#HayffieFics

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Impossible things, part 2

NSFW 🔥. This fic is set about 9 years after Mockingjay. Part 1 is here. My Hayffie masterpost is here. — Reconnecting with what I imagine of Haymitch and Effie’s voices has been an imperfect and enjoyable experience for me after 19 months away from writing. The channel for creation in/through me feels very rusty... What once felt like my natural breath, like being breathed by the universe, at this point requires effort. That said, crafting this fic, surreal and awkward as it may be, offered me something good, and I’m paying that something forward. I needed this, therefore this is here. — The geese antics are a bit of playfulness for the incredible @hayffiebird 🌸… an amazing human, masterful creator, and beautiful friend. — Gratitude to Taylor and Lana for offering one more song for my Hayffie soundtrack. — I could edit this fic forever, but I’ll stop in order to receive the imperfections. It’s “just fanfiction” after all. And I’m “just human.” At least those are the stories I tell myself in moments when I forget what else I know.

She twirls in silk printed with budding yellow flowers. Her cheeks flush in anticipation as she follows the old familiar script.

“For the honor of representing District 12... Ladies first...” She reaches into the ball, pulls out a slip of paper, unfolds it, and reads her own name. “…Effie Trinket!”

She offers no resistance, no stubborn insistence that there’s been a mistake.

Haymitch tries to speak, and his tongue turns to cotton. He starts to move forward, and his boots tangle in tree roots and tiny bones. A well opens, flowing upward through his body, filling, filling, filling every fiber of his being with silent screams.

“Surrender,” she tells him, “It’s not what you think.”

He shakes his head. ‘Stay alive’ is what he knows.

“Is that enough?” she asks, “Or do you want to live?”

He wonders what’s the difference.

In the wonder, his head splits open and spills the sea. All the waters that have ever been and will ever be fall at his feet and become the tides.

Effie embraces him in the magic. His tongue returns to flesh, and his flesh burns.

“What’s happening?” he asks.

“The oldest game. …Come with me,” she beckons, “Like this…”

She kicks her shoes off in the sand and runs barefoot along the water to a carousel of painted horses. The flowers she wears come to life and bloom golden. Their petals take flight and swirl around him like warm flakes of snow.

🎶 …It’s coming down, it’s coming down, it’s coming down, it’s coming down... 🎶

The carousel plays as it turns. Effie goes by, and she goes by, and she goes by, and she goes by. The wind spins her hair into cotton candy.

At every turn she asks him, “What are you waiting for?”

***

Haymitch woke with the memory of her voice ringing in his ears. He was slumped over in a chair, like the mid afternoon sun dipping below the treetops. His head throbbed, and his mouth felt like cotton. He touched his tongue to make sure it was there. He recalled the dream but little about the days before. Just a dark haze, then a bright haze, then a dark haze, and so on. That was becoming his life again. Alcohol blurred the fine details of night and day. It’s not the life he wanted, but it’s the one he had. He knew there had been bourbon, a lot of it, but he saw no empty bottles. The room was clean. Cleaner than it had been since— “Effie?”

He stood up too quickly and fell down again onto the arm of the chair. Trying to catch his balance, he reached out and caught the pole of a floor lamp, toppling it through a windowpane. He ended up on the floor, without a scratch except for the cut on the palm of his hand that he didn’t want to remember. But the memories were staring at him nonetheless — a goddamn reporter, a phone call, unbloomed flowers, and loneliness.

The chill of winter blew in through the cracked window. Snow had fallen during the night or the day before, or possibly even earlier. He lost track of time. The geese were oddly silent, and he shuddered at the possibility that they were dead from his neglect. Things were falling apart again, including the dregs of himself, and he was letting it happen. If he let Effie’s goose freeze, she wouldn’t forgive him. Not that she was going to forgive any of his shit anyway. She was better off leaving him alone.

He stood up slower this time and peered into the kitchen. That room was clean too, and there was a fresh loaf of bread on the counter. Peeta. The kid had not lost his tendency to try to keep people alive who didn’t really want to be living.

Haymitch’s stomach rumbled in response to the aroma of the bread, but past experience along with the dried vomit on his shirt suggested that his gut wouldn’t be ready yet to keep down anything solid. He fumbled with scooping out coffee grounds and putting on a pot to brew. Then he dragged himself upstairs to sober up in the shower so he could track down the geese, wherever they were, before another night fell. Winter was the one season when they really depended on his attention. Their wild cousins were flying south. But his geese were long-domesticated, and they were stuck with him.

Without taking off his clothes, he stepped into the shower. It was more immediate than doing laundry and more logical than burning the clothes with the garbage. He took a wide stance to keep from falling down as warm water spilled over him and turned the muscles of his legs to jelly. He tilted his head up to the nozzle and opened his mouth to collect water for rinsing his teeth. This approach was quicker than using a toothbrush. The shower had become his answer to nearly everything that he couldn’t get in a bottle of liquor. Hell, if he woke up with an erection, he could even jerk off in here and pretend he didn’t need anyone for anything. But today there was no need for pretending, only flaccid emptiness.

He peeled off each article of clothing until he was naked and the shower ran cold. Then he stayed a moment longer to clear away the fog left in his head after yesterday’s binge. Goosebumps spread across his body, and the planet of fear that he drank to shove down crept into his chest, threatening to explode the world. He mollified it by telling himself he’d restock his alcohol while out looking for the geese, and he’d drink again later.

He turned off the water and pulled a clean towel from the cabinet. It was one of Effie’s, pink and soft. It held the scent of her which was gone now from the set of sheets that he’d been sleeping on for the month since she left him. He just stood there, dripping on the bathroom floor and holding her towel — not wrapping it around his shoulders or warming up his body, not going to a place of indulgence in what was. If he did that, it would be too hard to keep going. He put her towel back on the shelf, and dried off with one of his own that smelled of moth balls and stale reality.

He draped his wet clothes over the shower door then dressed for winter. He needed to check on the kids too. They had asked him for help repairing storm shutters. It was a project that wouldn’t require as much sobriety as, say, climbing up on the roof to clear the rain gutters or sweeping the chimney. When had they asked him? Last week? The week before? The first storm already hit before he got around to helping them. He wondered if it could ever be possible for him to not let everyone down and if there could come a time again when his small world would feel less like hell.

***

Effie stepped off the train onto the icy platform. A gust of wind chilled her neck, so she buttoned her ankle length coat to the top and pulled up the hood. She adjusted her purse over her shoulder and pulled a large rolling suitcase filled with all of the possessions she had taken away with her last month.

The storm she’d been watching through the windows on the train had arrived in 12 before her, and it laid on the ground a thick blanket of snow. The town was still dressed up with remnants of Yuletide. Buildings had been decorated with boughs of evergreen, symbolizing life, rebirth, and renewal. Doors, windows, and fireplaces were brightened with holly, signifying hope and potency.

Oh, mistletoe… and ribbons! She touched a gloved hand to her chest, admiring the simple splendor. The plant had been collected from trees and hung over doorways for protection and fertility. These were old customs resurrected from from ancient times, long before the Dark Days — from simpler times, almost forgotten and brought to life again.

During the past couple of years, Effie had taken to joining the seasonal festival committees, and she felt displaced now seeing that this holiday had come and gone without her participation. The aging decorations tugged at her heartstrings, and she felt sentimental about how it all might have been.

She did not know how this day would unfold, but she felt freshly determined to make this work, to continue to forge a life here, despite the pangs of doubt that kept coming back no matter how certain she felt at times that they were gone for good. She set her heels in the snow and made her way along the road.

I’m afraid… I’m afraid… I’m afraid… A voice from within repeated over and over. She didn’t know which part of her was afraid to be returning home or why. How would she be received? What emotionality would she encounter? Would she be forgiven for having left? Was she making a big big big mistake? Would she fail to fully grasp whatever it was that she was wanting so desperately?

She needed his heart with her heart, his hands with her hands, his body with her body. Screw the heartache from forever; she needed him now. And she was as terrified as she was thrilled to be heading again toward that possibility.

She hadn’t gotten far when she heard a commotion coming the Hob. From a distance, she saw Greasy Sae banging a frying pan with a large steel ladle and chasing a flock of geese out of the building.

“You birds come after my food again, and I’ll be cookin’ each and every one o’ ya in a stew!”

The hooligan geese were unmistakably Haymitch’s. Effie’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. What in the world!

“Effie Trinket! I am glad to see YOU.” The mayor waved from a couple of blocks away and walked toward her. Effie wished a snow bank would open up and swallow her. Today she wanted to pass through town unnoticed, and she was not succeeding.

“Mayor,” she greeted him with a version of her old plaster smile.

“I trust that you are here to collect those geese! Haymitch has been informed in the past that district ordinances require livestock to be kept in agricultural and residential zones only. We simply cannot tolerate them around the businesses. No exceptions!”

Pulling her bag through the snow was challenging enough. She did not want to deal with the geese too, but she was uncomfortable thinking about how cold and hungry they probably were to have ventured into the Hob of all places!

Recovering geese who wandered off when fences went down or gates were left open was Haymitch’s work. Effie generally took little interest in them beyond gathering their eggs in support of Peeta’s baking or hollering at them to shut up in moments when she could not tolerate their noise.

“I will do what I can about the geese,” she told the mayor, “Regardless, they will be relocated to their coop within the hour, and they will NOT be returning to town under my watch.”

“I knew we could depend on you to remedy this nuisance. It is good to have you back.”

Effie reached into her purse and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in parchment. She purchased it from the dining car, but since she had no appetite on the train, now it would be a bribe. She made a clucking sound in the direction of the geese who were foraging at the foot of a dumpster. A large white goose with brown speckles on her neck waddled in Effie’s direction. The rest of the flock followed on her heels.

Haymitch had referred to that one as “Effie’s goose” since the day last summer when the bird injured her foot, and Effie wrapped her in a towel and spent the afternoon holding her on the porch. That day Haymitch was willing to name what he was feeling as love. That declaration was a long time coming.

Sometimes a thing gets so big inside us that we need to either come out with it or die. She knew that if love had been the only thing growing in them, then they wouldn’t be struggling. More was needing to be expressed here. She couldn’t work with what she didn’t know or couldn’t see clearly. It was like trying to juggle invisible balls.

The speckled goose looked up from Effie’s feet, glancing between her and the sandwich with rapt interest. The other geese eyed the food too. The birds started chatting and nipping at each other over which one of them had the biggest claim to it.

Effie stood up straight and held the sandwich in the air. “That is ENOUGH ruckus! NONE of you will be getting anything until you are back home where you belong. Come along now.” She set off again down the snow covered road, pulling her bag behind her with one hand and holding the sandwich toward the sky with the other. She was half-hoping the geese would follow her, and half-hoping Sae would come back out of the Hob and haul the lot of them into her soup pot! Except for the speckled one. Effie wouldn’t be letting that one go.

***

Haymitch held a steaming mug of coffee in both hands as he crossed the frozen yard. A large tree branch had gone down, blockading the door to the goose coop. Setting his mug on a fence post, he yanked at the branch until it pulled away. Then he opened the door and peered inside. Aside from soiled nesting material, the coop was empty. The birds were gone.

He unlatched the shed, and pulled out a bag of feed, hoping that the sound of grains and seeds clinking in their bowls would bring them in as usual. Then he wiped his dusty hands onto his jeans, picked up his mug from the fence, and resumed sipping coffee. Drinking anything was better than drinking nothing. Snow crunched under his boots as he turned his gaze up to the sky. “If I were locked outside during a snowstorm, where would I go?”

A flock of Canada geese passed high overhead, migrating to far off places with blue water, warm sand, and bottles of rum... Would he go with them? He’d be turning 50 soon, and he felt more alone than ever before. What was keeping him here in a town built on a graveyard of his people, in woods haunted by their ghosts, in a house filled with memories that he couldn’t stand to remember and was terrified to forget?

“Where would you go?” He whispered across the lawn to the sharpest memory, the tiniest ghost. The wind blew through leafless branches, and the wild geese flew beyond the horizon.

The graveyard was inside him. There was no escaping it.

He reached the bottom of his mug and went back into the kitchen for a refill before heading out to search for his geese in their usual hiding spots. As he poured the coffee, he heard more of them in the distance. Then their honking grew louder, much louder.

Through the front window he saw her, parading his geese up the road like a scene out of a bizarre fairytale. She rattled off a string of swear words punctuated by “Manners!!” and “Stop fighting!” and “This behavior is precisely why your kind is referred to as ‘fowl’!”

Adrenaline surged through his body. He felt the rush in his arms and legs, in each finger and every toe. What is she doing here? Was she showing up to collect more of her belongings, or…? A wheel of her suitcase caught on a chunk of ice, and the bag toppled over. It looked heavy, not empty. …Or she’s coming home.

Effie added to her litany of curses as she inadvertently dropped the sandwich she had been carrying. The geese swarmed at her feet and devoured the thing.

“I am DONE with this project! Now, shoo!” She waved them off toward the yard. The birds were already heading that way, interested perhaps in their wide open coop and the possibility of more sustenance.

Haymitch’s heart beat into his throat as he watched her right the suitcase and free the wheel from the ice. The hood of her coat fell back, and the wind caught her hair, setting it loose from its clip and blowing out her curls into something wild. Her lips, her cheeks, and the tip of her nose were all pink from the cold, and he thought about making promises that he couldn’t keep, just to have her. To have her right there in the snow on that fur coat.

What the hell is she trying to do to me? Anger was coming up to protect the wounded one within who had barely started to accept that he was living a life without her again.

Effie tucked her hair behind her ears and added wind to the list of all the nature she was cursing: geese, cold, snow, ice, wind, and the curious fear that nagged louder as she moved toward the house. This homecoming was not happening in any of the possible ways that she had envisioned. She was not looking how she intended to look or feeling the way she had imagined she would feel. Standing on the porch, she agonized a long time over whether she should knock on the door, or just open it with her key and step inside, or run back to the train station and avoid facing the fear entirely. The decision was ultimately made for her when the door opened.

“So are you coming in or what?” His voice was rough and shaky. He hoped she’d assume the shakiness was from drinking. And his bloodshot eyes could be explained by the liquor too, come to think of it. He preferred for her to know him now as the drunk he’d always been rather than as the man who’d spent the night before last crying himself to sleep, like an abandoned kid, and then spent last night drinking and trying to forget. The last thing he wanted from her was pity.

She took in the details of his appearance. His boots and coat, thick grey sweater and blue jeans, and woolen cap weren’t what she had been expecting. He seemed sturdy and solid. He’d let his beard grow in fully. He smelled of coffee and the woods and peppermint soap.

He’s going out. …Is he meeting someone? It was late in the day on a Saturday. …Is he dating someone?! She hadn’t considered that possibility. The thought of him being intimate with someone else made her sick. She pressed a palm to her empty churning stomach.

The pain on her face tempered his anger. “Effie, what’s going on?” His concern for her was too marked not to notice.

“Are you going out?” She asked, taking off her sunglasses so she could look him in the eyes.

Hers were swollen. Dark circles underneath were barely concealed by makeup. It looked like she was showing up here because she had lost some sort of battle with herself. “I was going outside to search for the geese, but I see you’ve already done that.”

The geese… “So you’re not seeing anyone?”

“Seeing anyone? What the hell kind of question is that? Is THAT why you’re here — to find out if I’m seeing someone?”

“Of course not.” But now she needed to know. “…Are you?”

He stormed off to the kitchen, leaving her standing in the doorway.

Typical. She wheeled her bag inside and closed the door behind her. For the second time that day, Effie felt out of place in dearly familiar surroundings. She took three deep breaths, hung her purse and coat on the rack in the entryway and set her boots on the doormat. She opened the curtains on the south facing window to let in the late afternoon sunshine. She unfolded a handkerchief from her pocket and dusted off the mahogany coffee table. “Hello, you,” she whispered to it like an old friend.

Haymitch gazed out the kitchen window looking over the yard. He pretended to watch the geese to avoid seeing her, but he was keenly aware of her presence. He heard her footsteps cross the kitchen. The hinges creaked as she opened a cabinet. She poured herself a cup of coffee as if she had never left, as if it was a regular day of them sharing their lives. Except they weren’t.

Effie noticed the bread on the counter. The dear boy. “How are the children?” she asked. It was a safer place to begin.

She persisted in referring to them as ‘the children,’ no matter how many years passed. Haymitch had been so absorbed recently in his own drama that he genuinely had no idea how they were. “They’re fixing storm shutters.” It was the best answer he could give.

“I’ve missed them. …I told them I’d be arriving today.”

Well, that explained the boy cleaning this house while Haymitch was passed out this morning. He knew the kids wanted Effie here.

“Thoughtful,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. If she had told him that she was coming, he would have thrown what she said to that reporter in her face and hollered at her to stay in the goddamn Capitol or wherever this relationship wouldn’t hurt her. But his truth was that he wanted her here. Every cell in his body wanted her here, and he didn’t know how to reconcile what he wanted with what she needed. So for the time being he kept looking out the window and said nothing more about it.

“Sae nearly cooked your geese today.”

Haymitch finally looked at her. She was wearing a red dress with long sleeves and pearl buttons up the front. When she moved, the hem brushed the seams that ran up the backs of her stockings. She looked prettier than all the ribbons folks put up in town for Yuletide. He cleared his throat.

She continued. “Apparently, they were brazenly eating out of her soup pot.”

He suppressed a grin. “Resourceful. They can be a pain in the ass. Thanks for bringing them home.”

“They were a handful indeed. I did not see another option. You know how the mayor loves to talk about zoning violations. And I was expecting Sae to come back out at any moment with a—”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” he interrupted her to say it.

“Neither am I.”

“I didn’t ask if you were.”

“Nevertheless, I want you to know. …I do not want to be with anyone else.”

What the hell? He was as frustrated about her showing up like this, all beautiful and shit, as he was about her leaving. She ran so hot and cold that she was either burning him or freezing his ass off. “You said you needed to stay away from me, and now you’re making yourself at home here as if it’s any old Wednesday.” He glanced at her cup of coffee.

“Today is Saturday, Haymitch, and this time apart has offered me some clarity.” She was still unclear about how much clarity she actually had but she said it anyway.

“What do you want, Effie?”

She took another deep breath. “I want us to name the baby.”

“The baby?” His gaze dropped to her stomach. He hadn’t seen her in a month. That was the way it happened when she was pregnant the first time and she came here to tell him. He recalled the discomfort on her face just a moment ago at the doorway and her hand on her belly. Effie…

Oh, the way he looked at her... She recognized his misunderstanding. “I’m not…” she didn’t say the word. Her tone held a tinge of sorrow. “I’m referring to the one I lost. I have been thinking about her often, and the therapist suggested I might want to give her a name.”

His stomach rolled in a mixture of relief, disappointment, and acrid emptiness. He didn’t know what to do with those feelings. He swallowed the urge to throw up.

She glanced out the window to the snow below the maple tree, naked now in winter. Tiny buds lined the branches, waiting for enough warmth to open and leaf out green.

Sadness bubbled up in Haymitch at the thought of naming a baby long-dead. Names were things written on slips of paper and thrown into reaping balls, not a way out of grief. But what harm could come from naming somebody who never got to live?

“I don’t know much about naming babies.” He didn’t want to be having this conversation, especially not with his head feeling like it was splitting open. But Effie never mentioned the miscarriage anymore. She just looked at that tree and sat in its shade during the summer. He figured it was on her mind sometimes, but she didn’t talk about it, despite her tendency to drone on and on about most subjects.

“In my lineage, girls traditionally receive a feminine version of their father’s second name.”

Talking about this felt like sand moving under his skin, but something in him kept going. “No baby needs any more of my name than is necessary. Her getting my genes was burden enough.”

Effie sighed, “She was perfect. I would not have wanted her to have anyone else’s genes but yours and mine.”

He said nothing more about giving her his name, and Effie didn’t push it. She offered something else instead. “‘Carissimi Unum’ means ‘Our dear one.’”

“No Capitol names.” The translation touched him though. “This is hard enough without bringing that place into this.”

“We conceived her in the Capitol. It was my home then.”

“Well, she was born here. Her home is here.”

He spoke about the baby in the present tense, even though she had been just a glimmer and then gone.

“There are less elaborate names that convey a similar meaning. ‘Cara Amare’ means ‘Dear love.’ It has old origins, but it’s more modest.”

“‘Cara…’” he nodded, “She’s been under that tree since the day she...” What he was thinking had him feeling so vulnerable that he almost couldn’t say it. But it felt too big not to say it. “…When I think about her, she’s ‘Maple’.”

Tears welled up in Effie’s eyes and threatened to spill onto her cheeks. “You think about her?”

He didn’t want to see those tears. Not now. He was already doing all he could to avoid scooping her up and crushing her to him and trying to give her the things he didn’t know how to give her and was afraid to give her.

“A person doesn’t forget a thing like that.”

“I would not have imagined that you’ve been holding a name for her in your mind. …‘Cara Maple’ fits her; doesn’t it?”

He didn’t know how anything could fit a dead baby, yet somehow it did.

She reached for his hand. She was asking him to meet her part way. He wanted to touch her and everything else, but he was haunted by what she’d said to that reporter, ‘It was hurting more to be in than out.’

“Effie, I don’t want to be hurting you.”

Then don’t. She slid a finger into his palm, and drew a circle around the cut from her hairpin. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

Then stop leaving me. He curled his fingers around the one she offered.

“After escorting all of those children to their deaths, it was my karma to lose her.”

He clasped her shoulders. “Karma is made up nonsense. It’s bullshit! You couldn’t have controlled any of that. All of those kids would have died regardless. …Even Cara.”

She softened to hear him call the baby by name. She slipped her arms around his waist and melted into the cracks of him, like butter on toasted bread. “This is the third winter since I lost her, and I’ve been losing myself all along. I thought I’d know myself again in my old routines and places. But in the Capitol there is nothing to hold onto. Nothing in that life seems to matter to me anymore.”

In the embrace, Haymitch felt her thinness. This month away had made her fragile, like an empty champagne flute. She sighed against his chest, and the vibration moved though his body, coaxing it back to life. It had been weeks since they held each other. Without her, there had been no release and so little feeling — just the old demons bashing around his skull and kicking relentlessly.

“What kind of baby would I give you? Another dead one? It’s no good, Effie. It’s impossible.” His feelings didn’t match his thoughts. He recalled the roiling flash of disappointment when she said she was not pregnant.

He enfolded her in his arms, fitting her against him. The fragrance of crushed leaves wafted in through the crack in the window, and the thought of a baby born full term and alive felt possible. Terrifying, yet possible.

He shut out the emotions and leaned into the feeling of her. The room was spinning lightly for him, like the carrousel in his dream. She centered everything somehow and kept his feet on the floor. Her hair smelled like orange popsicles with vanilla ice cream. He breathed her in and softened. His guard was coming down. His body was responding to her in the ways it always did.

“What if it could be impossibly good?” she murmured in that dangerous consciousness of hope.

For a split second he believed her. With his guard down, he let in her thread of hope, until age-old fear commanded, ‘Don’t. Don’t you dare hope.’

“You’re dreaming, honey. You’re imagining the same way you do about those curtains. Those flowers are never gonna open. You said it yourself, you’re lost in something that isn’t real.”

She moved her hands over his back, feeling his solidity. “This is real. Your body. My body. They decided the first time. What if we just let them decide again?”

His hand stilled its caress. “You said you were done with having sex to try to ‘fix’ us. I drink, and you feel alone. …A baby is not going to ‘fix’ that.”

She pulled back far enough to see the pain behind his eyes. She didn’t know how to reconcile what she wanted with what he needed. She could only guess about what he needed, about what would stop him from retreating into himself. “I don’t expect a baby to fix anything. I just long for her. …And I want you. I want our family.”

“Effie—”

“I need us to be talking about this, but I’m not trying to push you into another baby that you do not want.”

“Hey, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want her until after she was gone. I’m not saying I don’t want her now. I’m not saying I don’t picture how it would be to have a kid with you. I just don’t see how I’m ever gonna not be mixed up about it.”

“What if we just love each other and see what happens?”

“The way I love you isn’t enough for you.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to. You left.”

“I would never THINK that. You KNOW what you are to me. When you’re with me like this, I feel like I’m swimming in the core of the sun.”

She was the sun for him too. But basking in a sunbeam is a hell of a lot different than swimming in plasma.

“Sounds painful.”

“It is NOT painful when we’re like this. The feeling of this is more than enough for me. It’s nearly everything for me.”

“Nearly? What more do you want?! I can’t be like THIS all the time. I am who I am.”

“I WANT who you are.”

“You don’t want me drinking.”

