Which, in Haymitch's opinion, was already enough to make it suspicious. Nothing good had ever happened on a Thursday.
He was sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold when the envelope appeared in the district mail. The handwriting alone made him groan.
— Oh, for the love of-
Plutarch, of course it was Plutarch. Haymitch considered throwing the letter directly into the nearest bush.
He almost did.
Then curiosity won, an unfortunate character flaw.
The note was short, that should have been his first warning. Anything involving Plutarch was usually longer, louder, and significantly more annoying.
Dear Haymitch,
Your friend is being stubborn. Which admittedly does not narrow things down much. Effie isn't doing particularly well. Nothing serious. She's healthy, safe and functional. Just homesick. For District 12 and her kids.
You may do with that information what you will.
— P.H
Haymitch stared at the letter.
Then read it again, then a third time, then folded it, then unfolded it, then read it a fourth time.
— Idiot.
Whether he meant Plutarch or himself remained unclear, the letter disappeared into his jacket pocket.
Ten minutes later he found himself walking toward the bakery, which was how he knew he had a problem, because there was absolutely no reason to involve Katniss and Peeta.
None whatsoever.
Yet somehow his feet had decided otherwise.
The bell above the bakery door rang as he entered and the smell of fresh bread hit him immediately, a familiar and comforting scent.
Peeta looked up from behind the counter.
— Haymitch.
— Boy.
— You look concerned.
— I do not.
— You do.
— You sound like Plutarch.
— That's not a compliment.
— Good.
Peeta wiped flour from his hands.
— What happened?
Haymitch handed him the letter.
Peeta read it and smiled.
Haymitch immediately regretted everything.
— Don't.
— Don't what?
— Whatever that look is.
— I haven't said anything.
— That's worse.
Peeta folded the letter carefully.
— Effie's homesick.
— Apparently.
— That's sad.
— Apparently.
— She misses us.
— Apparently.
Peeta looked up.
— Mostly you.
— Absolutely not.
The bakery door opened, and Katniss stepped inside carrying a basket of wildflowers.
— What's happening?
— Haymitch is worried about Effie.
— I am not.
— He is.
Katniss considered this.
— Oh.
— That's it?
— What?
— That's all you have to say?
— What else is there to say?
Haymitch pinched the bridge of his nose, Peeta looked entirely too pleased with himself and Katniss set the flowers down.
— Is she okay?
— According to Plutarch.
— Then what's the problem?
Peeta handed her the note.
She read it.
Frowned.
Read it again.
Then looked at Haymitch.
— So go get her.
Haymitch blinked.
— Excuse me?
— Go get her.
— That's your solution?
— Seems obvious.
— It absolutely does not.
— Why?
— Because she's a grown woman.
— Obviously.
— She can make her own decisions.
— Obviously.
— She doesn't need me.
Katniss tilted her head.
— Then why are you here?
Silence.
Peeta suddenly became very interested in a tray of bread.
The traitor.
Haymitch glared at both of them.
— You two are insufferable.
— We learned from the best.
— That's not the compliment you think it is.
— I'm not trying to compliment you. — Katniss crossed her arms. — Did she ask for help?
— No.
— Did Plutarch?
— Not exactly.
— Are you worried?
— No.
Both of them stared.
Haymitch sighed.
— Maybe a little.
Did she ask for help?
— No.
— Did Plutarch?
— Not exactly.
— Are you worried?
— No.
Both of them stared.
Haymitch sighed.
— Maybe a little.
Katniss's expression softened.
— She misses home.
The words settled heavily between them because they all understood what that meant. District 12 wasn't much, never had been. But it was theirs, and somewhere along the way, it had become hers too.
Peeta spoke quietly.
— She belongs here.
Haymitch looked away out the bakery window toward the road, toward the Village, toward the life they had somehow managed to build from the ashes. He remembered Effie arranging flowers on Katniss's table, complaining about dust, organizing community events nobody wanted until they attended and secretly enjoyed. He remembered her sitting on his porch one evening, talking about absolutely nothing while the sun disappeared behind the hills. He remembered her laughter, the bright, unexpected sound of it, the way it seemed to linger.
The bakery suddenly felt too warm.
— You're all ridiculous.
Katniss rolled her eyes.
— You're going.
— I'm not.
— You're already going.
— I'm not.
— You've been standing there planning it for five minutes.
— I have not, girl!
Peeta smiled.
— Bring her home.
Something in Haymitch's chest tightened.
Home; interesting choice of words. Very unfortunate choice of words.
He hated it immediately.
— Fine.
Katniss blinked.
— Fine?
— Fine.
Peeta grinned.
— You're going.
— Apparently.
— When?
Haymitch turned toward the door.
— Tomorrow.
Katniss exchanged a look with Peeta. One of those looks: the ones that made him feel as though he was being discussed without permission.
— Stop that.
— Stop what?
— Whatever that is.
Peeta laughed.
Haymitch pointed a finger at both of them.
— If either of you says a single word to Effie about this, I'll disappear into the woods and never return.
— Noted.
— I'm serious.
— Of course.
— I mean it.
Katniss picked up her flowers.
— Bring Effie back.
Haymitch opened the door.
— We'll see.
But even as he said it, he knew. By this time tomorrow, he'd be halfway to the Capitol. And somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, that felt exactly right.
──────────── ✦ ────────────
The problem with Haymitch Abernathy was that once he made a decision, there was very little point arguing with him. Unfortunately, this included himself. The train left District 12 at seven the following morning.
By seven-thirty, he had already considered turning around.
By eight, he had convinced himself the entire trip was ridiculous.
By nine, he was wondering whether Effie still kept that absurd collection of decorative cushions.
By ten, he was annoyed that he knew the answer.
The answer was yes, obviously.
The woman treated cushions the way other people treated family heirlooms.
By noon, he was standing in the Capitol.
The city hadn't changed much, not really. Cleaner, quieter, less frantic, but still unmistakably the Capitol. Haymitch had never liked it.
He made it exactly three blocks before somebody offered him a complimentary pastry.
He declined on principle.
The apartment building, however, was impossible to miss.
Effie had somehow managed to choose the most Effie-looking building in the entire city.
Elegant stonework, gold accents, an entrance that practically announced itself.
Haymitch stood outside for a moment.
Then another.
Then another.
— This is stupid.
A passing woman glanced at him.
Haymitch glared.
She hurried away.
Good.
At least somebody around here had common sense.
He finally climbed the stairs and knocked.
Nothing happened.
He waited.
Knocked again.
Still nothing.
His stomach did something unpleasant.
Then footsteps sounded from inside.
Slow footsteps.
Not Effie's usual quick, purposeful pace.
The door opened and there she was.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Effie's eyes widened.
Haymitch felt strangely aware of the fact that he was standing on her doorstep.
Several hundred miles from home.
Because of her.
A fact he planned to ignore completely.
— Haymitch.
— Princess.
The nickname slipped out automatically, the way it always had, the way it probably always would, and something flickered across Effie's face. Gone almost immediately, but there.
A tiny crack in whatever composure she'd been holding together.
— What are you doing here?
— Nice to see you too.
— Haymitch.
— Plutarch ratted you out.
Effie groaned.
Actually groaned.
— That man is incapable of minding his own business.
— That's true.
— I told him I was perfectly fine.
— You look terrible.
— Excuse me?
— Everybody keeps saying that.
— Because apparently everybody's developed a concerning disregard for manners.
Haymitch stepped inside.
Effie didn't stop him, which, in hindsight, should have been another warning sign. Normally she would have objected at length. Instead, she simply closed the door behind him.
The apartment looked exactly the way he'd imagined: beautigul, organized, and somehow lonely. A vase of fresh flowers stood near the window, several books were stacked neatly on a table.
Everything looked perfect, too perfect. Nobody had been living in the place, not really.
— Have you eaten today?
Effie blinked.
— Good afternoon to you as well.
— That's not an answer.
— I had breakfast.
— What'd you eat?
— Tea.
— Tea isn't breakfast.
— It absolutely can be.
— No.
— You're being very negative.
— You're being weird.
Effie gasped.
— Weird?
— Weirder than usual.
— That's deeply offensive.
— Princess.
— Don't "Princess" me.
— Then eat something.
Effie folded her arms.
Haymitch folded his.