Effie hesitated in order to tread carefully around this subject, “You know how I have always felt about you, regardless.”

“What you’re feeling is not the same as what you’re thinking. You don’t want me drinking anymore.”

“Do not put that on me! You do not get to decide what I’m thinking or what I want. Perhaps YOU are the one who does not want you drinking anymore.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“Haymitch, I want you HERE! When you’re intoxicated, you’re someplace inside you where I cannot be, where I do not exist. I want what’s inside you that I only glimpse or never get to see.”

“There you go again, wanting impossible things. Even if I knew how to give you all of that shit, if you had it then you wouldn’t want it.”

“There YOU go again, deciding what I want and do not want. Those are NOT your decisions to make. I want all of you, and I want you to want all of me too!”

“You think I don’t?”

“Half the time you don’t even see me.”

“Maybe you aren’t seeing yourself, sweetheart. And if you were, then maybe you wouldn’t be asking me to do it for you.”

She huffed, “What am I not seeing?”

“I can’t know that. I can’t even know all the shit in me that you want me to give you!”

She had no retort to offer. In the silence, he heard her teeth chattering. She was shivering.

How long had she been shivering? He knew he wasn’t seeing her in all the ways he should, even in moments like this when he was basically sober. “You’re cold. The window’s busted. Some things have been falling apart around here.”

“I don’t know why I’m shaking. This conversation… I don’t want to give up on us. Haymitch, I refuse to give up on us! I will NOT allow this to be the end. There is so much here between us. Do you feel it?”

She touched his chest, and he couldn’t hide the things his heart was doing. If there were places in him where she didn’t exist, it was because he was keeping her out for her protection or because something in him was keeping his awareness out for the same reason.

He could have stepped away from her touch. Maybe he should have, but he shifted toward her. “It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“I do NOT need to convince myself of what I already know! I left you because I was despairing. I was wrong to despair. …I’m sorry.”

He felt responsible for that despair, and here she was apologizing for it. He sighed, not knowing how to change things between them so that she wouldn’t keep feeling it. “You’re not wrong. You’re just feeling what you feel…”

When he looked closely, he could see more layers of the Effie he’d known falling away. It scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know how to stop it. He cradled her face in his hands and caressed her. “…These cheeks are so hollow, honey.”

She released a breath she’d been holding. “Your eyes are too. Have you been sleeping?”

“Probably about as much as you’ve been eating. Do you want dinner? Peeta’s been dropping off a loaf of something most days.”

She shook her head no. She slid her hands up his chest and noticed new flecks of grey in his beard. She wanted all the details she missed, all the stories his body could tell her. “I want what’s happening now.”

His thumbs brushed the corners of her mouth. “You said if you came back our clothes would be off, and we wouldn’t be fixing anything at all. You said it like that’s the problem.”

His calluses were rough against her chapped lips. She felt the flying in her body, the certainty that she could make this work. The therapist said the high was a red flag. It unfurled in her awareness, wrapped around her like silk, and drew her in.

“There is nothing to fix tonight,” she told him, “I’m offering anything that you want from me, and I’m allowing everything that you want to give.”

Tonight. “Then what happens tomorrow? What happens the next time you’re hurting?”

She shook her head. “What is the point in not hurting if there is no joy either? I felt no joy without you.” After awhile, I was not even sure why I was living.

He echoed her feelings in his own confession. “Since you left, it’s been hard to keep staying alive.”

It’s what she wanted to hear — the pain he rarely spoke of and his need for her. Tears filled her throat. “Can I come home?”

“This is your place too. It’s no good without y—“

Their kiss was slow and full of memories. He felt her tears on his face, and he tasted them. He welcomed them now that he was no longer resisting. He needed this, not just for now. He needed this forever, even though nothing lasted and no one stayed. Needing people was a dangerous game, and he was playing it. He’d been playing it with her all along. He didn’t trust her with his heart. He didn’t trust himself. And yet, he was playing.

“I don’t want us to fuck this up.”

“I’ve worked too hard for this to let us.”

The red flag tightened as desire.

Their winter layers were coming off, as expected, as it happened hundreds of times before. Just enough to feel each other’s skin.

“Where?” he asked.

“You said that our first time. So long ago. Do you remember?”

“Yeah. You were indecisive then too.”

“Haymitch!” She slapped his chest, and he caught her wrist.

The room spun slowly for him, like a harvest time waltz. Around and around and around. “Tell me where, sweetheart, or it’s gonna be the floor.”

“In our bed for heaven’s sake!”

“It’s always the hard way with you,” he chuckled.

She lifted his arm over her shoulder, and they eased into the familiar… The third step of the staircase creaked on the way up, and the seventh was marred by a gouge where Haymitch had dropped his knife… The headboard jostled against the wall as they slipped between worn out sheets… They leaned into one another’s touch and felt a fleeting comfort in the ache of longing... Her legs were cool as she wrapped around him... “Let’s warm you up, sweetheart.”

He moved inside her. Soft moans emerged from her throat in concert with the motion. She met him with all that she was, even the parts of her that were lost to her awareness.

“Like this,” she murmured, “Fuck me like this.”

She lit him up. In that moment of incandescence, he’d do anything she wanted for as long as he could last, though she was feeling too good and he was too hungover to last long.

She was a bird in his arms, singing. A mourning dove on a lamppost, witnessing the loneliness of the world. I see you, the feathery creature croons, I’m here. — She was a goddess, holding his life in her hands. She could crush him.

This physical aspect of loving was simple. Nothing in his life felt more uncomplicated than being inside her, sensing her arousal build as it was happening in him. It crossed his mind to slow the pace in order to draw this out, but his body would have none of that.

And neither would hers. He was in deep with her — she knew he was — yet she didn’t quite have him, even after all these years, even in their most naked moments. The reaching was fire. Heat stung her cheeks as if he had slapped her. “Oh, god…” She wanted the sting.

He watched the flush of pleasure play over her face, and he said what he’d been wanting to since he saw her coming up the road with the geese, since he saw her in his dream with bare feet in the stirrups of a painted horse asking him what he was waiting for. Fear held his tongue, but he muttered through it.

“I love you — so hard.”

Her breath caught in her throat. With those grey eyes on hers, she was certain. About everything. She cried out as waves of delight moved through her, like the tide coming in and snow falling on the beach. Resplendence.

The sensations drew him to the edge. He felt it coming for him too, all powerful and alive and shit.

Holy fuck. He wanted it like this.

After all this time, he would have thought that pulling out of her would be as simple as being inside her. He’d perfected the art of it. Hell, he’d done it half-drunk dozens of times.

This time he was alert to everything, and leaving her body wasn’t instinctual at all. One more second. Just one more. Just… MORE. Hope seeped into the cracks, and, for a crushing instant, he wanted it all.

“Eff— I’m coming—” He said it as if she should run.

“YES.” Her heart pounded as if she were running. She held his hips lightly as his body claimed what his mind couldn’t wrap itself around.

In that instant, he stayed inside her as he found release.

🎶 …Coming down… coming down… coming down… coming down… 🎶 Like glistening petals and surrender.

She traced the length of his spine through beads of sweat. Her lips brushed his neck as she whispered protestations of love and something about him needing a haircut.

“Hmm…” was all he could muster.

The month had been so long without her. He clung to her as her voice faded from his awareness. He slipped into the unconscious world of sleep without thinking about what just happened between them, without thinking about his empty flask, without thinking about anything except the feeling of her hands in his hair.

Under the familiar weight of him, she experienced a flash of uncertainty. A vision of ten tiny fingernails shaped like perfect crescent moons, reaching for her — alone. After a year of wanting exactly this moment, the uncertainty showing up in it was as unexpected as it was predictable.

A question rooted in their tangled limbs and took hold in her awareness.

What have I done?

She couldn’t shake it loose.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Cracked

(Hayffie ❤️. After rereading the first half of Mockingjay, I recognize book-Haymitch in 13 as the saddest, most tragic muffin in this or any universe, and he needs so much more of Effie there than the three District 13 fics I wrote in the summer. So here’s another one for my sweethearts.)

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end this hunger for justice!” Plutarch had been the one to compose the line on the card in Effie’s hands. Less than a year before, she’d held other cards, on which she’d inserted Capitol propaganda into the children’s Victory Tour speeches. That kind of writing was within her skill set. Creating propaganda for a rebellion — correction, a revolution — was not.

That said, Effie was confident in her ability to coach anyone entrusted with presenting content to a public audience. ...Well, almost anyone. Historically, Katniss had been hopelessly uncoachable. Even still, even out of her element, Effie was determined do her best to guide her girl into embodying Cinna’s vision of the Mockingjay.

Effie stood in the studio, rehearsing the line in her mind as she experimented with different body positions and different speeds of the circular fans which were brought in to simulate wind.

“Let’s have her start down on one knee then stand up and wave the flag, symbolically pledging to the people of Panem and rising with them into battle.” Plutarch announced from the sound booth. “By the way, Haymitch has been discharged from the detox unit. He’s scheduled to be here later when we shoot the propo.”

Effie shifted into uncharacteristic silence. She hadn’t seen Haymitch since before she was brusquely ushered onto a hovercraft and taken to 13. That was weeks ago. Against her will now, her heart beat into her throat. For an instant, she brushed her lips with her fingertips, remembering the night before the Quell.

“This is good news,” Plutarch said, “He’ll be able to anticipate how far Katniss can be pushed without breaking.”

“Good news...” Effie echoed the words but they didn’t register because she was still caught up in the ones he’d said just before.

She fiddled with the edge of the cloth covering her hair, with the frame of her sunglasses, with the neckline of her shirt, with the bracelet on her wrist. Her hands refused to stop moving.

Plutarch noticed her restlessness and let it go on without mention. “It’s probably best if one of us brings him up to speed beforehand.”

“I’ll do it.” As soon as she said it, Effie chastised herself for her eagerness. “The prep team is working to build Katniss up now from Beauty Base Zero. With that tragic scar on her arm and the lack of proper resources in this cavern, she will not be camera ready for some time.”

“Fine. He’s been issued Compartment 307, vacated by the Everdeens. According to his schedule, he’s there now ‘acclimating.’”

“Well, that is convenient.” Effie relentlessly folded and unfolded and refolded the cue card in her hand. She steadied her voice. “...I suppose I shall go do that now.”

“I think that would be best,” Plutarch agreed, “Before you’ve folded Katniss’s lines into an origami crane or perhaps... a valentine?”

Effie glared in the direction of the sound booth, irritated with Plutarch for perceiving more than a *decent* person should. His chuckle brought her to her senses. She slipped the cue card into her pocket and made her way to Compartment 307 with deliberate slowness.

She took the stairs partway, sliding her fingers along the cold metal rails as she walked. Their yellow paint was one of the few bright colors in this cement and steel dungeon. She’d developed an appreciation for the handrails for no other reason than because they were something besides dingy gray or lackluster white.

She paused outside his door. Awash with self-doubt, she checked her intentions. Her eagerness to see Haymitch had nothing to do with the propo, of course, and everything to do with curiosity and concern about his mile-deep drop into forced sobriety. She knocked with the feeling of wild bird in her chest.

“He isn’t home!” Haymitch hollered in a hoarse voice, “The purple crap on his arm says he’s ACCLIMATING.”

“Haymitch... it’s me.”

Effie. Her voice was without its usual trill, like a canary in a coal mine singing softly at the edge of stopping. The *air* must be okay enough, because here she was at his door.

He slid it open and took in the sight of her dressed all in gray with a turban on her head and a pair of sunglasses covering her eyes. Not a speck of sunlight would reach this place, except the glimmer that squeezed through the cracks in him just then and lit him up. For the first time in weeks, months, years maybe... he laughed. The laughter was so genuine that it moved through his body like a stranger.

She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in annoyance. “I think I liked you better before you were sober!” She huffed.

“It’s good to see you too, sweetheart. Do you want to come in? This sure as hell ain’t the penthouse.”

She slid the dark glasses down the bridge of her nose and tucked them into her pocket with the cue card. That was when she really saw him. The fine details of his face tugged the flapping bird from her heart into her gut. She sucked in a breath and held it.

Weeks before, his body had been strong, prepared for battle. The muscles he’d built up during the months in between the Victory Tour and the Quell had wasted away during his stint in detox. She stepped into the room and caressed his yellowed cheek. Then she breathed again. “What have they done to you?”

He closed the door behind her. “If I said torture would you believe me?”

She heard teasing in his voice and a sharp edge of truth. “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. She brushed her fingers over his jaw and down his neck. It was the path tears might take if she ever saw him cry. She smoothed the collar of the shirt that 13 had issued him.

He refused to call it HIS shirt even while it was on his body. For a moment Effie made him forget that the collar choked him and that the walls were closing in. Her touch felt so good that he joked a bit in order to hold onto reality. “I got the standard District 13 makeover for a drunk. I had my own prep team and everything. That explains the unparalleled beauty you see before you.”

Then her arms were around him, and the sensations of her were filling him up. She smelled different. No coffee or cinnamon gum. No vanilla perfume or orange shampoo. ...Just Effie, so slight with no 5-inch heels, no layers of chiffon, almost no makeup, no corset...

He held her loosely with his hands on the small of her back. He said nothing else and asked her no questions. He slowly lifted the tail of her shirt, learning again the feeling of her skin as he slid his palms up to the strap of the bra she wore. It was probably no more hers than their government-issued everything else.

He wanted it off. He wanted to get rid of everything unrecognizable.

As if reading his mind, she pulled off the knitted hat he was wearing, and she ran her fingers up the nape of his neck into his hair. Her nails were short, and he felt the tips of her fingers naked along his scalp, sending warm shivers to each appendage of his body.

“What are you doing to me?” His voice was ragged as if cut by a serrated knife.

“Plutarch suggested I bring you up to speed.”

“Plutarch authorized this, did he?”

“I had to see for myself.”

“See what?”

Effie had closed her eyes as she held him, but she opened them again and pulled back far enough to see the dark circles below his. So much gray. “I needed to see what your *prep team* did to you.” She masked her sympathy, knowing he would detest it. She plucked a kiss at the corner of his chapped lips.

It was the kind of kiss he’d seen her give a thousand times in the Capitol. The kind that meant nothing. Only it didn’t feel like nothing. Her mouth was naked too, warm and wet like a bottle of something that could slip inside him and burn on the way down.

She brushed her fingertips across his forehead, sweeping the hair away from his eyes. Her breath lingered at the corner of his mouth. “I just... I need—“

“Oh, hell—“ He caught her lips and drank her in. The feeling of her spead through him like wildfire. When they’d kissed weeks ago in comfort, it hadn’t been like this. Yet here this was.

“Ohh...” Surprised by the suddenness of arousal, she was drinking him in too. “Oh, my God.”

He perceived *need* as a dangerous thing. If he didn’t need anyone, then he hurt less when he lost them — and he always lost them. He felt it then with Effie, that dangerous thing creeping up on him. He heard it too in the sound that came from the back of her throat. A whimper, almost pleading.

He yanked his hands out from under her shirt and stepped backward, catching his breath. “I shouldn’t be bringing you into this.”

“Why ever not? And what do you mean by THIS?” She knew what this was for her, and she wanted his answer.

“I don’t know. ...I just know you need to leave.”

“But the propo...”

“I’ll wing it.”

She held her ground, searching his face, trying to understand.

He focused on the concrete between their feet. He didn’t dare look at her eyes. In his mind, he saw them filling with tears. He was barely holding himself together, and if he saw her like that, then he���d be gone... and so would their clothes.

“Get out of here, Effie.” He refrained from screaming, refusing to make this degenerate into something resembling a nightmare. “...Just go.”

In all the years of moments that came before this one, he’d never looked so afraid. He was right in front of her, but he’d retreated to a place within himself that she wasn’t sure how to reach.

She pulled the repeatedly folded cue card from her pocket, slapped it against his chest, and let go. He caught it before it fell to the floor. “Consider yourself *brought up to speed!*”

She slid the door open. “And by the way, you did not BRING me into this. Push me away all you want, but I’m IN this. I’ve been in this longer than you probably realize. And that will NOT be changing!”

He looked up, and her eyes were dry, like sapphires set in bone.

“If you want me out of this, honey, you’re going to have to kill me yourself, so consider carefully what you want.” Before sliding the door shut, she added, “I’ll see you in the studio when you’re done... ‘acclimating.’”

He stared in shock at the door slammed in his face. Then laughter erupted again from those cracks in him where she’d slipped inside and lit him up. Maybe the *psych ward* had misjudged his readiness to handle this place without liquor. But there was no way he was going back down now, not with Effie up here making him feel alive again.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

The moment Effie starts to reevaluate her desire to be promoted to a “better” district...

“‘Hey, Effie, watch this!’ says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, ‘We miss you, Effie!’”

Effie huffs a moment at the pairing of her name with an intentional display of bad manners. Her embarrassment eases though, the longer the words echo in her mind... We miss you, Effie. No tribute has ever said that to her before. She wouldn’t have expected it. She tries to recall the last time ANYONE told her she’s missed. She can’t remember.

“That boy has picked up YOUR sarcasm along with your manners!” she chastises Haymitch.

“I doubt that. Even in that arena, he’s not playing games. If he says he misses you, then he probably does.”

Effie locks eyes with Haymitch. Hers are wider and softer than usual. Tears well up. “That dear boy. Of course he does.”

Haymitch has thought the same words, about missing Effie, more often than he’d admit. In fact, he wouldn’t admit to thinking the words at all. Effie has a way of taking up space inside him. It happens whether he likes it or not. Fortunately he usually likes it. He’d never admit that either.

Missing her sometimes is like breathing. It just happens — even when he’d rather it stop. Even in the dark hours back at home when the power’s out and the candles burn low and the liquor isn’t doing its job. He misses her especially then.

In the darkness of that cave, it makes sense that those kids miss her too. Maybe even the girl, if she thinks about it. Haymitch says none of this to Effie. With those wigs and all, her head is already swollen enough. The last thing he needs is his regard for her to be adding to her opinion of herself.

He watches her smile at the screen. Those kids are changing her, for better or worse. Which it is remains to be seen.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Smashed

(Hayffie ❤️. Sensual angst and relationship building during the 72nd Hunger Games. Raw and vulnerable Effie is without a doubt the most gorgeous muse I’ve ever had. — Thank you for sharing the prompt. Writing this story brought up memories of a young man who died in his sleep in November 2019. I’d known him since he was 5 years old. Someone who has been drinking heavily, which can mean as few as 5 drinks, give or take, on an empty stomach, may need help. Watch for signs of alcohol poisoning, and don’t let them fall asleep unattended. The young man I knew had little experience with alcohol. If someone had been caring for him similarly to how Haymitch takes care of Effie in this fic, then he would likely still be alive. I think about him often.)

***

Haymitch startled awake and clutched his knife. His ears rang with an echo of shattered glass followed by humming. The sounds were muffled but too loud to be the residue of a dream. Dawn hadn’t yet broken, and it took a moment in darkness to remember whose bed he was in. ...The Capitol’s. The penthouse. The same room he’d slept in for 22 Julys but would never stoop to call his own.

This was supposed to be his day to sleep in if he could. The tributes from 11 and 12 had been killed during the bloodbath at the Cornucopia the day before, and he’d spent the afternoon with Chaff. Everything between then and now was a bit hazy. There’d been Vodka shots, and then a *pick-up* game in the betting lounge to see which of them would be the first to be propositioned for sex.

Not ten minutes in, Haymitch was approached by a woman with pale blue hair flowing down her back, a jeweled collar around her throat, and breast implants the size of cantaloupes. “Hey, victor. Wanna get out of here?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” he muttered low enough for Chaff not to hear. This was his buddy’s game, not his. The last thing he wanted in the middle of the Games was to be a piece of meat for some Capitol bitch.

A waif like creature with tattooed olive skin and an unusually large ass for her tiny frame sidled up to Chaff soon afterward. ‘I win,’ he mouthed as he walked out the door with his hand already sliding into the back waistband of her pants.

Glass shattered again, shaking Haymitch from his fog covered memories. What the hell?! As the humming grew louder, he dragged himself out of bed and followed the sound into the living room.

Effie sat on the sofa wearing yesterday’s clothes. Her ankles were crossed on top of the coffee table. “I’ll have another, dear!” She called to a red-clad Avox. He stepped out from the shadows and handed her an oversized champagne flute. She dropped her feet to the floor and promptly filled the new stemware from a large, nearly empty pitcher of orange liquid. Her flute overflowed. The liquid pooled on the table, then dripped over the edge to the purple rug. The Avox stood by with a handtowel draped over his arm, but she didn’t call for one so he remained inconspicuous.

“You know...” Effie spoke to the pink wig she’d taken off at some point and set beside her on the couch, “I’ve always thought that rug needed more color. Orange goes with purple like wildflowers on a mountainside.”

She tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, bent forward at the waist, put her mouth to the rim of the glass, and sipped the drink with a loud slurp until it was emptied enough to not spill further. As she raised her head, she caught sight of Haymitch.

All traces of the lipstick she’d worn the day before were gone. Her lips glistened with whatever she was drinking. A thought flashed through his mind of what it would be like to kiss her. He’d wondered before. As she licked her lips, looking at him like she was, he had a hard time thinking about anything else.

Neither of them glanced away nor said a word as he watched her swallow the rest of her drink. The spell broke when she smashed the flute to the floor and started humming again. The tune this time was unmistakable. It was the same melody that played in the arena when images of dead tributes were projected into a darkened sky.

“Effie, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m having brunch!”

“Brunch? It’s 5am.”

“Mimosas make any meal brunch!”

“I don’t see a meal here, sweetheart. Have you eaten since yesterday?”

“Yesterday we had dinner with the children. You remember. They picked at the food, but they had the decency to use silverware.”

“That wasn’t yesterday. That was the day before. Have you eaten anything since then?”

“I never eat on the first day of the Games. Nothing settles well...”

He’d been too wrapped up in his own miserable sense of responsibility and tension on Day 1 to notice her eating habits or lack thereof.

“...But these mimosas certainly are delicious.” She snapped her fingers and the Avox stepped into the light again. Effie held up the empty pitcher. The Avox took it as soon as he was clear that she didn’t intend to throw it on the floor. “Bring us another round and two more glasses.”

“Hold up,” Haymitch said to the Avox. “Bring a pitcher of water and a plastic cup. Make sure the pitcher is plastic too. And bring some crackers. ...And an empty bucket, thanks.”

“And crepes! With strawberries and cream cheese, chopped candied pecans and a drizzle of maple syrup... and mimosas!” Effie added.

The Avox looked to Haymitch who quietly shook his head. “Let’s start with crackers and work up to the rest. I think you’ve had enough alcohol this morning.”

“Amitch Habernathy! Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot have!”

“Sweetheart, I’m just trying to help.” He went the long way around the rug to avoid stepping on shards of broken glass, and he sat beside her on the sofa.

Through worn layers of makeup, he couldn’t tell if her cheeks were pale or blazing. He raised his hand slowly to her forehead. She held her breath as he touched her. Her skin was clammy but held some warmth. “How many drinks have you had?”

The back of his hand still grazed her forehead as the answer barely escaped her throat, “I lost count.”

He assessed the pile of broken glass on the floor and believed it was enough to be concerned about her. Her body was slight under all those layers of clothes she wore. He’d stared at her enough to know it. Besides, she hadn’t eaten in a day and a half.

As he dropped his hand from her forehead, she caressed along his cheek, his jaw, his neck, then down the front of his rumpled T-shirt. “You’re so pretty,” she said.

She’d never touched him so personally. It almost scared the shit out of him because she felt so good. “I ain’t so pretty. You’re just drunk,” he reminded himself.

“I ain’t so drunk...”

Effie Trinket saying “ain’t” was drunk for sure, but he knew it would be pointless to argue with her.

The Avox brought Haymitch’s requested items in a bucket. They nodded to each other: Haymitch in appreciation, and the Avox in relief that Effie was no longer breaking champagne flutes.

“You’re pretty too,” she said to the Avox. All six of your eyes are pretty. But not quite as pretty as this guy.” Her palm still lingered on Haymitch’s chest, and she whispered to the Avox, “Have you seen him naked? Holy Mary Mother of God, he’s so fine!”

Haymitch wondered if and when Effie had actually seen him naked. He blacked out too often to know. “I don’t think any mothers of gods want to see me without any clothes. Let’s leave them out of this.” Making light of her comment was safer than picturing himself naked with Effie.

The Avox poured water into the plastic cup and left the crackers in the bag instead of laying them out on fine china. Haymitch waved him off with gratitude then handed her the cup of water. “Drink this slowly. It’ll help you sober up, and when you wake up later you’ll feel like a small train hit you instead of a big one.”