The standoff lasted approximately twelve seconds.
Then Effie sighed.
— Fine.
Victory.
Small but significant.
— Fine what?
— Fine, I'll eat.
— Good.
— You're impossible.
— That's rich.
A few moments later she returned carrying fruit.
Haymitch stared.
— That's lunch?
— It's very respectable fruit.
— It's three grapes.
— Four.
— Princess.
— Fine. Five.
He snorted.
Effie smiled, the smile appeared unexpectedly. Soft and quick, gone before he could think too much about it, which was probably for the best. Thinking too much where Effie was concerned rarely ended well.
They settled into the sitting room and, for a while, they talked about nothing. And then somehow, without either of them noticing, they talked about everything. District 12, the rebuilding efforts, the bakery, the Village, Greasy Sae, the school, the geese. Especially the geese.
— One of them stole my scarf.
Haymitch nearly choked.
— A goose stole your scarf?
— It was a beautiful scarf.
— You got mugged by a bird.
— It was an ambush.
— Sure.
— There were witnesses.
— This somehow makes it worse.
For the first time since he'd arrived, Effie laughed.
Really laughed. Not the polite version nor the social version.
The real one: bright and warm, entirely Effie.
And suddenly Plutarch's letter made sense. Not because she looked ill. She didn't, not exactly. She simply looked like someone who hadn't laughed in a very long time, the realization settled quietly, uncomfortably. Haymitch looked away first.
The afternoon stretched around them.
Hours passing almost without notice.
At some point Effie made tea, at some point Haymitch found himself helping, at some point they ended up standing side by side in her kitchen. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, which was dangerous. Very dangerous.
— Katniss threatened me.
Effie looked up.
— Did she?
— Apparently if I came all the way here and didn't bring you back, she'd never forgive me.
A pause.
— Bring me back?
Haymitch pretended to study the tea kettle.
— That's what she said.
Silence.
Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful.
Effie's gaze drifted toward the window toward the city beyond it. The shining streets and elegant buildings, everything she'd once wanted. Everything she'd fought so hard to return to. And somehow, for the first time, Haymitch understood: the problem wasn't that she disliked the Capitol, the problem was that she loved something else now. Something she'd never expected, something she'd never meant to need. Home had moved, but neither of them said it aloud. They didn't need to.
— Haymitch?
— Yeah?
Effie hesitated.
Just briefly.
— Did they really ask about me?
Haymitch answered immediately.
— Every week.
Effie's eyes widened.
— What?
— Every week.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
— Peeta keeps setting aside bread recipes he thinks you'd like.
Her hand flew to her chest.
— He does not.
— He does.
— That's absurdly sweet.
— Yeah.
— And Katniss?
— Complains about you constantly.
— Ah.
— Mostly because she misses you.
Effie looked suspiciously pleased by that.
— I knew it.
— Don't let it go to your head.
— It's already gone to my head.
— Obviously.
For a moment she simply sat there, looking happier than she had all day.
Then she asked quietly:
— And you?
Haymitch met her eyes, then looked away.
— What about me?
— Did you miss me?
Oh. That was unfair, entirely unfair.
Haymitch cleared his throat.
— The geese miss you.
Effie stared.
Then laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. And somehow, despite himself, Haymitch laughed too. Neither of them noticed that it was the first time all day the apartment had felt like a home.
──────────── ✦ ────────────
The morning they left the Capitol, Effie Trinket managed to injure herself with a hatbox. To be fair, it was not entirely her fault. Mostly, perhaps. The details were still under investigation.
— How does that even happen?
Effie pressed a handkerchief against her cheek and glared at Haymitch.
— I was organizing.
— You were packing.
— Elegantly packing.
— You dropped a box on your face.
— The box slipped.
— Onto your face.
— I don't appreciate your tone.
Haymitch looked unimpressed. Which, unfortunately, was his default expression.
The accident had occurred less than twenty minutes earlier: one moment Effie had been reaching for a stack of boxes on the top shelf of her wardrobe, the next moment gravity had intervened violently. The corner of an ornate hatbox had clipped her cheek on the way down, leaving a thin cut just beneath her eye. Not deep, not serious. But dramatic-looking, which was arguably worse.