“I don’t want to be sober!” What she wanted was to forget all the death she’d witnessed that day, but she took the cup of water and drank anyway. Haymitch’s attentiveness was more intoxicating than the alcohol had been. “...Is this what it takes?”

“What? Water?”

“Me being drunk. Is this what it takes?...” For you to touch me, she didn’t say. She gripped his T-shirt.

“You’re not making sense, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ It means you’re pissed off, or worse it means nothing. I’m more than nothing. I want to mean more than nothing!” She let go of his shirt and shoved him. “I don’t want to look at you.”

But her eyes were still on him. Like inlets of a wild sea, he could drown in them if he let himself. She’s even more insane drunk than sober. But he couldn’t look away from her regardless.

“I have to go.” Effie set the water cup down and stood up. The room started spinning, so she plopped back down. “...My shoes are broken. I can’t stand up because my shoes are broken!”

“Your shoes are fine, honey. Do you want to take them off?”

“I love these shoes. Can’t you understand? How can you be so blind not to see that I LOVE them?”

“Okay, they’re great shoes. Maybe they’ll work better if you have something to eat.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a couple of crackers, eating one and handing her the other. “Food will keep some of the alcohol that’s still in your stomach from getting into your bloodstream.”

As soon as Effie ate the cracker, her long-empty stomach craved more. She took the bag from Haymitch and popped a handful into her mouth.

“Go slowly,” he said, “Like with the water.”

“Stop interfering!”

“Fine!” He sat back on the couch and folded his arms behind his head. “Do whatever you want.”

As she chewed the crackers, she bent forward to unstrap her shoes. Using his foot, he slid the table forward so she wouldn’t bang her head on it. She didn’t seem to notice his ‘interference.’

With a bit of food in her stomach and the high heels off her feet, she stood up and managed to remain standing even as the room spun. Haymitch put a leg up on the table, barricading her from walking in the direction of smashed glass. With an unsteady gait, she took the long way around the room. He followed her with the bucket of crackers and water.

As she wobbled through the living room, she unzipped her dress. “Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

“It’s definitely you.”

By the time she got to the hallway, she’d slipped the sleeves down her arms, and the dress spilled onto the floor in a puddle of chiffon.

His jaw dropped as she stood there in a baby blue corset, matching panties, and lace trimmed thigh high stockings. “...Holy Mary Mother of God.”

“I thought you said we were leaving mothers of gods out of this.”

“You changed my mind.”

“Oh...” Her stomach lurched, and she felt its contents pushing up against her esophagus. Shit. Throwing up was one thing that annoyed Effie more than bad manners. She commanded her stomach to settle down, but the will of her body to get rid of those last few mimosas and that large handful of crackers was more powerful.

She rushed to her bathroom, and vomited in the toilet. She crouched there in stillness while her guts churned inside.

Haymitch knelt behind her. “I’m right here, honey.” He touched her head gently and gathered her hair up into his hands. He’d never touched it before. Each strand was light and soft like a feather. Why she’d want to cover up this delicacy with wigs, he had no idea.

She threw up several more times until her stomach was empty. By then she was crying. He stroked her hair, feeling dangerously close to the brink of something inescapable. “How about I get you some water and help you into bed, okay?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, completely defeated. “Everything’s spinning.”

“Put your arms around my neck.”

She did what he requested. He picked her up off the floor and carried her to the edge of her bed. She was very drunk but not unaware of the sensation of his arms. Being there felt warm and safe and insanely good. When he let go, she didn’t like the absence. She cried some more, unable to contain the tears, emptying the contents of her heart as it had been with her stomach.

He poured her another cup of water and sat beside her, drawing small circles on her back while she sipped slowly. “The bucket’s here if you need to throw up again. I know you’re dizzy.”

She shivered. When those shudders turned to shakes, he knew it would be best to get her warm. “When you’re ready, let’s get you under the covers.”

“My corset...” Her throat hurt to talk. “Will you help me loosen it so I can take it off?”

Haymitch had loosened a fair number of corsets in the past twenty years. He didn’t know why he was so affected by this raw and vulnerable version of Effie. His hands trembled untying the laces at her back. He stopped when the corset was loose enough for her to unhook in front. If she couldn’t manage the hooks, then it would be staying on, because if he took off her corset there was no way in hell he’d be able to stop there, not with the way he was feeling.

“What do you need? A shirt? The robe on the hook in the bathroom?”

“The robe is fine,” she whispered.

He stepped away to get it for her, and when he came back, the corset had slipped several inches. There was no avoiding a view of her breasts, and he was only willing to be honorable to a certain extent. He was going to look for as long as she, drunk or not, would let him look.

She was refreshingly different than the woman he’d met yesterday in passing. Effie’s lingerie and the other’s hair were similar shades of blue, and maybe that’s why he thought of the comparison just then. Effie’s breasts were small enough to fit fully in his hands. They were firm from the fastidious care she gave her body, and he vowed right then to never taunt her again about those efforts. Her nipples were pink and upturned. She must be nearly 30, but her breasts probably hadn’t dropped a centimeter from where they’d been at 18. His mouth watered just looking at her.

When he glanced up at her eyes, they were on his, watching him watch her. He didn’t know whether her lack of embarrassment came from pride in her body or her altered brain state. Maybe he’d find out another time, or maybe this would be the only time he’d ever see her breasts bare. Either way, this had to be enough for now because she was still shivering.

He sat behind her and helped her into the robe. She fumbled with the corset hooks until the garment fell away. She tied the robe closed then peeled off her stockings. Bending forward made her more dizzy, so she sipped more water and ate a cracker before sliding under the covers.

Haymitch propped pillows behind and in front of her to keep her lying on her side. Then he lay facing her. He stayed on top of the covers because to climb inside with her, especially now, would be as much folly as unhooking her corset would have been.

Her eyelids were heavy.

“I’m gonna be here if you need anything. I’m gonna wake you up several times the first hour, then maybe once each hour after that. I’m warning you, so hopefully you won’t be as pissed at me. I know you’re tired, honey, but you drank a lot on an empty stomach, and your body has to process it. Throwing some up helped, but the alcohol in your blood could still rise for a while as you sleep. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

He thought of the thousands of times he’d subjected himself to the risk and certainty of alcohol poisoning. None of those times mattered to him because that was his life. But this was Effie, and for whatever reasons, her staying alive mattered a hell of a lot more to him than he would have expected.

As she dozed off, he listened to make sure her breathing was regular.

The first time he woke her, she hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep. She touched his face the same as before. “Sometimes I feel like my heart’s going to burst. You know?”

He really didn’t know what she meant by that, but he knew from personal experience that drunk people rarely make sense, even to themselves. He checked her pulse at her wrist. “You’re heart’s gonna be fine.”

When he withdrew his hand she said, “Don’t. Don’t let go.” She fell asleep again with him lightly holding her hand.

The second time he woke her, she teased, “I finally got you in my bed.”

“Finally?? I don’t remember you ever trying.”

“Trying appears differently to different people.”

The third time he woke her, she said, “I want to kiss you.”

“Another time,” he assured her, “When you’re gonna remember it.”

“I’ll remember it now.”

“I don’t think so, and I’m not willing to risk it. Someday when I kiss you, you’re for damn sure gonna remember it.”

The fourth time he woke her, she said, “You’re getting on that train tomorrow, and I hate it. Every time it takes you away from me, I hate it more.”

He was afraid of what she might say next. Soon she was going to forget this conversation, and that reality was a mixture of relief and agitation. Because he wasn’t going to forget.

The fifth time he woke her, she asked, “Why do you keep waking me up?” The bubble had burst.

The sixth time, she pulled her hand away. “Haymitch! Quit waking me up!”

The seventh time was an hour later. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

He lay in bed with her until noon, listening to her normal, even breathing and periodically checking the temperature of her skin with the back of his hand. He didn’t wake her again — because he didn’t want to hear her tell him to leave.

She woke up in the afternoon alone. Her head was throbbing, and the daylight hurt her eyes. She dragged herself out of bed, pulled herself together, and put on a pair of dark glasses.

The dress and corset she’d worn the day before were laying at the foot of the bed. Why didn’t I hang them up? She did so belatedly. I must have been exhausted last night. She’d worked the floor until early morning, making connections, trying to help escorts and mentors from other districts secure sponsors.

She passed through the living room and saw her wig on the couch and her shoes on the rug. Did I take those off here before bed? I can’t remember. I must have had too many drinks. That would explain the headache. She gathered them up and returned them to her room.

Haymitch was eating in the dining room. The Avoxes had laid out a full spread. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Like I was hit by a train.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes. My stomach hurts, but yes.”

“Eat a bit then. It should help.”

She sat down, and looked awhile at Haymitch’s eyes. Almost remembering... something. She took off her dark glasses and looked again.

“I think I had a dream about you last night.”

“You’re dreaming about me, eh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, something danced along the edges of her memory. It was almost... beautiful.

Haymitch smirked like he knew a secret. “What do you remember about the dream?” he asked.

“I licked my lips...” I wanted to kiss you. DID I kiss you? “...And you touched my forehead the way my mother used to when I was sick.” I wanted to touch you too... your face, your neck, your chest. DID I touch you?

“So, in your dream I was your mother?” He teased.

“No!”

“...Holy Mary Mother of God, no?” His grin was big enough now to show the gap between his teeth.

It was rare to see him gleeful. Effie loved it, but... “Wait. Those words were part of the dream somehow. Did I say them or did you?”

“Maybe we both did.”

She eyed him suspiciously. The dream had been sensual, erotic at times. I took off my clothes.. Or did you? You carried me to bed. Did we sleep together? Did we...

“You touched my hair.”

“It’s soft like feathers.”

“In the dream?”

“Sure. Why not.”

She recalled confessions of a bursting heart and wanting him...

Effie’s heart was racing now. She pushed her chair away from the table, stepped into the kitchen and started opening cabinets. To the Avoxes she questioned, “Where are all the champagne flutes?”

Of course they couldn’t answer. Confusion spread across her face. “Haymitch?...”

“You smashed ‘em up real good, honey. Like cannon fire.”

Honey? “In the dream?”

“Nope. On the living room floor.”

“What happened last night?”

“Last night I was asleep.”

“Then what happened this morning?”

Haymitch took his time before answering.

“I demand to know what happened between us this morning!”

“You were drunk. I took care of you.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s ALL?! You try taking care of somebody who’s drunk. It ain’t easy.”

She dropped back into her chair with chagrin. “I feel like I should thank you.”

“You already did.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. You showed me your breasts.”

“What?” Effie’s face flushed pink all the way through her makeup.

“I figure we’re almost even now, since apparently you’ve already seen me naked.”

“What?! How do you know that?”

“You told my friend here early this morning.” He looked to the red-clad Avox for confirmation. “Right?” The man shrugged his shoulders, and quickly escaped to busy himself in the kitchen. “I recall your words were, ‘Have you seen him naked? Holy Mary Mother of God, he’s so fine.’”

Effie pressed her palms to her cheeks to try to temper the blood rushing there. “So THIS is what mortification feels like.”

“You’ve got nothin’ to be mortified about. You think I’m fine, and I think you’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You make me want to do things to you that I’m terrified and thrilled to think about. “See? We’re even.”

“Did you sleep with me?”

“I watched you sleep to make sure you stayed alive.”

The way he said it, all of it, set something warm into motion. It buzzed along her spine and down her arms. The sensation throbbed in her fingers. She felt it pulling her to hold his hand, but other forces kept her frozen. Just reach across the table and hold his hand! Why is that so intimidating?

Full of uncertainty she asked, “What’s going to happen?”

“I’ll get on the train.”

“Haymitch... when you do, I’m going to hate it.”

“...I know.”

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

My #HayffieFics (Masterpost)

In May 2020, I started writing Hayffie fics as pieces of a puzzle. I’m drawn to the complex bond between Haymitch and Effie, which I see rooted in attachment trauma, codependency, friendship, authentic love, and other intensities I’m interested in exploring in concert. — I recognize I don’t have the capacity to *fix* the actual dystopian world I live in, so my nervous system has been ruminating thoughts and fantasies about how to move beloved traumatized characters toward integration and resolution in a fictional dystopia. — I’ve tried to list my fics here in chronological order as they might happen in THG universe rather than in the order in which I wrote them. Fics which span long periods of time I’ve placed wherever the flow feels best to me. — When I began writing the characters, my vision felt murky. It feels clearer now, but it’s still evolving. I continue to get to know the characters mostly through listening to their voices in my head. They are not as faceted in my earliest fics because I didn’t yet feel the fullness of them inside me. Several fics are inconsistent with the book-verse because that wasn’t a concern for me in the beginning. — Continuing to allow my vision of their puzzle to unfold is a day-to-day decision between myself and the characters. If their voices give me a little story to tell, then I write it. I’ve appreciated prompts which have stretched me to imagine content I otherwise would not have considered. I haven’t yet felt ready/able to explore the darkest nooks of dysfunction. Perhaps in time. — As I’ve mentioned often, I arrived quite late to this party. Knowing that other people are still interested in Hayffie content after all these years helps me feel less alone. I value connection with other content creators and readers. My inbox is always open. — 💛 Kim

Origins

Coffee and secrets

Brothers

Peaches and a tyrannical sea

Games Era

Almost

More than frivolity

Tics

Smashed

The hairpin

Something undefinable

Now or never

The moment Effie starts to reevaluate her desire to be promoted to a “better” district… 

Slipping veils

Unavailable people

Black and blue

District 13

Cracked

Intoxication (Part 1)

Intoxication (Part 2) — (*NSFW 🔥)

Intoxication (Part 3)  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Wedding Colors (Part 1)

Wedding Colors (Part 2)

Wedding Colors (Part 3)

Wedding Colors (Part 4)  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Touch  — (*NSFW 🔥)

18:00  — (*NSFW 🔥)

The first four years post-revolution

Too many miles

When the games are done

Reunited

The High Priestess

‘I promise to love and cherish you each day’

Textures

Gossip

2000 miles — (*NSFW 🔥)

Naked

The Gift  — (*NSFW 🔥)

The Uninvited Nightmares of Effie Trinket

A thin line  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Surrender

Falling Asleep  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Three seasons in wonderland  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Lace  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Choice

Mahogany, curtains, and a baby  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Lost

Home

Shopping Trips

The Deal  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Effie Turns 40 — (*NSFW 🔥)

Effie and Johanna

The better to taste you with, sweetheart  — (*NSFW 🔥)

Little Words - musings and some dialogue

Monsters

Confidantes

Impossible Things

Impossible Things (Part 2) — (*NSFW 🔥)

The Mirror

Falling

Peeta Bakes Fortunes

Toasting

Hayffie’s Girl

Musings I may turn into fics

E + H - musings and some dialogue

What might bring Effie to 12 - musings and some dialogue

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Intoxication (Part 3)

(Hayffie 🔥. Sexual content. NSFW. As I reread Mockingjay, I’ve started again writing fics about what life might be like for them in 13. In this part, Haymitch and Effie set boundaries for sex — after they’ve already had it. I view Hayffie with a strong tendency towards enmeshment. They try to set boundaries in an effort to not get too close, not get hurt, and not hurt each other. When their relationship becomes sexual, I imagine certain boundaries are nearly impossible for them to keep up regardless of their motivations and intentions.)

Her mouth moved softly with his, like a slow dance after the band stops playing. “You’re bleeding...” She kissed him where her tooth had caught his lip.

“I’ll live.” The moment was surreal, like a dream he’d woken up from a hundred times with nothing beside him except empty sheets. Only this time he was awake with Effie.

Her body was warm but shaking. Or maybe the shaking was coming from him. He reached for the blanket at the foot of the bunk and pulled it over them. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asked, holding her loosely, uncertain what would come next.

She closed her eyes and focused on the sensations. Her hips ached where he’d gripped them so hard. Tomorrow she’d have bruises there matching his fingerprints; she could tell that much. She was a bit sore inside. She’d seen him naked before — drunk naked, not fully aroused. She hadn’t anticipated him filling her so completely.

“Haymitch... we had sex.” It was all she could think to say. She was feeling some shock about it.

“Yeah. I noticed.” He chuckled. Static electricity on the pillow caught strands of her hair like a magnet. She was more wild than he’d expected. There was much more to her than she showed on the surface. Under the blanket he traced the path of her tattoo with his fingertips, following it by memory from below her breast to her sacrum and back again.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you like this?” she asked openly. The question itself was a confession.

He knew the answer. He’d always known. “Since you held up that paddle at that ridiculous picnic.”

“You spoke about running home, and you looked right at me as you said it. I’ve never forgotten the feeling. I thought I might have a spontaneous orgasm right then.”

“Flickerman would have had something to say about that. He loves an orgasmic audience.”

“My mother would have had something to say about that! Choice words for sure.” Effie laughed. “If she could see us here together, she’d lose her shit!”

Her laughter rang through him like chimes in the wind. His father used to make them out of scraps of metal. Even after he was dead, and time had rusted them all the way through, they always sounded like home.

Haymitch caressed her cheeks in the spots where the laughter crinkled her skin. “Such language coming from the pristine mouth of Euphemia Rosalind?”

“I’m not sure whether Mother would be most appalled right now by the unflattering wardrobe strewn about the floor, my conjugating with rebels, or your semen running down my thigh.”

“Conjugating. Is that what we’re doing?” Haymitch clasped her right hand with his and pulled their arms out from under the blanket. Their purple tattoos matched for ‘22:00–Bathing’. “It looks like Coin has scheduled you and me to shower together,” he teased.

“Sharing a military shower with a guard at the entrance does NOT sound romantic.”

“Are we being romantic now? I thought you just wanted this rough and impersonal.” He said it with their fingers still entwined.

She sighed. “I’m trying to be practical. I’m expecting you to pull away like you always have. Should I expect something different?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Effie. We’ve never done this before.”

He held her hand so tightly that her fingers turned pale. “How long have you been wanting ME like this?” She needed to know.

“Since that same day. ...How many years ago was it?”

“Fifteen.” She knew exactly.

It’s a long time to want somebody.

“If my parents hadn’t kept me from leaving the house that night to meet you, do you think this would have happened way back then?”

“If it did, it wouldn’t have been like this.”

“Define THIS?”

“You want an itemized list?”

“If we’re going to be doing this, I think we need some ground rules.”

“More rules?! Don’t you think Coin’s rule book for society and Plutarch’s play book for a revolution are enough to contend with?”

Effie glanced at the ink imprinted on their arms. He had a valid point, but... “What’s happening in this bed has nothing to do with Coin or Plutarch or society or a revolution. This is between us. We need to know where we stand, so we can draw a line and stay on this side of it.”

“You know, for someone who’s so free when she fucks, you’re goddamn controlling.”

“Haymitch, if we don’t control this, what’s going to happen?”

He thought of fire. The question was sobering. “Okay. Rule 1, I’m not going to fall asleep with you. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“My rule, my business.”

She could live with that. She didn’t like to be seen in the morning before she’d put herself together. “That’s fine.”

She surprised him by agreeing so readily.

“Rule 2,” she said, “When we do this again, you won’t be taking all my clothes off.”

“Why the fuck not!?”

“My rule, my business.”

He’d only just had a taste of nakedness with her. He was feeling it now, the sensuality of her skin against his. He’d been starving for it, and she already wanted to take it away. “Are you saying that to spite me for not wanting to fall asleep with you? Because I have legitimate reasons.”

“So do I. I told you I don’t usually do this naked. Not totally. The truth is I never do. ...except this time.”

He held her tighter, feeling the whole of her body while he had the chance. He didn’t want this rule, but he acquiesced, hoping he could change her mind. “Fine. Rule 3, no kissing during sex.”

“No kissing??”

“I’ve got no problem with before and after, but no kissing on the mouth when my dick is inside you. Kissing then, it’s just... it’s too personal.”

She heard a quiver in his voice. He was afraid of getting attached to her. He’d always been afraid of that. Over the years he’d conveyed his reasons, which were mostly logical. Despite them having sex, or maybe because of it, his fear was very present.

“I can work with that. Rule 4, this relationship can’t be exclusive.”

Every muscle in Haymitch’s body tensed. “Are you fucking somebody else here?”

“No. But as long as you’re reluctant about getting attached, then I can’t get too attached to you either. I’m not willing to find myself suddenly stuck in this alone.”

He didn’t want to think about her being with someone else. He’d never liked thinking about that. Now after being with her like this... No way. “Not here. I want a bottle all the time, Effie. Without liquor, how am I supposed to handle knowing you’re fucking some other guy? Once we’re out of 13, fine, but for now that’s off the table.”

Effie breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Then you won’t be having sex with anyone else here either?”

“Who else would I have sex with?!”

“I don’t know. ...Coin is pretty. If only she’d do something about that hair!”

“Coin?! Coin gets off on saying no. I’m surprised she doesn’t regulate the number of breaths we each get to take! Why would I want to screw her?”

“I just said she’s pretty. Moving on. Rule 5?”

He thought about how delicious it felt to have her hands in his hair and his forehead against her chest, stroking her, then trying to hold back and make it last. It was all so good. Too good. If they we’re going to be doing this again...

“Slow is dangerous. Rule 5, sex has to be quick.”

“Sex has to be slow enough to make me come, and I’ll agree.”

He moved his thumb back and forth across one of her nipples, feeling her respond to his caress. “I’ll make you come every time.”

“Is that Rule 6?”

“We don’t need a rule for that one. It’s just gonna happen.”

“We’ll see.” She rolled on top of him and gently bit the skin along the side of his neck. She was careful, tender, making up for cutting the hell out of his lip.

He wrapped her in his arms. The weight of her felt better than any blanket ever could. His eyelids were heavy, but the swelling of his dick was a more pressing need than sleep.

“What about birth control?” he asked, while he was still thinking clearly.

“Aren’t you asking that a little late?”

“Effie...”

“Relax. I had a shot in June. Sometimes those can last six months.”

“Sometimes? This world’s a shithole for a kid. Rule 6 has got to be not having any.”

“We’re covered for now, and we can find out what these cave dwellers do to prevent pregnancy.”

“The docs downstairs said an epidemic left a lot of these people infertile. If they have birth control in 13, then they probably keep it under lock and key.”

“Then we’ll just have to be resourceful! Let’s cross that bridge if we come to it. I don’t want to be pregnant any more than you do.”

Reassured, he moved his hands over her body, committing every texture of her to memory. The curves of her ass filled his palms and the most sensitive parts of her brushed against him without hurry.

“What’s happening now is still our first time, right? So the rules aren’t official yet?”

“Semantics. But you’re still naked, so yeah, sure. What are you thinking?”

“I want us to kiss while you’re inside me. Just once, Haymitch. ...Because I need to know.”

“Need to know what?”

“That intimacy.”

A siren sounded in his chest as she kissed his forehead, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, then the divot above his lip as she nestled against him and enfolded the tip of his dick.

“After all these years,” she whispered, “Don’t you want to know too? Just one kiss, while you’re fucking me...”

Yes. Hell, yes. He thrust inside her, and she claimed his mouth. He threaded his fingers through her hair and held the back of her head when she might have pulled away. ‘Just one kiss’ was going to last as long as he needed to get her out of his system.

This time there was no roughness, no swearing, just fluid motion and murmured consent. He felt her weaving through him like the ribbons inked along her rib cage. Effie was in his system so deep, it occurred to him that he might never get her out. There was no detox for this.

She came twice before he spilled inside her. Their mouths were still dancing slow, long after the band stopped playing.

“Ohh.” Now I know.

“Damn...” I’m so fucked.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Toasting

(Hayffie 💕. Loving when we’re afraid is deeply authentic courage. In dystopian reality, loving with arms holding one another close is a fundamental act of civil disobedience and essential for trauma integration.)

His fingers were clumsy as he wrapped a pale blue ribbon around Effie’s hair. She’d pulled it back loosely into a bun with tendrils coiling down the back of her neck. Working with the satin ribbon felt alien compared to the knots Haymitch had tied throughout his life.

In childhood, as soon as he was tall enough to reach the clotheslines, his mother had given him the job of pulling the lines tight and tying them with no slack. Those needed to be ready each week for the task of holding the family’s clean laundry up to the sun. He and his brother were scolded sometimes for playing underneath the damp sheets, which held the fragrance of springtime no matter the season. It must have been the dried flowers his mother put into the soap. Later on and still, each time he passed those flowers in the Meadow, their smell cut straight into his heart. It’s one of the reasons he’d steered clear of that place even before it became a mass grave.

Unlike the pungent flowers, his mother’s voice calling as they played was a faint memory. “If you boys tug those lines down, YOU will be the ones washing that laundry all over again!”