— This is dreadful.
— It's a scratch.
— It's on my face.
— It'll heal.
— My face, Haymitch.
— Princess.
— My face.
He sighed.
The sound carried all the exhaustion of a man who had spent the last three days watching Effie rediscover the concept of eating regular meals.
— You'll survive.
— Easy for you to say.
— Pretty sure that's exactly why it's easy for me to say.
Effie narrowed her eyes.
Then immediately regretted it.
— Ow.
— There it is.
— What?
— Consequences.
— You're enjoying this.
— A little.
— Horrible man.
— Dramatic woman.
The argument continued all the way to the train station, where Plutarch was waiting for them, because of course he was. Effie suspected the man would've attended the departure of a loaf of bread if he thought there was even the slightest chance of witnessing something entertaining. He stood beside the train platform with his hands in his pockets and the expression of someone who knew entirely too much. Which, unfortunately, he usually did.
— Plutarch.
— Effie.
His eyes immediately landed on the cut.
— What happened to you?
— Nothing.
— That's clearly not true.
— A hatbox attacked me.
Plutarch blinked.
— A hatbox.
— It was a highly unfortunate misunderstanding.
— I see.
— Don't encourage her.
— I'm not.
— You are.
— Maybe a little.
Effie sighed.
No one respected her dignity anymore, not even slightly. The luggage had already been loaded. Far too much luggage, according to Haymitch. A perfectly reasonable amount of luggage, according to Effie. The truth, as always, was somewhere in the middle.
— You'll write?
Plutarch's question surprised her, not because he asked: because of the way he asked. Gentler than usual, less politician, more friend.
Effie smiled, areal smile.
— Of course.
— Good.
A pause.
— And if you decide you hate District 12 after all-
— I won't.
Plutarch laughed.
— No. I don't suppose you will.
Something tightened unexpectedly in Effie's chest.
The Capitol had been her home for so long, Plutarch was one of the few pieces of it she still recognized. One of the few people who had remained after everything changed. Before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and hugged him.
Plutarch looked surprised, then pleased.
— Well.
— Don't make it weird.
— Effie, I'm deeply committed to making things weird.
— I know.
— It's one of my best qualities.
Haymitch made a noise somewhere between a snort and a groan.
Plutarch grinned.
— Take care of her.
— She's forty-something years old.
— That's not what I said.
Haymitch rolled his eyes, Effie pretended not to notice.
The train whistle sounded, their final warning: time to board, time to leave, time to go home. The thought arrived unexpectedly, and this time Effie didn't push it away.
Her home wasn't the Capitol anymore, the realization should have frightened her. Instead it felt strangely comforting, like finally admitting something she'd known all along.
──────────── ✦ ────────────
The train ride passed more quickly than the journey to the Capitol had, perhaps because neither of them spent much time alone. They played cards, Effie cheated, Haymitch accused her of cheating, Effie accused him of lacking imagination.
At one point she fell asleep reading.
At another, Haymitch caught her staring out the window smiling.
By the time the train crossed into District 12, the familiar ache inside her chest had already begun to ease.
The forests appeared first, endless green rolling across the horizon, the hills, the roads...then home.
Effie hadn't realized how much she'd missed it until she saw it.
Beside her, Haymitch remained quiet. Not uncomfortable, just watching, as if he already knew what this meant.
The station came into view.
Effie's stomach immediately flipped.
— Oh dear.
— What?
— What if they've forgotten me?
Haymitch stared.
— Princess.
— What?
— Katniss threatened me if I came back without you.
— That's true.
— Peeta asks about you every week.
— Also true.
— One of them baked cookies.
Effie gasped.
— Peeta baked cookies?
— I didn't say which one.
— It was Peeta.
— Yeah.
— I knew it.
The train slowed.
Then stopped.
And suddenly there was no more time for worrying.
──────────── ✦ ────────────
They weren't waiting at the station, which was perhaps for the best, because Effie wasn't entirely sure she could've survived a public reunion. Instead they walked past familiar roads, familiar houses, toward the Victors' Village. Toward the place she'd spent months pretending she didn't miss. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, a breeze stirred the trees, everything looked exactly as she remembered. And somehow better.