“Those are MY knots. They ain’t gonna be comin’ loose.”

“Your knots WILL NOT be cominG loose, you mean. Don’t allow your speech to conceal your intelligence.”

“Okay, Ma.” He said as he and his brother lay on the grass, sticking their tongues out to catch drips from the sheets like drops of rain at the end of a sunshower.

The clotheslines were made of twine. Haymitch learned to work with thicker rope during training before the Quell. It never took him long to learn something, and once he did, it was committed to memory. In time, having a mind too sharp to forget things had become more of a curse than a gift.

Suddenly here he was with delicate ribbon between his calloused fingertips, and the fine muscles there were forgetting everything they’d ever learned about tying.

“I’m kind of fucking this up, sweetheart. I’m usually UNtying your ribbons, not the other way around.”

“I trust you.” She kept her body still as she knelt on a rug in front of the fireplace. 

When the ribbon was tied, he adjusted the bow until the loops were even. Then he ran his fingers through her wispy curls.

“Your ‘something blue,’” he murmured, sliding his hand down her arm and lacing their fingers together.

She stared at the polished band on her left hand. “Something old...” Haymitch’s father had made the ring 50 years prior from a small metal disk and some tinkering tools.

Effie brought their entwined hands to rest on her stomach. “...And something new.”

A chill ran through him. “Maybe you should have a backup just in case—“

“Do NOT say that! Don’t even THINK it. I’m further along this time. No arguments... our baby is my something new.”

He held her tighter and kissed her neck in apology. “All right. The baby it is.”

She changed the subject before the unspoken word had a chance to start spinning in her mind. “The tongs from the bakery are ‘something borrowed.’”

“Did Peeta ask what you planned to do with them?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said we’ll be using them to toast the loaf of bread that I was there to buy.”

“Shit, Effie. What’d he say?”

“He hugged me, and told me how very happy he was to give us the bread and lend us the tongs.”

“Let me guess... His eyes were all teary.”

“That dear boy.”

“And your eyes were all teary too.”

“Whenever the children cry, I can’t stop myself.”

“He knows now, of course. I thought we we’re keeping this a surprise!”

“I confirmed nothing.”

“The boy knows anyway. You two are thick as thieves.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he will ACT surprised when we tell them.”

“So the kids already know. It’s fine. ...Are you ready to do this?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded.

“...With ME,” he teased.

“Come here.” He’d been curled against her back, and she tugged him to kneel beside her. “We’ve done this before, you know.”

“Have we?” He chuckled, “I doubt any amount of liquor would make me forget doing this with you.”

“I was 8, with an big imagination and—“

“That kid on those screens is long gone, honey. You know that better than anybody.”

She pressed her palm to his chest. “This heart is the same. They broke it a thousand times, but they didn’t destroy it. ...I draped a shawl over my head as a veil, and I swore on every doll I owned that nobody would take this heart from me. I’ve kept swearing it... no matter how many pairs of my shoes you vomited on.”

He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “I married you sometimes in my dreams.”

“Does that explain any of the occasions you woke up screaming?” She smirked then caressed his forearm because nightmares were never a light topic regardless of the context.

“No. But it explains the times I woke up with my dick so hard that all I did was move and I was coming.”

She flushed from her chest to her cheeks, wanting him like that right then. “When was the first time?”

“The night after the picnic. Remember? In my dream you were wearing those silky lace gloves, buttering warm chunks of bread with one hand and getting me off with the other.”

“We only spent a few hours together that day, and you dreamed you were marrying me? You hardly knew me.”

“I knew enough to feel you slipping inside me. I tried to fight it a long time, but I couldn’t stop it.”

“So... now it’s full surrender.”

“Being married won’t make this any easier,” he said, “The last thing you and I could ever be is easy.”

“When is anything worth doing easy to do?”

He traced the neckline of her dress with the tip of his finger. The pretty thing dipped so low that he could have slipped his hands inside and filled his palms with her breasts. But he waited. The dress was pale blue like the ribbon, and overlaid with a weaving of tiny pearls.

“Sex,” he answered belatedly, “It’s one thing worth doing that’s always been easy for us.”

She toyed with a button on the shirt she’d picked out for him. “That’s true. Let’s make a fire and toast that bread so we can do that other thing worth doing.”

Haymitch had said no Justice Building, no party, and no singing. So Effie softly hummed the tune she remembered from Katniss and Peeta’s marriage ceremony. She hummed it straight through as Haymitch laid tinder on the andiron and she stacked kindling around it in the shape of a teepee. Then he built a small cabin over that with dry wood. She struck a match and used it to light the one he held. They both lit the tinder and watched as each piece of wood caught fire.

Over the years, she’d started many fires in that fireplace. The first time she tried, Haymitch had passed out in a snowbank on his way home from the Hob. A neighbor saw him lying there and helped him home.

After a warm bath, he was still shaking, so Effie covered him with blankets in front of the fireplace, and she managed to get some flames going as he slept. Her fire died out quickly, so she called the kids to show her the way. Katniss came. “I’m glad you’re here,” the girl told her, “He needs you. He fights it, but it’s a fierce thing to fight against.”

“What is?” Effie asked.

“That kind of hunger. That hollowness that only one thing can fill...” Katniss tapped Haymitch’s foot with the toe of her boot. He was out cold. “Alcohol just covers it up for a moment as it’s passing through.”

“What fills it?”

“When he realizes he’s worth loving, and when he loves himself the way that you love him.”

Effie shuddered at the thought of everything her girl had been through that instilled that kind of knowing in someone so young. “Katniss, I haven’t said anything about love.”

“Good. Hearing you say it would only scare him more.”

Effie said it now as chunks of wood burned down to coals, and flames danced orange and blue. He saw the dance in her eyes. “I love you,” was still difficult for him to reckon with.

“Loving you is the only thing I’ve been sure about in a long time,” he responded as the truth rose up over fear.

“Show me.”

He picked up the loaf of bread with the bakery tongs. “Let’s do this together.”

She put her hands atop his as they toasted the bread over the fire. When the crust was golden brown, they turned the loaf out onto a cutting board.

Effie slipped an oven mitt onto her hand and held the bread with it as she cut a thick slice from the middle. Then she spread it generously with butter, like in Haymitch’s dream. He picked up the slice and broke it in half, holding onto both pieces.

She eyed him warily. “Are you going to smear that on my face?”

“This isn’t the Capitol, sweetheart. No marriage tradition here wastes even a speck of food. ...But I’ll smear butter anywhere you want as long as I get to suck it off you after.”

“Let’s save that for later when I’m not wearing my Nana’s dress.”

He handed her half of the slice and they fed each other, licking the butter from one another’s fingers.

“My heart is yours,” she said, “It always has been, and I swear that’s never changing.”

“Keep swearing, honey, because nobody and nothing’s going to take mine from you either.”

Their kiss was slow, starting at the corners of their mouths, tasting the salty seams of each other’s lips, and opening to the sweetness that only comes with deep familiarity.

“Oh—“ She startled without breaking away. “Butterfly wings! The baby woke up. It must like the bread.”

Haymitch wiped his hands on a towel near the cutting board, then he cradled the bump on Effie’s belly. She cleaned her hands too so she could guide him to the rapid flutter.

He soaked up the movement. With the one they buried, he didn’t get to feel this. They never got to feel her alive. “This one’s strong already.”

Effie simply nodded because she knew if she said anything, then joy would spill from her eyes, and she wanted to keep it all.

“...Strong like my wife,” he said.

Joy spilled regardless, even in silence. Her tears were saltier than the butter, and he kissed every drop. The sunshower was beginning.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 1)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

6:00—wake up. The timer in Effie’s quarters buzzed, and the overhead lights turned on automatically. Up up up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day! If the lights could have spoken, that’s what they would have said... The irony.

“This oppressive cavern has no respect for my individual biorhythms!” She pulled the blanket up over her head.

Her one consolation was that the blanket smelled like Haymitch — his skin, his hair, his body with hers. She breathed in deeply, and the scents evoked memories of the evening before. If there was going to be regret, she hadn’t yet felt it. Instead, she was inundated with the sensations of an awakened heart and flushed cheeks.

She lifted her nightgown and traced the paths his hands had taken. Pleasure urged her fingertips in concentric circles and symbols of infinity. Her core flooded as she came alive, so quickly. Effie turned her face into the pillow to stifle the sounds coming from her throat as she trembled and found release.

Every morning in that dungeon, she’d missed the sunrise — the infusion of gold and blue, with wispy clouds white as cotton or pink like tufts of spun sugar. For weeks she’d longed for some bit of delight. And she was feeling it now.

Unfortunately, the timer chirped every five minutes until she placed her forearm into the hole in the wall which imprinted her schedule for the day. She dragged her sated body out of bed to submit to obnoxious authority in order to silence the equally obnoxious alarm.

“...7:00—breakfast, 7:30—kitchen duties, 8:00—Command...” It had been a couple of weeks since Plutarch had an assignment for her which took her down to Command. Am I in trouble? was her initial thought.

Aemilia Trinket’s voice crept out from the recesses of her mind. “You deserve whatever punishment awaits you for sacrificing your virtue to that boor!”

“Oh, Mother...” Effie pushed back at the chastising words inside her. “I said goodbye to my *virtue* 17 years ago. ...And shut up about Haymitch. You don’t know him. You don’t know him at all.” She said it louder than intended, then glanced around her quarters. Are there recorders in here? ...Probably. The people in charge in 13 seemed to care as little about privacy as they did about free will. In which case, they likely got an earful last night! Effie changed into her clothes quickly, imagining the horror of cameras hidden as well.

She slid one of her bracelets onto her wrist and slipped her sunglasses into her pocket. Then she gazed into the small mirror on the wall, searching for evidence that someone might be peering out at her from within. Her reflection was flat here, a shadow of her normal self, her former self.

Her soft curls were weighed down by the residue of industrial shampoo. “This golden color is lovely,” her mother had told Effie’s 5-year-old self, “Though I had hoped it would have grown long and thick by now. You must resign yourself, Euphemia, to a lifetime of woven ribbons, extensions, and silk scarves. Implants may be a possibility when you’re older. Or wigs might come back into fashion. Let us hope they do.”

This is my favorite part of you... Haymitch’s words broke through the old memory. He’d threaded his fingers through her hair and held on like a person drowning, kissing her until her lips were raw.

For an instant, she considered leaving her head uncovered today, but split ends after weeks of unmanicured growth brought her to her senses. She brushed out the night’s tangles and tied her hair up as usual in order to continue hiding at least that much of herself.

If Coin had given Effie approval to continue wearing the wig she’d arrived in, then she wouldn’t be restricted now to improvised kerchiefs and turbans. How is a person supposed to stand out here when everyone is ordered to look the same!?

***

7:00—Breakfast. In the dining hall, Effie always sat at her assigned table, unless someone she felt comfortable with was scheduled to eat at the same time, in which case she joined them if space permitted.

The list of people in 13 who she was comfortable with was short. It began with the Everdeens and Gale. He’d introduced her to his family, but they remained distant. Most people here kept their distance from her. She didn’t like to think about it. “Everyone is still adjusting,” sweet Delly Cartwright had mentioned weeks ago.

Effie tolerated Plutarch’s company as soon as she’d forgiven him for the forced rescue effort which brought her here. Next came Katniss’s *prep team* which included 13’s barber along with the nurses who did laser treatments to remove scarring. Cressida and her film crew whose names Effie never made an effort to recall were from the Capitol, but she felt little kinship with them.

There were also the people who had gathered to brainstorm for the propos. Beetee and Finnick she’d known loosely for years through the Games. Boggs often had his little boy with him in the dining hall. She’d scarcely spoken with Dalton from District 10 or Katniss’s friend Leevy, but at least ther faces were familiar.

Greasy Sae worked in the kitchen during mealtimes, otherwise Effie would have enjoyed her company. Her lively presence was one of the saving graces of “kitchen duty.”

And there was Haymitch.

At breakfast that morning, she sat alone. The food was tasteless as usual. She stirred mashed beets into porridge, creating a bright pink swirl. At least her meal would have some semblance of beauty.

At 7:15 a tray plopped down next to hers. “Morning, sweetheart.” He looked cold in his knit hat and sweater. His bloodshot eyes avoided hers, but he was here.

“You want coffee...” she said knowingly.

“Whiskey first. Or preferably both together, if you’re offering.”

“We’ll have to pretend.” She clinked her plastic water cup against his. “Cheers.”

He finally looked at her. In this light, her eyebrows were golden like the hair she concealed under that kerchief. He wanted to trace them with his fingertips. Why hadn’t he done that last night?

“Did you sleep?” she asked.

“More than usual.” He wanted to touch her. Could he touch her here? When they were making their rules, they hadn’t talked about this part. “I was worn out from the... unscheduled exercise.”

“Is that what that was?” She leaned toward his ear and whispered, “My hips are marked black and blue with your fingerprints.”

His expression changed. He slid an arm around her waist and rested his hands lightly on her hip bones. “Here?”

His face was close to hers. The cut on his lip was starting to knit itself together. She wanted to kiss him. Could she kiss him here? When they were making their rules, they hadn’t talked about this part. “Yes... I’ll live.”

Her echoing his words from the night before only added to the feeling of intimacy. He brushed his thumbs along her hips, offering a gentle apology; even though she was the one who had asked for roughness.

She dropped her hand to his thigh. “I like having your fingerprints on me.”

“I had a good time.”

“I had SUCH a good time.”

“Want to do it again—“

“What’s this about good times?” Finnick arrived with two breakfast trays. Annie’s hand was tucked in the crook of his elbow. He set the trays on the table directly across from Haymitch and Effie. He pulled a chair out for Annie, then sat beside her.

“It looks like we’re having a little reunion here...” Haymitch grinned at Finnick and left his hands right where they were on Effie’s hips despite her letting go of his thigh and returning to her meal. “...Annie, you’re looking lovely.”

Their his-and-hers hospital gowns had been replaced with standard District 13 clothing.

“Indeed, it is WONDERFUL to see you both — together.” Effie fidgeted, uncomfortable now with Haymitch touching her so personally in front of his friends and her associates.

“Annie, my love, you remember Effie Trinket? And Haymitch of course.”

“Effie...” Annie took a moment to place the name. “Oh! I didn’t recognize you. You look so... beautiful.”

Welling tears made Effie’s eyes shine bright blue. Unadorned and dressed in these rags, she hadn’t expected anyone would find her beautiful, let alone give voice to such sentiment. “Thank you, my dear. YOU are the beautiful one. That hair is absolutely divine.”

Finnick beamed as he held Annie’s hand, “Can I tell them?” he asked and she nodded. “She’s going to be a beautiful BRIDE very soon.”

“Ohh!” Effie clasped her hands together and held them in front of her chest. “You’re getting married! This is DELIGHTFUL news.”

At the mention of marriage, Haymitch let go of Effie’s hips. Having sex with someone he cared about was feeling dangerous enough. Marriage was a whole other species that he wanted nothing to do with. That said, he couldn’t help but feel a moment of lightness. He reached forward to clap Finnick’s shoulder. “I’m glad, kid. Nobody deserves a good thing more than you two.”

A slyness slipped into Finnick’s smile as he glanced from Haymitch to Effie and back again. “Other people deserve good things too.” For years he’d observed them shooting barbs at one another, holding each other’s hands each time one of their tributes died, lifting one another up through his drunkenness and her disappointed hopes.

“You and Effie?” Finnick had asked him years ago. “...Too complicated,” had been Haymitch’s response.

Noticing Finnick’s scrutiny, Effie cleared her throat. “Well, look at the time! It’s my turn to be a *servant of the masses.* Congratulations, dears. I look forward to seeing you all later.” She looked intently at Haymitch before moving toward the kitchen.

When she passed through the doorway, Finnick poked him in the arm. “You LIKE her.”

Haymitch said nothing. He could feel the corners of his mouth start to creep up, and he shoved them back down again.

“You’ve never had much of a poker face.” Then Finnick said to Annie. “When he’s got a good hand, he has too many tells. He definitely likes her.”

Annie was glowing like late morning sun lifting up over the woods.

Haymitch had played enough poker with Finnick to know it was pointless to protest his assessment. “It’s like liking a cat,” he admitted, “One minute they’re all soft and purring. And the next, they’re hissing and scratching your eyes out.”

“Or your lip maybe?” Finnick’s eyes were twinkling mischief. Flecks of light on a green sea.

“Alright, alright. Eat your porridge.”

***

8:00—Command. Plutarch and Coin were in the thick of discussion when Effie arrived. She waited unobtrusively just outside the room, hearing only pieces of their conversation.

“My soldiers are occupied with intense training which does not include *walks in the woods*.”

“Forgive my assumption, but soldiers would likely shovel fallen leaves at random and lop off branches without finesse or discernment. We need someone with artistic flair.”

“Effie Trinket will have to make due with the foliage within the exercise yard and along its perimeter.”

“The yard is small. Those limited trees will not provide the diversity of colors and shapes we need for a truly festive propo. This propo is KEY to reaching into the minds of the citizens of the Capitol. Surely regulations can be flexed so a handful of civilians can spend their exercise time gathering vegetation in a small section of the woods.”

“I hear your perspective. But I cannot authorize a full security detail to supervise the equivalent of *berry picking*.”

“Madam President, may I remind you that you agreed to decorations. To honor the spirit of that agreement, those decorations must actually be decorative.”

“What do you propose?”

“Two security guards for two hours, a 100-yard radius, with four civilians wearing tracker anklets and communicators.”

“I’ll allow the two hour shift for a single security guard, a 50-yard radius, and two civilians working in tandem. Any additional foliage you need must be gathered from within the yard.”

Plutarch opened his mouth to negotiate further, but decided against it when he noticed Effie near the doorway. “Ah, Miss Trinket, just the person we’re looking for.”

Effie stepped inside, carrying herself with grace to hide her lingering concern that she’d been called to the *principal’s office* for doing something wrong. “I’m grateful to be at your service. All this dishwashing lately has been MURDER on my hands.”

Coin stood up, signaling an end to her discussion with Plutarch. He followed as she greeted Effie. “Hopefully your hands can be resurrected, because we’ll be needing them over the next few days.”

“Fortunately, resurrection is one of my specialties!”

“Well, that’s something we have in common.” Coin always took the last word, though she never showed overt pleasure in doing so. The president was clearly adept at concealment. The stillness of her hair was uncanny. Stoic even. Maybe it’s a wig after all, Effie thought. The nerve of this woman.

“Madam President, please excuse us.” Plutarch nodded to her. “Miss Trinket, let’s walk.”

He led Effie to an elevator and pressed a button. She watched the lights as they descended to who knows where. “Are you taking me to the dungeon?” she asked.

“It’s all dungeon; isn’t it.” As ever, he was aware of his audience, “Though some places here are less... unpleasant than others.”

The elevator opened up into a zig-zagging corridor flanked by rooms full of technology. The end of the maze was marked by light, lustrous enough to resemble sunshine.

They entered a large room steeped in stillness, interrupted periodically by the flitting chatter of hummingbirds. The floor was dotted with planters full of grass. Several trees carried Effie’s eyes upward to an elaborate ceiling. The architecture was austere yet beautiful. She drew a breath and held it in awe. If this dungeon had a cathedral, then this surely was it. “What is this place?”

“Special Defense. A fitting name for the site of our ultimate propo... the wedding of Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair. The details are being arranged as we speak. Do you feel up to the task of coordinating some of those details?”

His words filled her with a sense of purpose. She could have hugged Plutarch! She could have skipped around the nearest tree like a girl. With a lifetime of rehearsed restraint, she walked to the center of the room and turned methodically in a circle, observing the entirety of the space.

“I do!”

Plutarch smirked. “You realize that YOU are not the bride?”

Effie glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous! I DO want to help coordinate. When Katniss left for District 2, I was relegated to the work of a peasant!”

“Apparently nobody avoids chores here. Even the president.”

“I have yet to see HER with a broomstick... outside of metaphor, that is.”

“Careful. I believe 13 is bringing out your natural color.”

“Well, it’s all I have in this fortress of gray! The grass and trees add a gorgeous splash of green to this glorious room, but these cement walls are atrocious.”

“I agree. Coin is allowing them to be decorated with fall foliage. Beetee assures me that a few spools of old wire and aging adhesive tape can be repurposed for making garlands. Have you made garlands before?”

“Of course! Decorating is one of my talents! Not that there has been much opportunity for it down here, to put it mildly.”

“Coin will make a public announcement, requesting volunteers to assemble the decorations later this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?! It’s a great deal to pull together so quickly!”

“Time is of the essence. Tomorrow a hovercraft will take Katniss and Annie to District 12 in order to select clothing for the bride and groom.”

“Ohh...” Effie whispered with even greater reverence than she felt at the sight of the ceiling. “...Cinna and Portia’s closets.”

“Yes. Katniss asked permission for you to accompany them to help the bride with her fashion decisions. Her request was approved, but the choice whether or not to go with them is yours. I’ll be honest; 12 is a gruesome place right now.”

Fire bombed. Thousands of people dead. For weeks Effie had imagined the reasons Haymitch knew he couldn’t face it sober. The images her mind conjured were disturbing.

“Katniss would not have asked for my assistance if she didn’t need it. ...Of course I’ll go. I will always be there for my victors.”

Plutarch assessed her. “You may regard yourself as a reluctant rebel, but it’s clear to me where your loyalties lie.”

“Is it?” Effie’s question was genuine. Loyalty was a concept she didn’t contemplate. Doing her job, whatever that may be, was important to her. The people she cared about were important to her. For a while, she’d felt increasingly tugged in opposite directions. She was still trying to hold herself together.

“I trust you’ll figure that out in time.”

“Plutarch, do you EVER give a straightforward answer?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

She shook her head, half amused and half annoyed.

“I have people setting up three hundred chairs in here later this morning. The film crew will work with them on optimal placement in order to get the best angles. The propo will film the day after tomorrow. Wedding Day. I’ll need you to make sure the bride and groom look their best.”

“Now, THAT will be easy. They have tremendous natural beauty. They just need a little help smoothing out some rough edges.” Effie might have been tempted to describe their appearance as haggard, but when she’d observed them at breakfast, she could see that being deeply in love had a power to smooth out edges that lasers and makeup could not touch.

She felt a flash of envy and let it pass without holding on. She already had enough emotions to contend with. *Deeply in love* was a complication she did not need. She could feel herself standing upon a brink — a precipice with a red canyon below and warm wind rushing around her. Letting the wind take her would be so easy. And letting the wind take her would be the smashing death of everything she’d ever been.

I’m not ready for it.

She and Plutarch spent the next quarter hour discussing juxtaposition of color and shape, length and placement of garlands, positioning of the bride and groom. He’d already thought through each detail. He’s not just planning a propo. It’s almost as if he’s designing... an arena. Effie felt chills along her arms.

“This wedding, it’s not another... Hunger Games?” She began it as a statement, but it came out as a question. To her ears it sounded absurd, but her body clearly felt something she couldn’t wrap her mind around.

“There are different kinds of hungers; aren’t there? And games are always afoot.” Again, he was intentionally vague. “A person only needs to create the right atmosphere; then those hungers will emerge, and those games will play out of their own volition. Creating the atmosphere will be our collective task today.”

The goosebumps refused to subside. She suspected Plutarch would never be out of a job in any regime. “What do you need me to do?”

“You’ll notice this morning that you’re scheduled for two hours of exercise. You’ll be in the woods.”

“The woods?!” Effie enjoyed the natural world at a distance and contained, but nature up close was wild and daunting.

“A security guard will escort you. Coin gave approval for another civilian to work with you to gather vegetation. You’ll need a diversity and abundance of leaves, much more than can be found in the exercise yard. You’ll have only two hours, so make wise use of your time. Whatever you bring back is what the volunteers will have to work with this afternoon.”

“What is the plan for the afternoon?”

“Between the lunch and dinner shifts you’ll have use of the dining hall. Volunteers will show up to make the decorations. School will be done for the day, so expect citizens and refugees of all ages. Afterward, you’ll bring a number of volunteers back here to display the garlands as we’ve discussed.”

“Who will be helping me in the woods?”

“You can select anyone whose schedule for the day can be altered. No on-duty kitchen staff, hospital staff, or military personnel, and no minors. ...Who do you want?”

Who do I want?

A hummingbird hovered close. The feathers covering its throat shimmered like rubies, but the beating of its wings was the only sound she heard.

“If you don’t know who you want I can just assign someone.”

She silently cursed the prohibition of makeup here as her feelings showed scarlet on her cheeks before she’d even said his name.

“Miss Trinket, the clock is ticking.”