When they reached the bakery, the door was open, the smell hit her first: fresh bread and warm sugar.
Haymitch didn't bother knocking, he simply walked inside, Effie followed and froze. Peeta looked up first, the bowl in his hands nearly slipped.
— Effie?
For a moment nobody moved.
Then Peeta crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped his arms around her.
— You came back.
Effie's eyes burned.
Annoyingly.
— Apparently.
— We've missed you.
— I've missed you too.
The words emerged softer than she'd intended.
Peeta smiled, the same warm smile she'd spent months missing.
Then another voice called from the kitchen.
— Peeta, what's-
Katniss appeared and stopped, the room fell silent.
Effie had forgotten how expressive Katniss's face could be. Every emotion appeared there instantly: surprise, relief, happiness. And then, alarm.
Katniss's eyes narrowed.
— What happened to your face?
Effie closed her eyes.
Of course. Of course that would be the first thing.
— It's nothing.
— That's blood. What happened?
— A hatbox.
Silence.
Katniss looked at Haymitch, Haymitch looked at Katniss.
Neither spoke.
Finally:
— A hatbox.
— That's what I said.
— A hatbox did that.
— It was an accident.
Katniss continued staring.
— How?
— I don't want to talk about it.
Peeta had already moved closer, inspecting the cut.
— It looks like it's healing well.
— Thank you, Peeta.
— Unlike some people, he has manners.
— A hatbox.
Effie groaned.
Katniss crossed the room, and before Effie could react, she pulled her into a hug: quick, awkward, entirely Katniss. Effie nearly burst into tears, which was embarrassing. And therefore absolutely could not happen.
— Welcome back.
The words were simple, but they settled somewhere deep inside her.
Effie blinked rapidly.
— Thank you, my girl.
Across the room, Haymitch noticed the shine in her eyes, the way her shoulders relaxed, the way she seemed lighter somehow. Like someone finally setting down a weight they'd been carrying too long. Katniss was already interrogating her about the injury, Peeta was offering food. Naturally. The bakery smelled like fresh bread, the windows were open, the afternoon sun spilled across the floor.
And for the first time in months, Effie felt completely, undeniably at peace.
Home.
She was home.
──────────── ✦ ────────────
By the time Effie and Haymitch left the bakery, the sky above District 12 had darkened into a deep shade of blue. The lamps along the road cast small pools of golden light across the snow-dusted ground, and the cold seemed to sharpen with every passing minute. Effie walked beside him with her hands buried inside her coat sleeves, refusing to admit she was freezing. Unfortunately, Haymitch had known her for far too long.
— You're cold.
— I am not.
— Princess.
— Haymitch.
— Your nose is red.
— That is entirely unrelated.
— Sure.
Effie huffed and pulled her coat tighter around herself.
The truth was that she didn't mind the cold nearly as much as she remembered. Not tonight, at least. Everything felt different now that she was back. The trees looked familiar. The roads looked familiar. Even the distant glow of the Victors' Village felt comforting in a way she hadn't expected.
For months, she'd convinced herself that returning to the Capitol was the final step toward putting her life back together. She had imagined herself settling back into old routines, reconnecting with old friends, and rediscovering the version of herself that had existed before the war.
Instead, she had spent six months missing a district she had once dreaded visiting.
Life was funny that way.
They reached Haymitch's house a few minutes later.
The porch steps creaked beneath their weight, just as they always had. The front door stuck slightly before opening, just as it always had. Even the faint scent of old wood and fireplace smoke felt familiar.
Effie smiled despite herself.
— It's exactly the same.
— That's because nobody's fixed anything.
— I noticed.
— Good.
She set her overnight bag beside the door and glanced around the living room. It looked much as she remembered: comfortable, slightly cluttered, and undeniably Haymitch. A blanket had been thrown carelessly across the sofa. A book rested upside down on the table. Near the fireplace sat a half-finished bottle that had probably been there for days.
Somehow, all of it made her feel more at ease than the pristine apartment she'd left behind in the Capitol.
They spent another hour sitting near the fire, talking about nothing in particular. Effie told him about a disastrous charity luncheon she'd been forced to attend. Haymitch told her about a goose that had somehow wandered into Katniss's yard and terrorized everyone for two days.