A ticking clock... this reminder of the last arena raised more goosebumps. When the chips were down, there was only one person in this fortress, maybe in the whole world, who she was comfortable with.

“I want Haymitch.”

“...Of course you do.”

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Effie turns 40

(Hayffie 💜🔥💥. NSFW. Sexual content and intensities at the threshold of midlife. Despite the title, this fic is primarily Haymitch-centric. The story, set about 7-8 years after Mockingjay, is part of a longer arc. Envisioning H & E’s character development is such a muse for me. Their voices were difficult for me to write in this one. I’m figuring them out as I go along. It’s a labor of love right now. Thank you for sharing the prompt — #13 below.)

***

Some decisions are calculated; you make them after they’ve turned over in your mind for hours, days, years even. Effie moving to 12 had been like that. Other decisions can’t even be called ‘decisions’ really. ‘Impulses’ would be more accurate.

Haymitch was generally not impulsive, unless alcohol clouded his judgement or blacked out all thought. There had been no alcohol the night before — on the eve of Effie’s 40th birthday, sobriety was part of their deal. And the whole thing was argueably the best sex he’d ever had with her or anyone else. Not that anyone was arguing the point.

Except something nagged at him — an impulse half-remembered, not because he’d been drunk, but because it had been hers — her impulse... maybe. And only as the sun came up did he give it thought.

“Don’t pull out...”

Her words turned over in his mind, belatedly.

During the night, the sheets had slipped to his side of the bed. If she woke just then, she’d accuse him of stealing the covers, which he likely did, since his sleep was fitful. A lock of hair coiled above her collarbone. He wasn’t sure how the ringlet stayed, given how many times he’d raked his fingers through her hair, pulled at it, dove inside it with that part of him that was into her far beyond the reach of his body.

He traced the curl with a fingertip then glanced down her breasts to her belly. Over a year ago there had been a baby there, for a while. He usually tried not to think about it. But the memory of its heartbeat nagged that morning along with the rest of Effie’s words.

“...Come inside me. It’ll be okay... It’ll be incredible.”

He didn’t hesitate. After pulling out all those months, staying in and feeling her clench around him as he spilled inside her had been so intoxicating that he didn’t even drink afterwards.

Before the pregnancy, Effie was fastidious about birth control. She set timers and took pills at precisely the same minute every day. After the miscarriage, she needed time to decide what to do since the pharmaceuticals had failed. And she felt like her body had failed.

Was she using something new? Did she get a shot or an implant? She hadn’t told him. Why hadn’t she told him?? Why hadn’t he asked her as she clutched his hips and reassured him and kept him in when he would have pulled out. Damn... just thinking about it made him want her exactly like that again.

He was planning to eat her out with breakfast. There was whipped cream in the fridge, and strawberries. He’d bought champagne, which she preferred to hard liquor. He’d drink it from the hollow of her stomach and let her do whatever she wanted to him, within reason. His girl would not be happy waking up 40, but he was planning to make her happy.

His thoughts mulled hot like spiced cider. And his mind wouldn’t let go of uncertainty or the memory of the heartbeat...gone. He didn’t want to go through that shit again.

He slid the covers over her, tucked the curl behind her ear, and waited impatiently for her to wake up.

***

Even with the curtains closed, the sun tormented Effie with reality. In that moment, 40 was the last thing she wanted to be. She rolled away from the window, pulled a blanket over her eyes, and tried falling back to sleep to no avail. She sighed in resignation.

Beneath the sheet, Haymitch caressed along the curve of her hip. His thoughts and emotions which had been rolling earlier were holding steady at the surface. This was her birthday. How long should he let her wake up before asking what he wanted to know?

She dropped the blanket from her eyes and opened them. As he stared into her, there was nothing playful about his expression, just unmistakable intensity. The feeling of a luminous bubble expanded in her chest and stretched along her midline to the juncture of her thighs.

She reached out and held his face in her palm. His jaw was still smooth with just a hint of stubble. She brushed her fingertips in the direction she knew the hair would grow. The familiar act flooded her with sensations of the night before, and she wanted his mouth on her.

She inched closer and nestled against him. Her lips plucked his once, and then again, sliding the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips. He opened as she expected, and he sucked her in all at once. His teeth caught her lip, and the sting brought her nails digging into his back.

He groaned along her tongue as their bodies brushed, seeking a fit to burst the bubble, which he was feeling now too. Intensity built quickly. He had something to ask, but there wasn’t space now between them for thinking, just feeling.

She drew her leg up along his side, and she opened. He clutched her hips and slipped in slowly, but slow wasn’t enough — like when horses turn home, anticipating oats and cubes of sugar.

She pressed her calf to his ass, urging. A thrill rushed through her as he sank into the sweetest spot. “I’m gonna come fast, honey.” She let go of his mouth in order to say so. “I can feel it.”

His toes curled in the words. He was snug inside her, and she was so wet already. “Fuck, Effie. We just started.”

“I know.” She met him with upward thrusts, letting go of restraint and taking control in turn, drawing out her own pleasure. “Look at me.”

He met her gaze again and held it. Her fervor was catching. He gritted his teeth and matched her pace, holding back when she slowed. Then pushing home like the horses.

“It’s so much,” she spoke of the feeling between them. Her nails played up his spine to the nape of his neck, then along his scalp. His shiver was a harbinger of what was coming. “It’s so much, Haymitch.”

His confession was quiet, tucked somewhere in between guttural sounds and a calloused thumb stroking her breast. “It’s everything.”

The admission, the gentle roughness, the flood of emotion lit her up. “Ohh, I can’t stop it.”

“Jesus. Why would you wanna stop it?” He said it to himself as much as to her.

Luminosity exploded. Her body quaked, milking the length of him. The force of creation swelled. For a moment she was the whole world — his girl. The whole goddamn world. He climaxed inside her without asking the question, without saying another word beyond their cries of pleasure and release. They broke open, glistening.

When her shaking stopped, there were tears on her cheeks. Her leg flopped back onto the bed. “Damn...” she whispered, “I’d be willing to turn 40 every day if each one can start like this.”

He wanted to linger inside her and kiss her tears and tell her how glad he was that she’d been born exactly WHEN she was so she could be exactly WHO she was — somebody who made him feel things he never thought he’d be feeling.

But the nagging uncertainty which had been holding steady on the surface boiled over, and he said none of that. Irritation crept into his voice.

“Damn it. You’re a fucking Siren.” His shift in tone was clear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That depends.” He looked into her eyes once more, assessing her critically. Then he rolled out of her before he’d fully softened.

“On what?” She turned to face him.

“What birth control are you using now?”

She hesitated. “It’s called being 40.”

“What?”

“I’m old now.”

His face was blank. “40 isn’t old, and it sure ain’t birth control.”

“Withdrawal isn’t 100% effective, and you’ve been doing that for a year with no babies.”

Haymitch sat up, trying to figure out what was happening. “Me pulling out is a hell of a lot more effective birth control than you being 40!”

She draped her arm across her eyes. Saying the truth was uncomfortable, especially with him upset. “My eggs are mummified.”

“Overnight?! You were on your period last week for christ sake! Your drama is gonna get us pregnant again. Is that what you want?!”

Everything got quiet. She uncovered her eyes and dropped her arm to her stomach. “You said ‘us.’ Why talk about US getting pregnant when it’s never going to happen?”

“It ALREADY happened, not even two years ago. And right now there are millions, maybe hundreds of millions, of my guys swimming inside you. It just takes one *non-mummified* egg, and we’re back where we were a year and a half ago. Is that where you want to be?!”

She paused before answering. The delay was long. Way too long, he thought. Her thumb caressed her stomach, just once, but he noticed.

“Effie, do you want a baby?!”

“...I don’t know. ...Maybe. I don’t know!”

“Maybe!? You don’t know!? Well, you might have just gotten one, and I didn’t even get a say!”

He was inches from her in their bed, and he wasn’t touching her. He was scowling as if she’d stabbed him in the back with his own knife.

“I didn’t force you to be with me just now — or last night! ‘IT’S EVERYTHING,’ you said. You JUST said that! What happened to THAT?”

“‘Don’t pull out,’ you said! ‘Come inside me,’ you said! ‘It’ll be okay — It’ll be INCREDIBLE,’ you said!!”

“It WAS incredible! Sex is always good between us but never quite like that. And it’s not because you shaved, or I waxed or I wore that awful pleated skirt. It’s something more. I felt it last night and again just now. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too because I KNOW you did!”

He leaped out of bed and stood naked in the middle of the room, fuming at her. Every muscle in his body was rigid. She wanted to touch him and soothe him and make him understand.

“Why do you have to be like this and ruin everything?!”

“You tricked me.”

“I did NOT! When have I EVER been deceitful?! You’re being unfair.”

He stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

As the water ran in the shower, Effie stayed in bed. Only when the room was quiet did she realize what she’d been doing. While they’d argued, she was clenching her pelvic floor, holding in those millions of sperm he’d mentioned. If I’m certain that I’m too old to have a baby, and if I don’t even know whether or not I would want to have one, then why am I doing this??

The only answers she could think of were that just maybe she wasn’t too old, and just maybe she knew more than she’d realized. Everything was jumbled, and she didn’t want to let go.

When Haymitch stepped out of the bathroom, he dressed in stony silence.

“We need to talk about this,” she said.

There were fresh tears on her cheeks, but they barely phased him. “I feel suffocated. I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Fine. Walk away...” As he did, she tried to sound angry. “Walking away is what you always do!”

She steeled herself against the sound she knew was coming. When she heard the front door slam, she told herself, “At the end of the day, it’s my bed he’s crawling back into!” She tried to sound confident, but her voice wavered. Because she wasn’t confident — and she wasn’t angry. Not really.

She was confused, and she was sad. She was 40 — and so goddamn sad.

***

Getting out of the house wasn’t enough. Haymitch wanted out of his feelings, out of his thoughts, out of his body. Walking away wasn’t enough, so he ran — at least fifty yards, veering off the road through a field, thick with grasses and aging saplings. He steered clear of scattered houses and the voices of people. People were just waiting to screw him over and slit his throat. Oats and cubes of sugar were a fucking fantasy. He was running toward nothing, chasing his own breath.

When he couldn’t catch it, he stopped and reached into his coat for his flask. It wasn’t there. Shit. At least coins jingled in his pockets. He gathered them up, and counted out enough to buy a bottle. He set off again in the direction of the Hob, walking now since he’d lost steam for anything else. He’d have to face people after all.

The building was uncrowded for mid morning. Fragrances of food and coffee made his stomach protest its emptiness. He bought a bottle of whiskey and had enough cash left on him for a bowl of soup.

“Mornin’, boy,” Greasy Sae greeted him in the usual way, “You’re showin’ up here mighty early.” She glanced at the bottle tucked in the crook of his elbow. “You pickin’ up supplies for the party?”

Fuck. He’d forgotten. Peeta was hosting a surprise that afternoon, baking a big cake and everything for Effie. Haymitch had no idea who all had been invited. Damn near everyone in 12 knew her now, outgoing as she was. Hopefully Katniss had reined in the boy’s generosity, and they’d keep the gathering small. Though Haymitch didn’t want to deal with any of that shit now.

“Can I get you a cup of beef soup?” Sae asked when he hadn’t responded, “Just made it fresh this mornin’ with the real thing.”

“The party. Right...” he answered late.

Peeta had asked him to come up with some excuse to get Effie to their place early in the afternoon. ...I just heard the kids talking about curtains, maybe you should go over and help them out... Something like that ought to do. Until the fight that morning, he’d been looking forward to spending time with them. He’d been looking forward to everything.

“...Soup would be fine,” he answered after Sae had already ladeled some into an oversized cup.

“How’s that girl of yours?” She filled the silence as Haymitch counted out change. “Turnin’ 40 can be tough for a woman. We tend to feel age differently before we’ve got kids. Once there’s kids, we ain’t got time to feel old. Take a moment to even breathe, and they’ll run right over you.” She handed him the soup. “I know she lost one, and losin’ ‘em hurts. It’s real hard to lose your first. But I got hope for you.”

As he stood there with the cup warming his hands, facing Sae’s crinkled brown eyes and thin smile, he felt Effie’s words filling his gut... Why do you have to be like this and ruin everything?! The thought stole his appetite, but he drank the soup anyway in three gulps and handed the cup back to her. The food calmed his stomach. “Guess I was hungrier than I felt.”

“Feelin’s can fool us. A body can get so used to emptiness that we start feelin’ full from it. But emptiness ain’t gonna nourish you. ...Now, I got customers waitin’. Tell Effie I’m wishin’ her a happy birthday.”

“I’ll do that,” Haymitch said out of habit. He was going to have to talk to Effie eventually, but he wasn’t ready.

He left the Hob feeling like a hypocrite. He’d accused her of tricking him when he was all too eager to finish off sex inside her with nothing in between them — so eager he’d done it twice. And, damn it, he’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to do it again.

He cracked open the bottle and tried to chase away regret about what he’d said to her. He followed the gravel road deeper into what used to be the Seam. Long ago it was home, but home changes. The only things that tied him to that stretch of land were memories and wounds long sealed by scars.

His open wounds were elsewhere now, like home was. Swallows of whiskey wrapped the wounds in a layer of gauze. He could think and feel through it, but the thoughts and feelings were hazy, like the mist that covers the meadow in the morning before it’s touched by the sun.

Ghosts of a sort came out of the mist and murmured their stories. He wasn’t sober enough to tell the voices to fuck off, and he wasn’t drunk enough to not hear them. So he listened through the haze, walking without a destination in mind.

***

The first voice — longing — came from the seashore. Skipping rocks and building sandcastles with Annie’s boy had flipped a switch in him. The kid had been his shadow. At the week’s end, the little guy reluctantly said goodbye with a bear hug and a sloppy kiss on Haymitch’s cheek. What might have been if Effie’s baby had lived and become a child? Their child. It would have been something in between a giant pain in the ass and a love big enough to eat him alive.

I’d be a fool to consider bringing a kid into this fucked up world on purpose, the second voice — reason — said. He was an alcoholic who drank to stay alive. He believed he had no business being anybody’s father. And Effie nearly had a seizure every time she stepped in a pile of goose shit. Babies crap all the time, and they puke all over the place. And sleep?... Forget about doing it because they don’t.

And sometimes they die. A third voice — grief — lamented. They fucking die, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

That fateful morning last year when Effie was losing the baby, she’d roused him from sleep. The chill in her voice tugged his heart into his stomach. “Haymitch, something is VERY wrong.” Cramping had come on in her back and abdomen, and she was bleeding.

Adrenaline rushed to his limbs as if he was in the arena. He’d gone to call for the doctor, and when he returned, Effie was sitting in the dry bathtub, still in her nightie. A steady stream of blood trickled down the drain, and she was holding something reddish purple in the palm of her hand. It was the baby — no bigger than an apple. ...Its name had been pulled from the Reaping Ball before it even had a name.

“I’m sorry,” she kept telling the tiny thing. “I’m so sorry...” She looked at Haymitch as he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and chest. Her eyes held no tears.

He wasn’t thinking about the baby just then. He was scared out of his mind about losing Effie. “The doc will be here real soon.” It was all he could say as he sat on the edge of the tub, kissing her forehead and stroking her hair. He must have said it as many times as she said “I’m sorry.”

The doctor’s arrival, exam, and treatment were all a blur.

“I know it seems like a lot of blood,” the doc said later, “But there are no signs of hemorrhaging or uterine abnormalities. I was able to remove the placenta. A miscarriage happens more rarely at this stage, but it’s not uncommon. I’m sorry, Effie — Haymitch. ...She appears to be developmentally normal for 15 weeks gestation. I wish could offer an explanation. Sometimes these things just happen. A miscarriage doesn’t necessarily negatively affect subsequent pregnancies. It may take several weeks to recover. When you feel ready, you can try again.”

“We weren’t trying.” Haymitch wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to clarify.

“She?” Effie had heard the doctor say it, even if she took in nothing else. She had only let go of the baby long enough for the doc to examine it. Otherwise she held it against her chest.

“Gender can be difficult to determine this early, but the signs indicate a girl. An autopsy could confirm, and it might show the cause of the miscarriage. If you’d like—“

“No,” Effie insisted, “I can’t let you take her and cut her open. She’ll be staying here.”

That afternoon Haymitch dug a grave under the maple tree in the backyard. He made it a full six feet deep so the scavengers wouldn’t find her and pick her apart.

Effie wrapped the baby in a small blanket along with her umbilical cord and the pieces of placenta and laid her in a jewelry box. “She’s used to being inside me. She’d be cold in the ground without a blanket.”

The words had been madness. If he’d let himself think about it like that, then he wouldn’t have gotten through it. One of them had to stay sane. Burying the tiny girl was his first and last act of care for her. Shoveling all that dirt over her was like burying an axe in his gut.

I refuse to go through that shit again, the fourth voice spoke in a convergence — anger and fear. It had been the one yelling earlier, as he took the discomfort of his wounds out on Effie. Thinking about the baby was too much, and his body wasn’t even the one she’d lived inside all those weeks. ...Effie’s was.

His feet turned him around, and he headed back up the road. This time he knew where he was going.

***

At home in the yard, the geese barked at him about leaving them to forage for their own breakfasts. The grass was sparse due to lack of attention. Not wanting their hunger to be something else on his conscience, he scooped wheat into their water buckets and pellets into their feed bowls. As they ate, they quieted down and left him alone, which was just fine by him. He liked most of them better at a distance.

Grass didn’t grow under the maple tree. A dense network of roots kept other plants from taking hold. He’d dug through six feet of those roots, and he pictured them growing back now around the jewelry box. The little coffin wouldn’t drift underground whenever the rains came. The tree would hold it in place.

He sat with his back against the tree and took another drink of whiskey — just enough to try to restore the haze which had worn off, leaving him raw again. Mist filled his eyes. The memories coming up were vivid and close. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He hadn’t cried about anything in so long that he’d forgotten the way tears clog a person’s head before slipping out. They slid down the back of his throat until he’d swallowed so many that he thought he might throw up.

Effie found him there. She shuffled her feet as she approached so she wouldn’t startle him. She sat on the ground, cross legged with her hands in her lap. In the moment, she didn’t care if the soil stained her skirt. In all the years she’d known Haymitch, she’d never seen him cry. She ached to touch him, but she was afraid he’d pull away, so she didn’t reach. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t tell her to leave, and he didn’t leave either.

Long minutes passed before either of them spoke. In the silence, Effie was uneasy, but at least she wasn’t alone. He was right beside her. The geese wandered the grass, and a breeze was blowing through the maple leaves. The leaves brushed against each other, whispering things she could only imagine.

“We need to talk.” Choked up and hoarse, Haymitch sounded like a stranger.

“Yes, we do.”

He looked at her with swollen eyes. Hers were more pink than white. He was beating himself up inside for making her cry about this, especially today. “I don’t wanna fight,” he said. The battle raging between the voices in his head was all he could handle.

“I don’t want us to fight either. ...Not here. Not about this.” She glanced at the the baby’s grave. “I had no intention of tricking you about anything, especially this.”

“I know.” His swift acknowledgement surprised her. He reached for her hand and interlaced their fingers in her lap. “I didn’t mean to ruin your day.”

She held his hand as a lifeline. “It isn’t ruined.” She paused before saying it in order to keep from crying again.

“It’s not what I planned.”

“Things don’t always turn out the way we plan.” She hesitated before saying more. “...For a short time after I lost the baby, my breasts made milk. Did I ever tell you that?”

“I don’t think I was hearing much then.” He looked at her breasts, wondering what other details she’d faced alone. “I remember tracing veins there that I hadn’t seen before. ...Sometimes I watched your stomach while you were sleeping.” Sometimes I still do, he didn’t say.

“I never got to feel the baby moving inside me. She was always too small to feel. ...She had the prettiest hands. Long fingers for playing piano. Do you remember?”

He shook his head. He couldn’t remember her hands. He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. “I’m mixed up, Effie.”

She scooted closer and laid her head on his shoulder. “Oh, honey, I am too.”

He caressed her thumb with his, and she watched the maple leaves cast shadows over their entwined fingers.

***

Eventually the geese wandered over, honking for more handouts.

“Give them an inch, and they want a yard.”

“If they had an actual yard, they probably wouldn’t be so demanding.”

“Suddenly you’re the goose whisperer?”

“‘Goose’ and ‘whisper’ do not belong in the same sentence.”

“I’ll give you that.” He pulled her to her feet, and they went in the house.

Despite the bit of teasing, the solemn mood followed them inside. There was much more to say, but they were both saturated.

“Listen,” he told her, “I don’t know if you want to hear this, but in about an hour I’m supposed to tell you that the kids are talking about getting new curtains and maybe you ought to go over and help them out.”

“Is that the secret code for my surprise party?”

“Peeta is trying to be subtle.”

“That dear boy is anything but subtle. This morning he was decorating a two-tiered cake with the blinds open. They actually COULD use some curtains.”

“If you’re not up for the party, I’ll have them call it off. Peeta might have invited half the town. I don’t know.”

“Be with me awhile. Then I’ll be okay to go.”

Haymitch was unsettled by the realization that being with her ‘awhile’ might never again be enough. Having witnessed so much death, ‘forever’ had always been a subjective and fairly meaningless concept. But it was starting to feel like something other than an endless train of horror. It felt precious and terrifying in a different way.

Effie stepped into his arms as he opened them. He needed to be held as badly as he needed to be holding her. Needing somebody other than himself was dangerous. He was uneasy with it, but he didn’t let go.

“Are you hungry?” He spoke softly against her temple. “I screwed up what I had planned for you for breakfast. I wanted to make you — happy.”

“I ate a little. Maybe we can have your breakfast for dinner?”

Sex was a touchy subject just then, but he wasn’t going to tiptoe around it. “It was gonna be breakfast in bed, using our bodies as plates and glasses. ...Are you still interested?”

“That depends. Will I get to make you — happy — too?”

If he thought too much about her sucking whipped cream off his dick, then they’d never make it to the party. “It’s your birthday, sweetheart. You make the wishes. I wouldn’t turn down that offer.”

At the end of the day, it’s my bed he’s crawling back into. The understanding was as comforting as his arms around her. She didn’t know what ‘everything’ would be, but whatever it might be, she wanted it with him.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

The Gift

(I’m giving some January weather ❄️ to the characters in my July ☀️. This prompt is incredibly sweet, and I realize it didn’t include a request for *coconuts*. That said, sexual content slipped into this fic regardless because ...Hayffie 🔥. Anyway, I hope the ending feels sweet enough to offset other intensities.)

***

After years of hiking up her skirts and unzipping bodices, loosening corsets and slipping them down just enough, unbuckling garters and sliding thongs to the side, they were playing now with nakedness.

Total nakedness.

It had happened a few times, and Effie was still adjusting to the sensations. The vulnerability of her skin fully against his was one thing. Her heart open to him was another.

Their first time face-to-face, unencumbered by clothing was intense. They started kissing and didn’t stop until they came, moaning into each other’s mouths. It was almost too much. The eroticism, the intimacy, the deliciousness all broke down her boundaries. Effie was definitely on board with nakedness DURING sex.

The textures AFTER still felt awkward to her. His body became a furnace, drenching her in sweat, especially when he’d been on top. And she loved having him on top. With her legs wrapped around him, she could take subtle control of the pace, the depth, their closeness.

Complete nakedness was freeing; it was also messy and overwhelming. Having sex with Haymitch had always been contending with chaos, but now...

Now.

“I need to breathe,” she gasped as the pulsing slowed inside her.

He thrust once more, milking the last drops of pleasure, then rolling off of her.

“Fuck. That was...”

“I know. ...God.”

Catching his breath, he slid his hand along her sternum, down to her waist where he curled his fingers around her side.

“Honey, don’t touch me right now. Your hands are sopping fire.”

He let go, still panting. “You’re hot too, sweetheart.”

An anxiety she didn’t understand crept over her. “EVERYTHING is wet. I need to take a shower. We need to change the sheets.”

He chuckled, “I’d say loosen your corset, but I already took it off.”

“Haymitch, don’t tease. You know this is new for me.”

He did know. “It’s kind of like taking your virginity.” He grinned. “Can’t help wanting you wet, and can’t help wanting to touch you when you’re like this.”

Effie scoffed at the notion of herself as a virgin. “That ship sailed over 20 years ago.” Lying apart, she’d cooled enough to reach for his hand and interlace their fingers. “But the sentiment is charming.”

He pulled her knuckles to his lips. “I’ve been a lot of things, but *charming* isn’t one.”

Effie shivered as the moisture evaporated from her skin. She went from hot to cold in body and emotions faster than he could flip a coin. He’d stopped trying to figure her out long ago.

“I’m going to go take a shower. Will you turn up the heater?”

“About that...” Haymitch hesitated, knowing she’d be pissed. “The heater wouldn’t turn on this morning.”

Effie sat straight up, dropped his hand and glared. He tried to stay focused on her eyes rather than the beads of sweat dripping between her breasts. His attention was divided.

“It’s January! There’s snow on the ground, and your heater is broken?! Couldn’t you have mentioned that detail BEFORE I got on the train? You could have come to my apartment instead, then we’d be warm right now!”

“We warmed up real good on our own, honey. ...Besides, the train was already halfway here by the time I woke up today.”

“So he says — an hour before we die from hypothermia!”

Haymitch reached for her waist again. His hand was still warm, and this time she welcomed the touch.

“Let’s take a shower and talk about all the things we can do tonight to prevent hypothermia.”

“You think this is amusing!”

“We have a fireplace, wood in the shed, a forest next door, and a town full of coal. This is 12. We can manage a weekend without a furnace.” He spoke gently, tracing circles on her hip.

Her anxiousness lessened, but she was still vexed at him for not waking up before noon and for not knowing how to repair a furnace. Though in all these years, annoyance had never stopped her from wanting more of him.

“The water better be warm.” She reached for his hand and pulled him up with her.

***

Effie’s teeth chattered later as she rummaged through her bag with towels wrapped around her body and her hair.

“I brought nothing warm to wear!”

Haymitch lazed on the edge of the bed, avoiding the spots where the sheets were still damp. “What about the 5 layers of clothes I took off when you walked through the door?”

“That’s outside attire.” Effie was miffed by his unyielding ignorance regarding even the most basic matters of fashion. A pair of leggings was the best she could find. “I wasn’t exactly planning on wearing much inside.”

“Sorry the furnace fucked up such a fine plan.” He was enjoying the view of her wearing nothing but towels, but he didn’t want her shaking, at least not from cold. “Let’s get you warm. Look through my drawers and wear anything you want. I’ll go make coffee and build a fire.”

Effie looked wary. She was all too familiar with the limits of his wardrobe. Though she did slip on his shirts when he left them at her place. They smelled like him and felt like him and, though she wouldn’t admit it, they helped ease the loneliness she always experienced after he’d gone.

He caressed her ass through the towel. “...Or you can just wear this all evening. You choose.”

She turned her head and kissed him as he passed her on his way out. She just got here, and she hated the loneliness she was already anticipating at the thought of leaving tomorrow. She refused to waste this time together fuming about a broken heater.

She closed each drawer quickly after opening it. “All your clothes are grey!” she hollered downstairs, “Grey is not even a color!”

He muttered under his breath, “Grey is too a goddamn color.” Then he hollered back up to her. “Feel free to stay in the towel!”

She opened the drawers again and dug deeper, determined to find something she hadn’t seen at first glance. A white sleeve poked out from between layers of grey. Effie pulled out the shirt and recognized it immediately, though she hadn’t seen it in years. He’d worn it the night before the third Quarter Quell — the first time he kissed her, as she was falling apart.

She slipped it on now over bare breasts and snuggled up in the memory and the scent of him. The shirt was soft and thin. She needed another layer, a sweater maybe. She kept digging.

In the back of the bottom drawer she felt something velvet and silky. A blazer perhaps? Reaping Day attire? Why would Haymitch of all people hold on to something like that? As she pulled it out, she realized it wasn’t a jacket but a shawl — a red velvet shawl, embroidered with swirls of golden thread and trimmed with silk. The fabric was old, smooth and beautiful. It smelled like cedar laid over memories.

Effie felt a degree of reverence as she slipped the shawl over her shoulders, hoping it wouldn’t fall apart. The construction proved to be sturdy, clearly hand-sewn by a talented seamster.

What meaning did this have for Haymitch to keep in a dresser in his bedroom? “Look through my drawers and wear anything you want,” he’d said. Could he possibly have meant this glorious piece of art? Effie intended to find out.

A pair of his thick woolen socks completed the ensemble with her leggings, his shirt, and the shawl. Effie blow dried her hair, and applied light layers of mascara and lipstick. Then she followed the fragrance of coffee downstairs.

The house was already warming up from the fire burning in the hearth. Haymitch was mixing their coffee with shots of bourbon and spoonfuls of honey and cream. With his back to her he asked, “Did you find some color?”

“That depends... Is this okay?”

***

He turned around and saw her.

He flashed back to winter mornings in the Seam when coal burned in the stove of his childhood. As the house grew warm, his mother would take off her shawl and drape it across the back of the rocking chair. His little brother would toddle out in footed pajamas, climb up in the chair and wrap up in the shawl.

“Careful, dear, that’s precious to Mama,” she’d say, “But not as precious as my boys.” She’d kiss Haymitch on his forehead as he brought eggs in from the goose house. “Wipe that snow off your boots before stepping off the mat. This house may not be much, but we don’t need to be entirely uncivilized. Then she’d sit with his brother in her lap and rock him a few times until the griddle was hot enough to fry the eggs.

When these kinds of memories showed up, they usually kicked him in the teeth, but Effie looking all beautiful softened the blow. A swallow of bourbon helped too.

“I wasn’t sure...” Seeing the pain now in his expression, she felt she’d made a mistake. “I can go change...”

He crossed the kitchen in three steps, kissed her forehead, then buried his face in her hair. He held her tight, and she returned the pressure of his embrace, feeling how much he needed this connection. She held him in silence, asking no questions.

“This is precious,” he said, not letting go of her.

“The shawl?”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, and nodded. “...But not as precious as my girl.”

My girl?... My girl... The words echoed in her chest. She felt them pushing and drawing out something new. “...Me?”

“Nobody else, sweetheart.”

For once in her life, Effie was speechless.

“No expectations,” Haymitch clarified, “I just don’t wanna feel this shit and pretend like I don’t.”

She’d loved him from her earliest memories, all the while pretending with other words and fucking other men who didn’t matter.

“I don’t want to pretend either.” She tasted the whiskey on his tongue. There was nothing simple about this. “I don’t want to be naked with anyone else. I don’t want anybody else inside me.”

He wanted to be inside her again, right now, on the sofa in front of the fire, but there was more to consider. “Are you warm enough? Did you eat on the train or are you hungry? Peeta brought over some fancy things.”

“Come here,” she said, easing away from him and moving toward the counter. She added a few items to the platter of Peeta’s croissants: butter, a knife, and the jar of honey. “Bring the drinks and follow me.”

Haymitch put the bottle of bourbon in the crook of his elbow and held the mugs of coffee in his hands.

She led them to the sofa. Mind reader, he thought.

She pulled an end table between them and the fireplace and laid down the platter. Before he could set the drinks beside it, she chastised him. “Coasters!”

“Coasters?” Fuck. She always did know how to delay a mood. “Not sure where they are.”

Effie went back to the kitchen and searched the cabinets for saucers. Those would substitute in a pinch. “We might be without central heating, but we don’t need to be entirely uncivilized.”

The coffee was still too hot to drink, so she curled up next to him on the sofa. He traced the golden swirls down her arm, caressing her through the velvet. “This shawl was my mother’s.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I wondered.”

“She sewed all of our clothes.”

“She was an incredible seamstress. This stitching is remarkable.”

“Nobody’s worn that in 30 years. ...I wrapped up in it once, after they were killed. But the memories were too painful, so I put it away. Never took it out again.”

“Haymitch...” She covered his hand with hers. “If I’d known, I never would have... Should I put it back?”

“No, honey. Such a pretty thing shouldn’t be in a drawer. You’re giving it life again.”

“Life has these ways of sleeping, you know? Sometimes I think there’s nothing left, and then suddenly it’s filling me up again.”

I feel it when you’re here, he didn’t say.

I don’t want to leave tomorrow, she didn’t say either.

They weren’t pretending, and they weren’t being entirely open either. Nakedness takes time to reach its full expression.

***

The next day Effie folded the shawl and laid it at the foot of the bed. She dressed in her layers of *outside attire* and took the train back to her heated apartment and her sleeping life.

She unzipped her bag and found inside a brown paper sack, haphazardly crumpled shut. On the outside, Haymitch had written, “Stay warm.”

Effie opened the sack more carefully than it had been closed. She pulled out a piece of notepaper folded in half. On the front he’d written, “For my girl.” She flipped the paper open, and the note within read, “It’s yours. Thanks for making me feel alive. — H”

She knew what she’d find at the bottom of the sack. Red velvet swirling with gold. She could barely see it through her tears. It held fragrances now of coffee and whiskey, croissants with honey, and Haymitch’s hands on her. She slipped the shawl over her shoulders. It was almost too much.

It was perfect.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Monsters

Effie: Ohh. Say it again!

Haymitch: Not tonight, sweetheart.

Effie: Please say it. Just one more time.

Haymitch (eyes her doubtfully)

Effie: It feels good for you too. I know it does.

Haymitch: Fine — I love you.

Effie: Ohh. Say it again!

Haymitch: I’m done talking.

Effie: ONE more time, and I won’t ask again.

Haymitch: You little liar.

Effie (crosses her fingers behind her back): I promise.

Haymitch: Okay. I love you. Happy now?

Effie: Ohh. Say it again!

Haymitch: I’ve unleashed a monster.

Effie: Can you blame me for liking it?

Haymitch: I get it. Now let me sleep.

Effie (curls up against him and sighs in contentment)

Haymitch (whispers): Damn. I love you.

Effie: Ohh. Say it again!

Haymitch: It’s beyond my control now.

Effie: I’ve unleashed a monster too.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 3)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

13:00—lunch. For the first time since the ominous day in July that she’d descended into the gloom of 13, Effie’s belly was full. As weeks had turned into months, she hadn’t felt hunger. She’d picked at meals and pushed unpalatable food around her tray. But now something was different. Flint scraped over steel inside her like the wind across her cheeks that morning. Her spoon repeatedly clinked the bottom of the bowl of squash soup. It took every ounce of restraint to not bring the whole bowl to her mouth and tilt it upward to collect the last drops.

Keenly observant, Cressida noted, “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You finishing a meal here.” She dropped her voice. “Are you pregnant, Trinket?”

Effie’s face flushed scarlet, blushing through burnt cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” she snapped.

Cressida glanced at Pollux, and Effie recognized her own faux pas. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t thinking about...”

Interacting with an Avox who was a regular citizen rather than a servant of the Capitol was still a new experience for her.

Pollux signed, “No problem,” and his brother offered the translation.

Effie returned her attention to the inquisitive filmmaker. “I’m JUST hungry. Must a woman be pregnant in order to finish a bowl of soup?” She whispered “pregnant” as if saying it too loudly might invite the situation. Or just as worrisome, Haymitch could walk in at that moment, hear the word, flip out, and not touch her again. Now that she’d opened the Pandora’s box of sex with him, she didn’t want to put a lid back on it.

“Okay. I get it.” Cressida was intrigued by Effie’s blush, but otherwise mollified. “You like the soup. End of story.”

It was golden orange in color and lightly flavored with spices that tasted like autumn. Ginger was recognizable, but the others were a mystery to Effie. Her experience with cooking was mostly limited to a course she’d taken a decade and a half prior at Charis School of Grace, Beauty, and Charm.

Her mother had insisted on “Finishing School” for Effie after she graduated from the Academy. The summer classes had been a compromise, since her father was resolute in his intention to send her to University. He’d even dipped into his personal inheritance to pay extra tuition when her test scores didn’t qualify her outright for admission.

“Charis will focus Euphemia on the most sophisticated etiquette and deportment, preparing her for marriage into greater wealth,” her mother argued.

“University will prepare Effie for a practical career suited to her strongest skills,” her father contended.

“Grace, beauty, and charm ARE her strongest skills. Face it, dear. Like you, our daughter lacks the talent to be a Gamemaker.”

“She has the talent to be more than a rich man’s wife.”

“If I were the wife of a RICH man, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Their barbs stung each other. After years of practice, the Trinkets knew just where to aim them. They agreed that Effie needed a path which would secure an optimal future for the family. Neither of them asked her what she wanted.

If they’d asked back then, she would have had one specific answer. And if she was honest with herself now, her deepest desire was exactly the same. If she’d voiced it then, her parents would have sent her to the Asylum first before anything else. So she said nothing about it.

By 18, she’d become a master at the art of knowing when to hold her tongue. She’d internalized the pressure to please her parents and reflect positively on her family’s name and station in society. The burden of doing so was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Effie’s shoulders ached too from the physical work of gathering and carrying around large sacks of perfect leaves. She daydreamed about a bath full of bubbles followed by a nap on a real bed. Allowing the fantasy was a mistake because then her body screamed for it.

She wondered if even babies were allowed to nap here, or did they get merely a half hour of “reflection” before dinner like everyone else? Did they have daily schedules imprinted on their chubby little arms? Eat. Poop. Sleep. What else did the tiny things do? She’d never paid much attention to them in the Capitol. Had she ever seen a baby in 13? She couldn’t recall.

***

14:00—volunteering. The children would be out of school soon. Plutarch told her to expect them along with anyone who was between work shifts. Coin was allowing more flexibility than usual in order to encourage volunteerism. Effie considered the irony in the word spelled out on her arm in purple ink. Following schedules was mandatory. Once “volunteering” is tattooed on your body, doesn’t it cease to be voluntary?

That place made her head hurt if she thought about it too much. She pulled her rose-tinted sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on, hoping the change in light would temper some of the ache, and help her feel less vulnerable.

“Ready or not, here I go,” she said out loud.

She approached the kitchen staff for permission to use large plastic serving bowls to hold the leaves at the tables. The kitchen manager, a middle aged woman named Cuire, put up resistance, muttering something about needing authorization from the president.

Greasy Sae showed no qualms about interjecting. “Now, those leaves ain’t all that different from a salad. We’ll have the bowls washed again long before dinner service.”

The older woman, with her hair up in a kerchief more plain than Effie’s, carried a stack of serving bowls through the doorway without waiting for the manager’s consent. She returned to the kitchen for more until every serving bowl in 13 was in the dining hall. Cuire pursed her lips but said nothing.

Sae pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the canvas bags and dropped them into a bowl. “The list of procedures here’s a mile long. Sometimes the only way to keep these folks from sayin’ ‘no’ is to just not ask ‘em. And then work fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Effie joined her efforts to quickly transfer the leaves to the bowls. “Thank you, Sae.”

“Thank YOU, girl. Gatherin’ up all these to make pretty things for the weddin’, you must be exhausted.”

“I had help. From Haymitch.”

“Did you?”

“I had to ambush him.”

“Nah. As often as that boy looks at you, I’d guess he went willingly.”

Ambushed and willing. Yes, he was.

Beetee wheeled up to her with several spools of wire, wire cutters, rolls of electrical tape, and several pairs of scissors.

“The copper color is PERFECT!” Effie gushed.

“This wire is at least a hundred years old,” he replied with little emotion, “The only reason it shows no corrosion is because 13 is fastidious about its storage conditions, including adequate air circulation. The gauge is small. The electrical current from present technologies, would overload and overheat it. The wire is rather useless actually.”

“Well, we’ve found a use for it!”

“In the absence of copper tape, this seems the best match, which is ironic since brown is typically used for high voltages. And high voltages would burn right through this particular wire.”

“We’re just making garlands today, not blowing out an arena!”

“You’re speaking non-metaphorically, of course. We might hope the propo will play a role in shattering the Capitol’s grip on the restless minds of its citizens... That said, it isn’t my intention to imply that YOUR mind is gripped and restless.”

A gripped and restless mind sounded fairly accurate to Effie. “I doubt the Capitol views me as its citizen at this point.” I guess that makes me homeless, even though my family home, my apartment, my belongings, my entire history are all there.

Beetee noticed her smile fade. “You might be right about that. ...I’m sorry.”

After seeing what her victors had been through and what they were still going through, she felt uncomfortable being apologized to by a victor who she held in high regard. I don’t deserve an apology, though manners dictated the proper response to an apology was a gracious, “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying to help?” she added.

“I’m needed in Special Defense. Bring the leftover supplies when you come down later.”

“Beetee, thank you for this.”

The clock was ticking. Effie went to work immediately, arranging leaves in alternating colors and shapes and adhering the stems to a long length of wire.

“What a beautiful pattern!” A friendly voice spoke over Effie’s shoulder. She turned to see Delly Cartwright whose blonde hair fell free of its usual braid.

“An artisan! Delly, I’m grateful you’re here to help with production and quality control.”

From their occasional chats at mealtimes, Effie had learned that Delly’s parents had been shoemakers, and 13 put her to work in textile production as soon as she’d turned 18.

“Me? An artisan?”

“You WILL be, dear. I’ve seen your stitching. I’ve also observed your congenial way with people.” Effie cut a long length of wire for Delly and set her up with supplies to work at another table. “Let’s spread around the talent.”

When school let out, Delly’s younger brother was the first to arrive, not wanting to go “home” to empty quarters. Posy Hawthorne followed close at his heels, skipping to keep up with his much longer legs.

“Stop followin’ me!” he told her.

“I’m not followin’ you. We’re just goin’ the same place, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re a baby, and I don’t want you sittin’ at MY table.”

“Cordwain!” Delly interjected, “That’s not polite!”

“I’m FIVE years old, and I’ll sit wherever I please, CordWAIN.” With three older brothers, Posy could hold her own in disagreements with just about anyone, especially boys. Effie admired that along with her manners.

“Aw, Dellyyyy,” her brother whined, “You’re supposed to call me Cord!”

“You apologize to Posy, and I won’t have to be so stern.”

“Do I HAVE to?! She’s just Vick’s little sister.”

“And you’re MY little brother, so, yes, you do. You know Ma and Pa would say so if—“

“Ma and Pa are dead!” Cord sat at the table with Delly and folded his arms across his chest.

Delly sighed, and her tone softened, “Cordy, honey, that’s all the more reason to apologize.”

His lip quivered, and he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry they died,” Posy empathized, “My daddy died b’fore I was born.”

She sat across from Effie and looked at her for a long fifteen seconds. Effie wasn’t used to children being so young. The girl’s dark hair fell long past her shoulders in two braids. Her gray eyes were deeply set. She had the look of a person who’d seen the shadow of death and kept going.

“I like your pink glasses.” Posy twirled one of her braids around her finger. “I used to have pink ribbons. Two of ‘em.”

“When I was your age, I wore pink ribbons in my hair. Pink was my favorite color.”

“Mine too! Gale says we can’t go back fer the ribbons. He says they’re gone. Do you think they’re gone?”

“Well... I...” For goodness sake. What does one say to a child whose district was fire bombed to rubble?

Cord muttered some more, “Of course they’re gone!”

Posy ignored him, waiting for Effie’s response.

“Your brother, Gale, is wise, dear.” Effie saw her expectant little face fall. “I am going to your district tomorrow. With Katniss. Would you like for me to look for the ribbons so you know for certain?”

Posy nodded.

“Then I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime would you like to help make a garland? There aren’t any pink leaves, but there are other pretty colors.”

Posy reached into the bowl and pulled out a red one. “Can I do this one?”

“Of course. Let me show you.”

Effie demonstrated with a different leaf then watched Posy’s small fingers peel and cut the tape and use it to add her chosen leaf to the copper wire.

“How’s that?” the girl asked.

The tape was crooked. The leaf was crooked, and it didn’t fall in line with the pattern. Effie considered telling her so. Aemilia Trinket certainly would have. And for that reason if no other, Effie said to the five-year/old, “That’s wonderful, dear.”

Posy beamed. “You’re nice. You’re not scary at all! I’m gonna go tell Rory that he’s wrong.” She hopped out of the chair and skipped away, turning around long enough to say, “I’ll be back!”

Effie watched her go, not knowing quite what to think. Rory?... She couldn’t remember who that was. One of the Hawthorne boys?

“This year would have been Rory’s first reaping,” Delly explained.

Effie didn’t need to hear anything more in order to understand. The truth split her heart. Half of it dropped like lead into her stomach. The other half rose up into her throat, threatening to choke her.

The children are afraid of me.

Even without a reaping ball in front of me, they are still afraid.

In that moment, she didn’t have time or space to process the realization. She just sat there, forcing a smile, trying to keep the vacant feeling in her chest from showing on her face. As volunteers streamed into the dining hall, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pressed her palm to her stomach, and directed the project as planned.

More children arrived giggling and singing, 🎶”Come live with me and be my love...”🎶 It was the beginning of District 4’s wedding song, which they’d started learning in school. 🎶”...I'll take you out upon the sea...”🎶 drew them into conversation about how the ocean might look, feel, sound, smell, and taste. None of them had ever been to the seashore. They’d only seen it in books.

🎶”...To share the starry night with you...” 🎶 intrigued them too. Some of the children from 12 tried to describe the stars to the kids from 13 who had never been above ground at night. “A star is like the tip of the flame of a candle that never flickers.”... “They just pop out in the sky as it’s changing from blue to black.”... “My grandma says stars are ghosts that come to visit us at night. Good ghosts, not scary ones.”... “Ghosts ain’t real.”... “Are so!”... “Are not!”

Dozens of adults were there to cut wire and strips of tape for the younger children and to ensure the garlands turned out beautifully.

With so many helping hands, Effie had to let go of her precise plans. The work of other artisans became apparent as some patterns emerged which were even more pleasing than what Plutarch and Effie envisioned.

Boggs showed up, carrying his son on his hip. The boy seemed younger than Posy, though Effie was far from an expert about children under 12. Boggs sat at a table with the boy in his lap. The little one reached for the leaves just as Boggs’ communicuff started flashing wildly. “Damon, buddy, President Coin is calling. I’ve just lost my break time. I’m going to need to take you back to daycare, but maybe Miss Trinket will let you take one of the leaves with you?” Boggs gave Effie a pleading look. The last thing he needed just then was an upset kid.

Damon’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. He wiped them away with the backs of his hands which were filled with leaves that he didn’t want to let go. Since the epidemic, Boggs and his son had been on their own. Looking into those teary eyes, Effie couldn’t help but feel for them. The feeling seeped into that empty space in her chest, and eased a bit of the void.

“Your son can stay awhile, if you’d like. Then I can take him back to daycare.”

“Are you sure? He’s a handful, and you have a lot going on here.”

Seeing herself in the moment as “scary ghost” rather than a star, Effie definitely was NOT sure that she was the right person to be looking after a young child. “Of course, I’m sure,” she spoke through her smiling mask.

“What do you say, buddy? Do you want to stay with Miss Trinket and make a garland, or do you want me to take you back to daycare now?”

“It’s Effie. The only one who calls me Miss Trinket around here is Mr. Heavensbee.” She laughed.

Damon climbed down from Boggs’ lap and up into Effie’s. “Oh! Well, hello,” she said, pushing her chair back far enough to make room for him. He was heavier than he’d looked in the strong arms of his father. He squirmed around reaching for everything at once: more leaves of every shape and color, scissors...

Boggs’ eyes widened.

Effie handed Damon a roll of tape in trade for the scissors. “You can hold the tape, and I’LL do the cutting.”

‘Thank you,’ Boggs mouthed the words then told his son, “This is an important job, soldier. Effie is your commanding officer. Are you going to take this work seriously and mind what she tells you to do?”

“Yeth, thir, Daddy, thir!” His lisp melted Effie’s heart.

“At ease, little man. I’ll pick you up from daycare at 18:00.” Boggs kissed his son’s forehead, and Damon was already hard at work attempting to peel tape off the roll.

As Effie helped the boy put leaves on the wire, Posy returned, accompanied by one of her brothers who hurried to claim an open seat next to Cord. Posy skipped up to Effie and patted her head. “I got Vick to come, but Rory’s stubborn. YOU know how boys can be.”

Effie looked up from the table to see Haymitch leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dining hall. He was watching her closely. The expression on his face was a loaded mix of curiosity and seriousness.

“Yes, I do know how boys can be,” Effie agreed, “Especially when they are afraid.”

Haymitch had never seen Effie around little kids, and he was fascinated. The Hawthorne girl chattered on and on, tucking leaf stems into the top knot of Effie’s kerchief. Boggs’ kid was in Effie’s lap, crushing leaves with his hands and unwrapping tape for her to cut with scissors. A girl Haymitch didn’t recognize sat to the side, touching Effie’s bracelet. “Is this silver and gold?” the kid asked.

“This s costume jewelry,” Effie answered.

“What’s ‘costume’?” the girl wanted to know.

“A costume is... something you might wear when you are... pretending.”

The Hawthorne girl said to the other one, “You can wear one of my pink ribbons sometime, and we can pretend to be twins... if Effie finds my ribbons in 12 tomorrow.”