Effie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.
The sound lingered warmly in the room.
Eventually, however, the fire began to burn lower, and the late hour finally caught up with them.
— We should probably sleep.
— That's a sensible suggestion.
— Don't sound so surprised.
— I am a little surprised.
Effie stood and immediately regretted it as a draft swept through the room.
— Oh, honestly.
— Still cold?
— This house is determined to kill me.
— Dramatic.
— I confess to having a moment...
Haymitch shook his head and disappeared down the hallway.
When he returned a moment later, he was carrying two additional blankets.
— Here.
— Thank you.
— Don't mention it.
She accepted them gratefully and followed him toward the bedroom. Only when they stepped inside did a rather obvious problem present itself: there was one bed.
Effie stopped, Haymitch stopped.
For several seconds, neither of them said anything.
Then:
— Well.
— Yeah.
— That's inconvenient.
— Not at all.
Effie glanced around the room as though a second bed might magically appear if she looked hard enough.
It did not.
— I can take the sofa.
— Absolutely not.
— Haymitch-
— It's freezing in this house.
— That is unfortunately true.
— Besides, we're adults.
— That's debatable.
To her relief, he laughed.
The tension eased immediately.
Because he was right.
They were adults. They had survived far more complicated things than sharing a bed for a single night. Even so, Effie found herself strangely nervous as she changed into her nightclothes and climbed beneath the blankets. The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight slipping through the curtains.
Haymitch settled on the other side of the bed.
For a while, neither moved, the silence wasn't uncomfortable: it was simply unfamiliar. Months ago, the idea of this would have seemed impossible.
Now it felt oddly natural.
Outside, the wind rattled against the windows.
Effie pulled the blanket higher and after several minutes, she sighed.
— This is ridiculous.
— What is?
— I'm freezing.
Haymitch turned his head slightly.
Even in the darkness, she could feel him looking at her.
— Come here.
Effie hesitated for all of three seconds.
Then she moved.
The mattress shifted as she settled closer, and almost immediately she felt warmth. Real warmth. The kind no blanket seemed capable of providing.
Neither of them commented on it.
Haymitch draped an arm around her shoulders with the casual ease of someone who wasn't thinking too hard about what he was doing. Perhaps he wasn't, perhaps she wasn't either. For the first time in months, Effie felt completely relaxed.
She rested her head lightly against his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. And somehow, for the first time since returning to the Capitol after the war, she no longer felt restless. No longer felt lost, no longer felt as though something important was missing.
— Haymitch?
— Yeah?
His voice was already rough with sleep.
Effie smiled.
— I think Plutarch was right.
A quiet laugh vibrated through his chest.
— Shit, princess...that's a sentence nobody likes saying.
— I know.
— About what, exactly?
She considered the question.
For a long moment, she listened to the wind outside and thought about the last six months. About the apartment in the Capitol. About the sleepless nights and untouched meals. About the strange ache she'd carried everywhere without understanding it.
Then she thought about today, about Peeta's hug, about Katniss's concern, about the bakery, about this house, about him.
— I thought I missed a place.
The silence that followed felt gentle rather than heavy.
— And?
Effie smiled into the darkness.
— Turns out I missed people.
Haymitch didn't answer immediately. Instead, his arm tightened ever so slightly around her shoulders.
— Yeah, Princess.
The nickname sounded different now, like something precious he'd been carrying for a long time.
— I guess that's usually how it works.
Effie closed her eyes.
Outside, winter continued its march across District 12. The wind swept through the trees, and somewhere in the distance a branch creaked beneath its weight of snow. Inside, however, everything felt warm. She thought briefly about all the complicated things neither of them had said. About the conversations still waiting for another day. About feelings that had quietly settled between them over years rather than appearing all at once.
There would be time for those things later. Tomorrow, next week, next month.
For now, this was enough. More than enough.
Home, she realized, wasn't the Capitol. It wasn't even District 12. It was this: the people who waited for her.
The family she'd never expected to find.
The man whose arm remained wrapped securely around her, even as sleep slowly pulled them both under.
Effie smiled one final time.
And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, she drifted off to sleep.
Home at last.
──────────── ✦ ────────────