Effie locked eyes with Haymitch. “I promised I’d look, Posy, but please don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

He was trying to make sense of the situation. Effie’s going to 12 tomorrow? Why? And why is nobody telling me anything! Pissed off, he started to walk away.

“Excuse me, girls. Damon, let’s go talk to Haymitch for a few minutes.” Effie stood up, holding the boy on her hip as Boggs had done. “Haymitch! Wait...” She caught up to him before the staircase. If he’d really wanted to avoid her, he would have already been long gone.

“What are you thinking!?” he asked, unsure of what he was wondering about most... Why was Effie going to 12 where the burned corpses of his people were still rotting? Why didn’t she tell him about her plans? And what the hell was his heart doing as he watched her with those little kids?

“Annie needs help selecting one of Cinna’s dresses for the wedding, and Katniss asked if I could go with them for support. So, of course, I said yes. ...Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But it’s bad there. You’re going to see things that’ll change you.”

“I’m already changing.” She boosted the kid up on her hip. “There’s nothing I can do to stop that. ...And I don’t think I want to stop it.”

Damon dropped the leaves and rubbed his eyes. “Are you tired... buddy?” Effie hesitantly used one of Boggs’ nicknames for the boy. He shook his head ‘no’, but rubbed his eyes again. “How about we take these leaves to daycare so you can show your daddy?”

Damon nodded and opened his hands to the floor where the leaves had fallen. Haymitch bent to pick them up and handed them back to the kid. He stood close to them. Effie smelled like the woods, faintly like ginger, and mostly like her. The fragrances helped him feel less agitated. They were familiar, as if less was changing all at once.

“Thank you,” she said about the leaves, “Will you please tell Delly where I’m going and ask her to stay until I return?”

“Sure”

She rested her palm on Haymitch’s shirt where his sweater gaped open. She brushed her fingertips along the buttons. “Will YOU stay until I return? I could really use your help hanging these garlands in Special Defense.”

Her touch felt too good for him to say no.

The peace in his expression was answer enough for her.

As he watched her walk away, a smile crept over his face. He was far too amused to remind Effie that the Hawthorne girl had embellished her head wrap with at least a dozen leaves. In all the years, it was the best *wig* he’d seen her wear. If she was going to roam around 13 looking like a tree, then who was he to stop her?

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Shopping trips

Effie: Why in the world do you want to travel all the way to District 10 to buy more geese?? The ones we have make too much noise as it is!

Haymitch: There’s a hatchery there that sells Sebastopols.

Effie: Sebastopols? What’s so special about them?

Haymitch (shows her a brochure): They’ve got unique feathers. Curly and loose.

Effie: Whatever are you thinking?! What are you going to do with feathers like that?

Haymitch: I figure you might want to use them for a sewing project.

Effie: Hmmm. Do you have something particular in mind?

Haymitch (thought bubble with a very clear image): I’m sure you’ll come up with something. Oh, and while I’m gone, how about you go buy that pink couch...

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Now or never

(Hayffie ff ❤️. I initially shied away from this prompt because I didn’t think I could write it in a way that felt interesting. But I ended up having a great time with it, so much fun that this became one of my longest one-shots. — I make no apologies for the length of my posts in the feed or in the tags. I don’t apologize for any aspect of my free expression. For personal reasons, I write on my phone using the tumblr app, and the limitations are what they are. Like the limitations of my disabled body are what they are. For prompts, I reblog the prompt along with the link to my fic in case anyone wishes to reblog something shorter. — I write for myself, for my love of the characters and the process. When people comment on, like, or reblog my posts, I view those interactions as unexpected gifts. I have such love for writing that I’d do it old-school like Anne Frank, without any audience beyond my journal itself. This blog has been that for me for over 5 years, my space for coming of age and processing intensities in a strained and oppressive midlife. — I’m inspired now by prompts much more than I have been in past fanfiction efforts. So, thank you to everyone who offers them. And when people are willing to slog through my long fics and other posts, that is fabulous devotion to the characters/issues that are important to me, and I feel good to know I’m not caring alone. — 💛 Kim)

***

His facial hair was rough against her lips. The sensation triggered fantasy which played out more readily if she didn’t have to look at him. So she kissed him with her eyes closed whenever they fucked around. He was the same height as Haymitch. When she wore 5-inch heels, those added to the feeling of intimacy. It wasn’t entirely real, but it felt better than loneliness.

Their relationship was discrete, of course. Mutual discretion was a condition she established before getting involved with anyone, especially someone as high-profile as Seneca Crane.

As far as Capitol society was concerned, their connection was primarily professional, with occasional dinners at expensive restaurants. It was an image they’d been comfortable projecting, and it wasn’t far from the truth.

In moments that weren’t overly physical, she enjoyed his eyes. Blueish-grey with a streak of emotion, they were familiar enough to help her pretend. That’s why she’d first invited Seneca up to her apartment in the fall — to have sex with Haymitch in fantasy.

The sex was good enough. He was gifted with his hands, though he smelled too much like her. She wondered if he wore the same cologne as she did. And his body frame was smaller than the one she actually wanted intimacy with. By November, they’d become a regular *good enough* thing.

A dozen years earlier, they’d been schoolmates at the Academy. He graduated two years before her. She was softer then but already a force to reckon with. He was shorter in those days, sharp, obsessed with tech design. Ambition was an attribute they shared, perhaps the only one.

By 30, he’d become one of the youngest Head Gamemakers in history. He enjoyed the rush of adrenaline he experienced when executing the Games, and he relished the opportunity for artistry. The thrill and beauty he saw in death made Effie uncomfortable, but she viewed it as part of the job. He carried out the president’s wishes, though he confided in her that he didn’t fully agree with the way Snow ruled Panem.

On an evening in late December, they walked along a garden path covered in trellises draped with strands of fairy lights. Effie kept her hands warm in her pockets. It had been a long day, and she was ready to be home in bed, asleep, alone.

“What do you think about marriage?” he asked. The question was slightly more inspiring than if he’d asked her what she thought about the weather.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” she answered honestly, leaving out her occasional ludicrous fantasies about having babies with tiny purple wigs and predispositions for alcoholism.

“A union could be advantageous for both our careers. The publicity could improve your chances of promotion to escort for an inlying district.”

“And what do you stand to gain from a *union*?”

“You’re iconic, Effie. You represent the Capitol with style and positivity, and you execute your work flawlessly. You’re in good favor with the president. You could be a wonderful ally for me,” You could be a buffer for me, he didn’t say.

“Is there anything more?”

“Like what?”

“Really, Seneca, is THIS how you’re proposing??”

“Well, our families would support us. And there’s the matter of sentiment.”

“Sentiment?”

“I like you. I care for you, of course.”

She thought of Haymitch’s words from last summer, the night they almost... but didn’t.

‘I like you too much,’ he’d said, ‘I can’t fuck around with you and pretend it’s nothing. And that’s how it would have to be. That’s the only way it could be.”

Venia and Octavia insisted Haymitch loved her, but she believed that was still a pipe dream. She could keep waiting in vain, or she could choose a more sensible path.

“And there’s this...” From his coat pocket, Seneca pulled a black velvet box and flipped it open. Effie’s jaw dropped. The diamond was huge. It was far and away the loveliest ring she’d seen. She looked in those blueish-grey eyes that reminded her a bit of everything she wanted that wasn’t accessible to her.

Seneca pressed, “Say yes, and the wedding can be one of the biggest events of the year, rivaling even the Games.”

She imagined what her dress would look like. He was saying the right words to tempt her. They didn’t love each other, but maybe she could look past that inconvenient reality. Sometimes people married for other reasons.

“The press would go crazy,” he continued, “There would be red carpet interviews. We could invite everyone who’s anyone: stylists, victors, even Snow.”

Victors... Would he show up to watch me get married? 6 months ago, Haymitch had asked her what she wanted. He’d unzipped her dress and touched her body. He’d taken off his shirt and shown her his scars. Then he effectively told her a relationship between them was never going to happen, and he held her hand as she fell asleep.

Damn him.

She took her left hand out of her pocket. “Let’s see how it fits.”

Seneca had investigated her ring size, so the fit was perfect.

“Let’s show him,” she said.

“Show who?”

“Them. Let’s show them all.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Let’s get married. ...This spring.” She could plan a wedding in 5 months, no problem. Isn’t this the time couples usually cry and leap into one another’s arms? Shouldn’t this occasion call for a show of passion?

“This spring it shall be then.” When Seneca kissed her, she closed her eyes and embraced the same fantasy as usual.

***

Haymitch rarely received mail beyond his compensatory income from the government. In March, when the post delivered an envelope addressed to him in gold ink, he almost tossed the thing straight into the trash, recognizing it as an invitation to a Capitol party. Then he saw the name “Trinket” and the return address of Effie’s family home.

What’s this? He opened it right there on the porch with uneasiness gnawing at his stomach.

“You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of

Euphemia Rosalind Trinket -and-

Seneca Lucius Crane

Saturday, the first of May

At 3 O’Clock in the afternoon

Palazzo Annaeus”

What the hell is THIS! His stomach churned, and he vomited up a pint of white liquor on the ground beside the porch.

Memories flooded in... tracing up the seams of her stockings, unhooking her garters, feeling her body without a corset, running his fingers through her hair as she curled up in bed, so soft. So damn soft. Fear had screamed warnings about getting attached to her. Fear was always screaming.

When those Games were done, he’d left the Capitol with a strained sadness between them, like a rubber band stretched too long. Today it snapped and smacked him in the face. He felt the sting of annoyance and regret.

Damn her.

He couldn’t fix this. The only thing left to do was decide whether or not he was willing to watch it happen. He would have burned the invitation in the fireplace if not for the P.S. in her obnoxiously perfect handwriting.

***

Seneca had been right about one thing. Effie’s parents were thrilled that she’d decided to marry one of *the Crane boys,* especially the Head Gamemaker. Historically the Cranes had been part of the old guard of the wealthy from the Capitol, and they’d successfully diversified their financial interests in the years following the Dark Days.

Her parents spared no expense for *the wedding of the decade.* Effie spent the winter so caught up in the comfort of validation and the thrill of event planning that most of the time she evaded the sense of dread that nagged her when she startled awake in the mornings.

When she’d addressed the invitations, she considered adding a postscript to Haymitch’s, either “Fuck you” or “I love you.” Both feelings were nonsensical and nonetheless true. In the end she’d written,

“H — Please come. — E”

She checked the mail each day for his response card among hundreds, but it never showed up. Figures. He probably threw it away.

She didn’t need anyone to *rescue* her from the fate she’d chosen. If she wanted to call off the wedding, she’d simply come up with a logical explanation to save face; she’d apologize to Seneca and her parents; she’d put a stop to all plans, and that would be that.

The phrase “Mayday mayday mayday” was a distress signal used by Capitol troops during the Dark Days. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d subconsciously scheduled her wedding on the first of May because, apart from the fine details, opulence, and attention, her heart wasn’t in this.

***

“We’re here at Pallazo Annaeus,” Claudius reported from the red carpet which had been rolled out along the walkway to the galleria of the Crane family mansion. “Just a short time from now, fashion icon and District 12 escort, Effie Trinket, will wed two-time Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane.”

“Isn’t this exciting!!” Caesar was in typical form. “The air is positively electric!”

“So much so that my hair is standing on end!”

“As is mine!! Thank goodness for hair products.”

“And wigs! We’re seeing all of the ABOVE as the guests arrive. What a crowd!”

Their interviews with attendees were concise, asking which stylists designed their gowns and suits, and if they had particular wishes to share with the couple.

“Now here comes... Is that?... It is! Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the second Quarter Quell.”

“How touching. One advisor for District 12 supporting the other on her special day.”

“I LOVE it!! Haymitch, do you have any words for the happy couple?”

Haymitch stomped past them without pause. He hadn’t entirely sobered up from the bottle of whiskey he drank on the train, and he didn’t even try to resist flipping Caesar off when asked the question.

“A man of few words,” Claudius covered for a shocked Caesar. “We never know what to expect from that one.”

“He certainly does keep us on our toes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have stylish shoes!”

“Indeed!” Each of them spun around on tiptoe, and the cameras zoomed in on their footwear as a distraction from Haymitch’s persistent middle finger.

Just beyond the entryway, the galleria was packed already. Guests were dressed in yards of fabric and large hats. Floral arrangements lined marble walls covered with paintings, some of which were probably older than Panem itself. Haymitch slipped into the first empty chair he spotted, ignoring the usher who asked him, “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”

The question pestered. The bride. Shit. I’m here for the bride.

***

With every detail attended to, Effie curled her fingers around her father’s arm in the vestibule. Flower girls and bridesmaids entered the galleria first, then it would be her turn.

“My princess is getting married in a palace.” Her father kissed her cheek.

“Daddy! Careful of my makeup. Photos aren’t being taken until afterward.”

“Of course. It’s YOUR perfect day.”

Effie had certainly made everything perfect, except for this unrelenting nausea and desire to run away. She forced herself to breathe slowly. The last thing she needed right now was to throw up, ruin her white gown, and have the press start a false rumor about pregnancy. She had no desire to have children with Seneca. She’d made that clear, and he agreed.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Her father calling her “sweetheart” made every discomfort worse. Clearly she thought of Haymitch.

“I’m trying to be alright... but I don’t know,” she confessed.

Her father wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s almost time to walk down the aisle. Is that what you want to do?”

He asked it like she had a choice, but it was too late for choices.

“Let’s go pay the piper!” As Effie started down the aisle on her father’s arm, she didn’t notice the splendor and fullness of the room, nor the oohs and aahs from standing friends and family. She didn’t notice the rose petals on the floor, nor her fiancé sweating like a pig about to be roasted alive with an apple in its mouth.

All she saw was Haymitch.

He stood at the edge of the aisle, in the middle of the room. In the years that she’d known him, he’d been clear about his disdain for Capitol events, yet here he was, no RSVP and very much himself in his regular clothes from District 12. She’d probably be irritated if she hadn’t missed him so much. He was standing right here, and she was still missing him. It took every ounce of restraint to not tell him so.

“Great dress, sweetheart.” He offered a subdued smile as she passed.

She looked back at him once, and her eyes felt like old glass, holding tears too hardened to fall. Then there was nothing to do but look forward.

***

Fear was screaming different words now at Haymitch. Stop this. This wedding. Stop this!

As she walked away from him, he could see that her dress had an open back from her waist to the top of her shoulder blades. The gap was bordered in ornate jewels, stitching, and fancy shit. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her skin, and he couldn’t stop thinking about touching her.

She glanced at him again as she handed her bouquet to a bridesmaid. Her eyes were pleading. He knew the look because of all the times he’d tried to ignore her feelings for him ...and his feelings for her.

The officiant addressed the audience, “We are gathered here today to join Effie and Seneca in matrimony. Family, friends, and honored guests, do you support this union and affirm that these two should be married today?”

Haymitch looked around as the audience responded in unison, "We do."

I don’t.

The officiant continued, “Will you surround this couple in love, offering them the joys of your friendship? Will you support this couple in their relationship? At times of conflict will you offer them the strength of your wisest counsel and the comfort of your thoughtful concern? At times of joy, will you celebrate with them, nourishing their love for one another?”

The automatons responded together again, "We will.”

Like hell I will.

“If any of you has a reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Haymitch sighed and shook his head. Someday he’d be the death of her, or she’d be the death of him. Maybe today was that day.

This felt like now or never. The bit of whiskey still in his veins helped it be now. He stood up and moved quickly down the aisle to the sound of gasps and murmurs all around him.

***

“What are you doing?” Effie was stunned as he gripped her wrist.

“Excuse us,” Haymitch said directly to Seneca, then he pulled Effie out of the room down a long hallway.

She went willingly, chastising him in hushed tones along the way. “Haymitch! This is highly inappropriate!”

“More inappropriate than us having this conversation in front of the entire Capitol?”

“What conversation?”

He pulled her into a room down the hall.

“Not so tight!”

He loosened his grasp on her wrist but didn’t let go.

“What are you doing, Effie?”

“Do I need to state the obvious?”

“Marriage?? Why are you even WITH him?”

“I don’t owe you explanations — or anything else for that matter.”

She was right. She owed him nothing. His edge softened, and he stroked her wrist with his thumb. “Why are you marrying somebody you didn’t even look at as you walked down that aisle?”

“I LOOKED at him.”

“For about five seconds, and what did you see?”

She hesitated, “He’s wearing a tie, not an ascot. We had a dispute about it this week, and I insisted he wear the tie.”

“That’s what you’re thinking about on your wedding day when you see the man you’re about to marry — a goddamn tie?”

“Why are YOU giving ME the third degree! What are YOU thinking about on my wedding day?”

“I’m thinking about how much I hate Seneca Crane. I don’t want him marrying you. I don’t want you fucking him.”

“Well, that ship sailed! We’ve been having sex for months, not that it’s any of your business!”

“Not my business?”

“Absolutely not!”

He was burning with a mix of emotions: anger, jealousy, frustration, confusion, desire, fear. “If it’s not my business, then why did you ask me to ‘please come’ today? What am I doing here? ...If it’s not my business, then why did reading your wedding invitation make me puke. Why can’t I stop thinking about you? ...If it’s not my business, then why do I want to be the one to take this dress off you. I keep holding your wrist because if I let go, I’m gonna touch you, and what would your *fiancé* think about that? What would YOU think about that?”

He’d never confessed so much to her all at once, and she was in a mild state of shock about it. “Last summer you told me if we ‘fucked around’ then you’d have to pretend it means nothing. You told me you can’t pretend that, so where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“I think you do. ...Let go of my wrist.”

“I told you what’s gonna happen if I let go.”

“Then let it happen.”

In a duality of reluctance and eagerness, he let go of her wrist and caressed her through the open back of her dress. She shivered and leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her, touching every inch of skin he could reach.

The wig she wore resembled her actual hair color, light golden, like wheat before harvest. In this moment, she was an angel. He’d kiss her if she’d just shut up, but she had things to say too.

“If it’s not your business, then why am I still here with you instead of out there marrying Seneca?” Her tone softened. “Why do I close my eyes and picture you every time I kiss him and every time we have sex? ....If it’s not your business, then why do I miss you so much?”

“Jesus, Effie. What are you doing to me?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“I think you do.”

***

From the doorway, Seneca cleared his throat. He’d been listening awhile. Effie tried to pull away from Haymitch, but first he had to untangle himself from the back of her dress.

“This isn’t quite what it looks like,” Effie laughed nervously.

“It looks like unfinished business,” Seneca said.

“Then it IS what it looks like,” Haymitch told him.

“Will you please excuse us?” Seneca asked, proper as fuck. “Effie and I have some things to discuss.”

“I’m not leaving.” Fear and desire for her wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll handle this,” she insisted. “Please wait in the hall.”

This was the Gamemaker’s house, his wedding, and his girl for god sake. What else could Haymitch do? Pull out his knife and slit the guy’s throat?? This was Effie’s world, not his. Without another word, he stepped out of the room, and he hated that she closed the door behind him.

Seneca confronted her, “I’ll say this quickly because our guests have already waited long enough. A marriage of convenience is prudent when the motivations for such a union are stronger than the desire for love. I’ve realized that’s not the case here. For me, and apparently not for you either.”

“Are you in love with someone else?”

“Someone my family regards as unsuitable. I’m sorry I didn’t speak about it sooner. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.” He glanced at the door, “But I see that you do. Frankly, this interruption is an enormous relief.”

Effie was slightly miffed to realize that Seneca would not be pining for her, but the interruption did lift her feeling of dread. “I apologize as well. I haven’t been forthcoming with you, or with myself. What do we do now? The Capitol is expecting a wedding.”

“The Capitol is expecting a show, and they’re getting that. Let’s walk out there together and announce that we’ve decided to cancel the nuptials and move straight to the reception. It can still be the party of the year.”

“But my parents...”

“I’ll reimburse your father for his investment in this. It’s the right thing to do. I do care for you, Effie, but I should never have discussed marriage as a hypothetical, let alone proposed and let it get this far.”

He held out his hand. “Shall we? Before any more time passes.”

She threaded her fingers with his in solidarity.

When the door opened, Haymitch was still there in the hall, fuming now at the sight of them holding hands.

“Seneca, give me another minute,” she said.

He let go of her and took several steps away.

She touched Haymitch’s arm and spoke into his ear, “The wedding is off. But we need time to appease our families and everyone else. Meet me at 9 o’clock at The Popina on 6th St. Do you know the place?”

He’d never been there, but it was a good call. He doubted the press would look for him at a swanky wine bar. “I know the one.”

She whispered, “I said I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me anything either. Regardless, this feeling between us isn’t going away.”

Seneca told him, “Keep following this hallway as it bends to the right. You’ll eventually reach a side door you can take out of here if you want...”

Haymitch didn’t trust him and didn’t want to leave.

“...Unless you’d prefer a walk back down the red carpet with the other guests.”

I don’t.

Effie urged him to go. “I need to set this right. Please don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

“I don’t wanna run out in the middle of a pile of shit.”

“Language! This wedding is not a pile of anything. It’s an event we need to finish differently than expected. Will you trust me?”

“Fine.” He answered without conviction, turning away so he wouldn’t have to watch them link hands again. Holding the handle of the knife in his pocket, he followed the hallway to the side door and left all that nonsense behind him. Did he trust her?? If she walked into that bar tonight without a rock on her finger, then maybe he just might.

***

Afterward, the red carpet commentary indeed made for a more interesting show.

“The only thing more exciting than a wedding,” said Caesar, “Is a kiss at the altar between the bride and groom after they’ve CALLED OFF the ceremony!”

“You may now kiss the woman in white who is no longer your bride!”

“Oh, Claudius, you’re so cheeky!”

“I can honestly say I’ve never seen a couple more happy to be NOT married.”

“Did somebody bring the sun INSIDE the palace? Because they were positively glowing.”

“The reception is still on, and did you hear their words about it?”

“Caesar, I was on the edge of my seat, and I couldn’t miss them, but say them again.”

“Seneca began, ‘May 1st, May Day, is not just one of folktales. Mayday was a cry of distress during war, terrible war. The Capitol responded and transformed that distress into peace.’

“Then...”

“Then Effie continued, ‘Instead of celebrating a wedding, we’ve decided to transform the reception we’d planned into a festival honoring the glory of the Capitol. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.’”

“Don’t you just love that?”

“I DO! I absolutely do!”

“Well, that’s the only ‘I do’ that we’ll be hearing this afternoon!”

Hysterical laughter ensued between the two.

“Claudius, the question on everyone’s mind revolves around the influence of a certain mentor from District 12.”

“Yes. Haymitch Abernathy interrupted the ceremony.”

“He pulled Effie away, and Seneca followed. When the couple returned hand-in-hand, they called off the wedding. The mystery is, what happened in between?”

“As you said earlier, we never know what to expect from Haymitch. That one is a wildcard.”

“We’ve been waiting for him to emerge from the palace so we can ask him, but as we noted before, he is a man of few words.”

“Maybe we’ll catch him at the reception.”

“The festival!”

“The festival, of course!”

***

By 10 o’clock, Haymitch had read the sign on the wall a hundred times. “Hedone says, ‘You can drink here for one; if you give two, you will drink better; if you give four, you will drink Falernian.”

‘Hedone’ he recognized as the Roman goddess of pleasure. He thought pleasure would be a fine devotion if it wasn’t pursued at the cost of other people’s lives or pursued to chase away demons. He was already chasing one bottle of Falernian with another. “Damn Capitol wine doesn’t get you drunk unless you chug two bottles. And this is the best they’ve got?”

He’d been there a couple of hours. During that time, his attention was divided between that sign reflecting on hedonism and the screen showing footage of Effie’s non-wedding reception.

They were *saving face* alright. Haymitch had rarely seen Effie kiss anyone, and tonight he’d watched her kiss her *former* fiancé every time someone clinked a glass. The kisses were pecks mostly, a game they were probably playing to host a fun party and show the Capitol there were no hard feelings between them. But as the kisses added up, Haymitch’s dislike for Seneca Crane became more palpable.

“Slide a bit,” she said, showing up beside him. She was hiding in a simple dress and a light layer of makeup. Her hair was pulled back beneath a scarf instead of a wig.

He scooted over, making room for her at his booth in back. “You’re late, sweetheart. Did Crane kiss all that makeup off your face?”

“And you’re drunk.” She caressed the back of his neck, content to be with him right now, drunk or not.

“Wasn’t drunk an hour ago after the first bottle of this Falernian shit. But the more you drink, the better it tastes.”

She drank from his glass, and he didn’t object. From his perspective right now, she could drink straight from his mouth or off his body.

He encircled her waist, pulling her as close as the setting allowed. He was relieved to see that she wasn’t married. His inhibitions were reduced, so she could do just about anything to him right now, and he wouldn’t object. He tried not to think about her having that kind of power.

She stroked his arm wrapped around her. “There’s a rumor circulating about you.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?” He kissed her neck after each question. “Do they think I’m fucking you?”

She giggled because the hair on his face tickled her skin and because she was anticipating his response. “Not quite, honey.”

“What then?”

“They think you’re fucking Seneca.”

“What the hell?!!”

“Caesar and Claudius predicted ‘the mentor from District 12 is having a torrid affair with the Head Gamemaker,’ and you pulled me away from the wedding in the hopes of taking my place at the altar.”

“They’re lunatics.”

“It’s a risky move breaking up a wedding. Who knows what people will say.”

“What do YOU say?”

“I say you look at my breasts far too often for you to be interested in Seneca Crane,” she chuckled.

“And what do you say about me breaking up your wedding?”

As she looked into his eyes, there was no approximation, no almost. It was a relief to not have to *pretend* that he was the one she wanted, but to just KNOW it. “I say, thank you. ...Sweetheart.”

What fantasies and real desires would be accessible with him? She’d know more in time.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Slipping veils

(Hayffie catching fire during the Victory Tour.)

The long stretch of track between Districts 11 and 10 was in need of maintenance, making their ride much less smooth than usual. Effie’s side ached where the Peacekeeper had jabbed her with a gun, and the motion of the train only added to her discomfort.

“Poked” was the euphemism Effie had used to describe her encounter in the Justice Building. The steel had dug into a tender spot along her ribs. During the past several months she’d certainly weathered extreme ups and downs at her job. The stop in 11 had been full of downs.

“I do NOT approve of the actions of those Peacekeepers.”

She sat on a couch across from Haymitch. He slouched in a chair with his feet up on a coffee table, and he nursed a glass of liquor as he listened to her. When he wanted to block out her chatter without having to leave her, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. But his eyes were open now, watching her closely.

He wasn’t drunk enough yet to avoid seeing the toll that the day had taken on her. She propped an elbow on the armrest of the sofa and leaned her head on her palm. The pumpkin that she called a wig was mussed and a bit off-center. The ostrich feathers covering her sleeves slumped with her shoulders. Her clipboard detailing the next day’s itinerary was tossed on the seat beside her, and her cup of herbal tea sat on the table untouched.

“Perhaps in 11, the Peacekeepers have been overly conditioned to monitoring the handling of livestock,” Effie continued, “Because that’s what I felt like today. When we return to the Capitol, I MUST speak with the head of the department. My victors deserve better! Especially after Katniss and Peeta gave those beautiful speeches about Thresh and Little Rue.”

“Yeah. They deserve a hell of a lot better,” Haymitch spoke over the rim of his glass, “But those kids already have a lot to deal with, Effie. Let this lie for now.”

“I know there were shots fired in that square — three of them. Peeta said a truck backfired, but I’m not a fool.”

“The kids just want to protect your... innocence.” Haymitch chuckled a bit at his own use of the word. It was nervous laughter more than anything else. “I’m sure that’s how they see it.”

“Oh, those dears. This victory tour is supposed to be their CELEBRATION. Yet there they were being treated like cattle while trying to honor the families of the fallen tributes... even trying to protect me. Their faces have been as white as sheets. ...Well, not the yellowed atrocities that hang in YOUR windows, but white as normal sheets. The prep teams have had to add more color to their cheeks with each touch up. Something just... well, something is not right.”

“A lot of things aren’t right, sweetheart. But they happen anyway.”

The train jostled them. Some tea splashed from Effie’s cup onto the table, and Haymitch brought his other hand up to steady his drink. She flinched just then, holding her rib cage.

“What’s the matter?”

“That Peacekeeper jabbed me pretty hard.”

“Did she?” His mind began spinning the image he’d blocked out earlier of a gun pointed at Effie.

“The poor condition of these train tracks is doing nothing to alleviate my discomfort. One would think the operators would have had the entire system in perfect condition for an event as important as the Victory Tour. There’s another department head I must file a complaint with!”

Haymitch put his glass down on the table and moved to the sofa, initially squashing Effie’s clipboard then sliding it out from under him and setting it apart from their drinks. He knew she must be uncomfortable when she didn’t complain about his assprint on her itinerary. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even complained about him propping his feet up near her tea.

He reached across the waist of her shiny blue dress and gently brushed the affected spot with his fingertips. All he could feel beneath the fabric was more fabric. Unfortunately her corset was only armor against his hands, not other weapons.

He reached so quickly that she didn’t have a chance to object. Though objection was far from her mind. He rarely touched her unless he was holding her elbow in front of potential sponsors or leaning on her elsewhere to avoid falling down drunk. Any touch he offered when he wasn’t playing a part and when he wasn’t wasted was something she tucked inside her as a treasure.

As his arm rested lightly on her stomach, her gaze followed his sleeve up to the collar of the shirt she’d picked out for him that morning. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow whatever he was feeling. His eyes were grey ghosts of the man she’d fallen for long ago, even before she’d seen how much there was inside him. He looked tired in a way that made her feel the passage of time. He was still young to be so tired.

“Are you bruised?” he asked.

“I...” She released the breath she’d been holding. “I’m not sure. The barrel of the gun must have pressed between the stays of my corset.”

Rage flushed Haymitch’s cheeks. He could hardly stand the thought of the barrel of a gun being that close to Effie — close enough to hurt her. He hated knowing it had happened. All at once his hands were shaking, and he let go.

“With that plaster on, how are you gonna know if you’re really hurt! You could have a hematoma under there and not know it!”

“There’s no need to yell. The children are sleeping.” Why can’t you just touch me like a moment ago and let that be enough?

“Like hell there isn’t! I’m yelling because I’m pissed off. Go get out of that thing, and I’ll go to the bar car and bring you a sack of ice for your side. ...I need to refill my drink anyway.”

“I’ve been herded enough today! The last thing I need is YOU telling me where to go and what to do! And my corsets are NOT plaster!”

He’d seen and felt enough of them to know what they were — all satin and lace and ribbons and shit that made him forget himself. Just thinking about it made him want to take that ridiculous pumpkin off her head and bury his hands in her hair which he hadn’t felt in months. He wanted to do insane things like suck the vanilla perfume from her neck and fuck her for as long as his body would let him.

He felt the intensities swelling between them and shifted uncomfortably as his pants tightened in front. People in 11 resisting and getting shot... a gun pointed at Effie... her hurting... him yelling... her yelling back... and this is how his body was responding. Fuck. He didn’t try to hide it, but he was determined not to go to that insane place, especially now.

He pulled far enough away that no part of him was touching her. “You’re hurt, and I’m trying to help. I’m just trying to help you.”

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Something bigger than the way they’d been treated in 11. Bigger than the fear she felt when his hand trembled and his face flushed and his voice pierced the space between them and bled right into her. She shivered and wanted him close. She needed him — so she could do this job, and at other times when he was too far away for her to even pretend that she had him.

Her tone was subdued, “I would appreciate you getting me that ice. Thank you. I’m going to my sleeping compartment to change. Will you bring it to me there?”

“Sure.” He picked up his glass and finished the liquor in one gulp as he walked away.

Effie scooped up her clipboard and left the cup of tea behind. She used her free hand to boost herself up from the sofa. Haymitch was right. She shouldn’t be in this corset. The stays were pressing painfully with each movement of her body and the train.

She glanced out the window. This stretch of track took them near the ocean. There wasn’t enough of a moon to see anything except a large swath of black beneath a starry sky. Such a pity to miss a beautiful view. The night drew a veil over the earth, and it pulled others from her thoughts. She could feel the veils slipping, even though she didn’t know what was underneath.

Her detailed schedule said she should be asleep then, but her mind was flopping all over the place like a fish washed up out there on the darkened shore. In that state, there was something undeniably comforting about being with Haymitch, before he became too drunk to forget her presence.

In the bar car he requested ice in a plastic bag and a small towel to wrap around it. He sat awhile at a table, giving Effie time to change and allowing himself a chance to calm down. He opted to not refill his glass, not yet. Nights on the train were always long, and there would be plenty time later to swim in liquor. Drinking any more now would just mean swallowing the dregs of his inhibitions. And he needed those. He needed those more than he wanted Effie.

“I’ve got your ice,” he announced outside her door.

“Come in. I’m as decent as I’m going to get under the circumstances.”

He opened the door. “I don’t care about decent, sweetheart. I’m just bringing...”

He stopped short when he saw her. She sat on the edge of the bed wearing pink silk pajamas. The orange wig was on its stand on the dresser, and her hair fell above her shoulders. Her real hair, golden like grasses in the Meadow just before the rains come. He’d spent months remembering the feeling of it, trying to forget, and remembering anyway.

She held out her hand, and he was almost drunk enough to take it, until he realized she was reaching for the sack of ice.

“The bartender wrapped it in a towel for you. He’s fixed ice packs for me plenty of times when I’ve knocked my head, usually on the floor.”

“Yes, I’m often the one to request those for you.”

Of course she was. Shit. He didn’t like this in-between feeling — sharp enough to recognize that he was being stupid, but not sharp enough to stop himself. At least he remembered what he’d come there for, and he placed the ice pack in her hands.

“I should go.” But his feet wouldn’t move.

“Can you stay awhile? Today’s been... unexpected. And I feel better with you here.”

Against his judgment, he sat down beside her. The neckline of her pajamas dipped far enough for him to notice that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but not deep enough to see the fullness of her breasts.

The one time he’d seen them she was drunk. It took iron will to not touch her then. The following summer they’d shared a bottle of gin, and he felt her through her dress without a corset in the way. It was brief, just long enough for her nipples to respond to his touch. Maybe it would have gone further if they hadn’t been interrupted. But sanity had prevailed.

Now here she was lifting the hem of her top to the tender spot on her rib cage. If she hadn’t been hurting, then he’d be sorely tempted to tell her to keep going... to take off her shirt... to take off everything... or let him do it... to let his hands know more of this soft Effie that he never got enough of... never, damn it... and he wouldn’t get enough of her that night either... or any night... because nothing was safe... nothing had ever been safe.

He was close enough for her to hear his breathing turn ragged, but she misunderstood. “It’s not that bad,” she said, “It’s just a regular bruise.”

“Shaped like the barrel of a Peacekeeper’s gun,” he seethed, lifting his hand and brushing his thumb across the bruise as gently as he’d ever touched anything in his life. Her body was slight and her skin so soft. In that moment, he flashed back to kissing the top of his baby brother’s head the day he was born.

He leaned as close as possible to Effie’s ear and whispered, “These walls can hear us... Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He whispered again, “If they hurt you again... I’ll kill them.”

“It’s.. it’s just a bruise.”

More whispers raised goosebumps on her arms, “Effie, I swear... I’ll kill them.”

She whispered back, and he shivered too in the feeling of her breath warming his temple. “Kill who?”

He hesitated before answering. “...Everyone.”

She didn’t know what was happening, but she could tell his intensity wasn’t an exaggeration. This feeling between them, whatever it may be, was real.

During each stretch of time they spent together, it kept getting harder for her to hold back. His drinking usually helped in that regard because it was easy to point out that the fragrance of a distillery is not a cologne and simply shove him away. But he’d been drinking that night same as usual, and she wasn’t shoving.

His thumb circled a wide perimeter around the bruise, and she took shallow breaths. She tilted her head up slightly, and his mouth was inches from hers. It would be so easy to lean forward and let it happen. “Haymitch...” she murmured, stroking the back of his hand.

“Don’t...” He held a moment in the feeling. Then he jerked away as if she was fire searing his flesh. The sack of ice fell to the floor. She reached for it and winced. He retrieved it and set it once again in her open hands.

He returned to whispering, “I don’t want the barrel of a gun pointing at you. If you kiss me... if I kiss you... then any shred of power I may have to protect you is gone. Do you understand?”

She shook her head ‘no,’ not because she didn’t understand but because she was starting to, and these were truths she wasn’t ready to accept. She whispered back, “What if I want to take the risk?”

He turned his head toward her, and their foreheads were touching. “Honey, if you want that kind of risk, then you’re a fool after all.”

He ran his hands through her hair. False lashes pressed to her cheeks. He had to take away at least that much of her. He needed it to keep going.

It might have been enough if she hadn’t moaned and slid her fingers through his hair too. He shuddered in the sensations, and he knew. There’s no way in hell this would be enough. Even though it had to be.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 2)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

9:00—mentoring. The buzz that Haymitch had been feeling was killed even before Peeta kicked him out of the hospital room.

The boy was angry. “What if I’d murdered the people who were trying to help us because I didn’t know they were trying to help us!!? Do you think anyone would be asking me to frost a cake for Finnick’s FUNERAL if I’d slit his throat!? I can’t even look at you right now. Just go.”

It didn’t help that Haymitch’s eyes looked so much like Katniss’s.

At least Peeta was becoming more lucid. Haymitch took the boy’s justifiable anger as a positive sign and respected his request to be alone.

At the other end of the hospital, he opened the girl’s door to find Johanna plugged into Katniss’s IV. They both looked up but neither moved an inch.

“Jealous?” Johanna sneered.

“Not my drug of choice, sweetheart,” though her comment was spot-on. To Katniss he asked, “Are you okay with this?”

“It’s fine.” She winced, and he glared at Johanna.

“What? She says she’s fine. Plutarch took her for a walk yesterday afternoon. He probably just held her leash too tight.”

“I can tell them I don’t need the morphling anymore...” Her threat wasn’t far from the truth, and Johanna knew it.

“It’s nothing personal. Plutarch has us all on leashes. Even your *mentor* there.” Johanna looked pointedly at the communicuff on Haymitch’s wrist.

Her mockery pissed him off.

“Plutarch talked to you yesterday?” he asked Katniss.

“Yeah. He’s planning a circus, and he gave me the job of looking happy.”

“You. Happy? I would’ve cast somebody else.”

“I can do it. Since the circus is Finnick and Annie’s wedding.”

“Right. ...I’m going to walk away now and pretend I didn’t see you two... bonding.” He motioned to the IV then said to Johanna, “If she’s screaming in pain later, I’ll be ripping that port out of your arm myself.”

Sarcasm dripped along with the morphling. “Sobriety has had such a calming effect on you.”

“Something for YOU to look forward to soon.”

Johanna’s expression was steady as stone. ...Almost. Nobody would have noticed the subtle flinch, except for an addict.

“Katniss, I’ll see YOU later.” Haymitch closed the door behind him.

So the kids knew about the wedding before he did. What’s the point of wearing this *shackle* on my arm if Plutarch doesn’t tell me anything?!

Haymitch made his way back to Peeta’s room and stood in the corridor looking in through the one-way mirror. The boy was sitting at the art table which orderlies had brought in days before. Delly Cartwright was by his side. They were painting with watercolors. Peeta’s brush stroked out an ocean scene with cresting waves and sea life. With the paintbrush in his hand, Peeta was calm. In that moment, he seemed almost like himself.

The damn communicuff buzzed, and a message from Plutarch appeared on the screen. “Change of schedule. Report for exercise at 10:00. Details await you there.”

Being outdoors sounded better than being shut out by the kids or seeing them in pain. They were still alive, but they were messed up. Like me... Or worse.

Mentor. Johanna’s ridicule settled in his bones.

***

10:00—exercise The staircase to the surface had been rebuilt quickly after the bombing. The tight control in 13 produced efficiency. He’d give Coin that much credit.

Climbing the stairs was more exercise than he’d get in the yard. By the time he got to the top, he was breathing hard.

“Now that’s a familiar sound.” Effie’s voice came from the shadows and lit him up.

He moved toward her. “Me out of breath? Typical.”

“Last night...”

“Not typical. ...And more fun than this.”

He was surprised to see her. She wore a heavy coat and carried a large canvas sack over her shoulder. Additional bags and a set of leaf scoops were on the floor near her feet. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going for a walk in the woods —with you. Plutarch’s orders.”

Haymitch was confused, but too amused to not play along.

“I see you’re bringing a weapon.” He tugged at the pruners which were hooked through a belt loop on her pants. “Are you gonna protect us from carnivorous trees?”

“Just me, sweetheart. You’re going to protect yourself.” She held out a second set of pruners.

As he took them, he lingered on the fabric covering her hand. “Is this the latest fashion?”

“Cloth is more practical than lace, but must EVERY stitch of fabric here be gray or white?!” She held out a pair of work gloves for him too.

“If I’m wearing these, then how am I supposed to touch you?”

“No touching, honey. We have a project to do. Coin is giving us two hours to gather enough foliage for the district to make wedding decorations.”

“I heard her announcement asking for volunteers. I just didn’t think she was talking about me.”

“You are here at MY request.”

He took a half-step toward her. “So you’re giving me orders to spend two hours in the woods with you without touching you?” He took another half-step and felt the buzz return as their clothing brushed.

“We aren’t in the woods yet,” she said, “You can touch me now...”

The hair on his chin grazed her temple. “Where?”

Warmth flooded her. “You choose.”

He stepped back. “Sorry, sweetheart. If you get to make me a gardener for two hours, then I get to make you wait at least that long.”

“Haymitch! Don’t bother turning me on if you’re just going to make me wait!”

“Well, aren’t YOU the pot calling the kettle black. ...Am I turning you on?”

“You KNOW you are—“

“I have your trackers.” They were interrupted by a security guard, armed with an automatic rifle equipped with a spotting scope.

“Lex, this is Haymitch. He’ll be the other person accompanying us.”

“Glad to meet you,” the guard said as he lifted Effie’s pant leg to fit the tracker on her ankle.

“Wait a minute. This guy’s coming with us, AND he gets to touch you?”

“No need for envy. ...He’ll be touching YOU too.” Effie smirked.

The guard proceeded to clamp the second tracker onto Haymitch’s ankle.”

“Just what I need, another shackle.” He was tired of being treated like a prisoner, and he was sick of sobriety. Even if he could take the tracker off and leave, where would he go? His house was still standing, far away in 12, but that place was just a shell. Nearly every person he cared about who was still alive was in 13. And his duty was here. He’d been waiting his whole life for this stand.

Haymitch scowled when Lex’s hands skimmed Effie’s hip as he clipped a communicator onto her belt loop.

“Look, man, this is just standard procedure. I’m not interested in touching your girlfriend.”

“I’m not his girlfriend.” “She’s not my girlfriend.” They spoke in unison, then looked at each other.

“Sorry. I just assumed... I’ll position myself in the center of the search area. Don’t wander more than 50 yards from me in any direction.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot us?” Haymitch asked.

“It’s not our policy in 13 to shoot civilians.”

“See there, even cave people can be civilized.” Effie muttered under her breath, talking mostly to herself.

“If you move too far out of range, I’ll message you through the communicator. Stay together.”

Haymitch pulled on the gloves then picked up two canvas sacks and the leaf scoops. Stay together. For a moment, it sounded better than ‘stay alive’

***

In the weeks since the bombing, the exit from 13 into the woods had been cleared and secured. Effie was grateful to not have to crawl through bent metal and broken blocks of cement.

As she stepped outside, a gust of wind whipped her in the face. It carried the fragrance of cedar, like a hope chest, and the smell of approaching rain. Dry ground indicated that none had fallen recently, and she wondered when it would come. Hopefully not before noon! She unzipped her coat just enough to reach inside and pull her sunglasses out from the pocket of her shirt. The lenses tinted the world rose. That view was more familiar.

The guard split off from them to stand watch at the top of the ridge.

“We have three sacks. Let’s fill each one with foliage of a warm color: red, orange, and yellow.” Wasting no time, Effie marched straight into the woods, following a narrow trail.

“The High Priestess of Nature is on a mission,” Haymitch teased from behind her.

Much of the vegetation around them was foreign to him. 13 was far north from the woods he’d forayed into as a boy, breaking laws in order to spend time at the lake. Other plants were the same.

“Uh, priestess... is there poison ivy in the Capitol?”

“Poison?” She stopped in her tracks, imagining a coiling plant about to sink its fangs into her. “I don’t know. What does it look like?”

He pointed to a vine near her feet, and she leaped back, nearly knocking him over. He steadied them both with a hand on her waist.

“THAT!?” she exclaimed, “Well, EVERYTHING here looks like that!”

“Because you’re taking us into a thicket of it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!?”

“I AM telling you.”

“What will it do to me?” she whispered, fearing that talking too loudly might wake it up or something.

“If you don’t touch it, then nothing.”

“What if I touch it?”

“See how the leaves are shiny? That oil gets on your clothes and transfers to your skin. It gives some people a rash that itches like hell.”

“Maybe YOU should walk in front.”

“Why? So you can look at my ass?”

“Let’s call that a side benefit to the primary goal of not getting poisoned!”

He reluctantly let go of her waist, turned around, and led them out of the thicket.

They found a wider trail and followed it to a tree with large leaves, red as cranberries. Haymitch recognized it as the same variety growing behind his house. He didn’t pay much attention to that tree at home, except when it looked like this. It’s strange... a person can be around something so often but not think about how remarkable it is until it’s changing.

The wind whipped up again, and leaves were falling like rain. Effie was already scooping them up and filling the sack she’d been carrying.

“Wait,” he said, “Look...”

“What? More poison?”

He pointed to the sky, and she tilted her face up to a shower of red. She slid the sunglasses up to her forehead so she could see the true color. Thin beams of sunlight streamed through the branches. She squinted her eyes but didn’t close them.

“In the Capitol, nature is manicured — controlled. In Capitol Park, all the trees are planted the same distance apart. When leaves fall, a crew of Avoxes carts them away before the next morning. It’s nothing like this. This is wild.”

“...And familiar.” With a gloved fingertip, he touched her windburned cheeks then pulled a red leaf from the top knot of her kerchief. Over her coat he traced from her heart to the small of her back, following the path of the tattoo buried under her layers.

The memory of him holding her there the night before was a freight train barreling through her. “Ohh... this is why we agreed to not touch each other.”

“Yeah, about that... I lied.”

The leaf scoops dropped to the ground, and she interlaced her hands behind his neck. “Just for a minute, alright? Just give me a minute...” She kissed his cut lip, soft like she’d wanted to at breakfast. “Does this hurt?”

StoppIng this is what’s gonna hurt. He kissed her like when he was trying to get her out of his system. Only he knew better now, and he kissed her anyway, slow and certain.

She felt it like madness. “My hands were on my body this morning,” she murmured, “I pretended they were yours. In all the places you touched me. Haymitch... I came so fast.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m trying to control this. But...” I’ve wondered about it so long. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

In defiance of gravity, he pulled back from her. “Here’s what’s going to happen... We’ll collect the leaves, and we’ll figure out the rest later. Because if you say another word now about making yourself come, then I swear I’m going to lay you down right here—“

“And you’ll fuck me. ...Say it. Tell me you will.”

He could feel himself bending to her desires. It was unsettling, and erotic. “Yeah. I will. To hell with whoever’s watching! But it’s not just the guard. It’s probably Coin; it may be Snow; it could be anybody. I’ve already shown too much of my hand out here, and the clock is ticking.”

The reminder of Plutarch’s words and of the arena made her refocus. She caressed his neck as she let go.

They channeled the intensity into the work, meandering through the woods along animal trails. Scurrying sounds in the bushes made Effie’s heart race, but she avoided a heart attack like she evaded poison ivy.

“Scurrying things are mostly lizards, field mice, and foraging birds. The real threats are the things you DON’T hear coming.”

“WHY would you say that?! With all of the words you have to choose from in this situation, THAT is what you say to me!?!”

“I’m trying to ease your mind. Good ol’ Lex is up there watching from the ridge. We’re gonna be fine.”

They scooped and clipped foliage from a dozen trees. “Every leaf we collect must be freshly fallen or plucked from the branches. Nothing brown or decomposing is acceptable.”

“Nothing decomposing?! Who’s making these rules anyway?”

“I believe you called her ‘The High Priestess of Nature’.”

“What do you think is happening to leaves when the colors change? Poetry?”

“Maybe poetry. Why not?”

“This is a deciduous forest, sweetheart. These leaves are all dying. There’s nothing poetic about it. Death is a knife in somebody’s back or poison in her veins. And then nothing.”

“If that’s all it is, then why did you tell me to watch the leaves fall? And why did we feel so alive?”

He had no answer.

***

Returning to the fortress, Effie carried a sack across her back and the scoops in her hands. He slung the other full bags over his shoulders. Neither of them had much breath left to complain about their burdens, but they talked some.

“You’re stronger than you’ve let on.”

“I used to credit cycling classes at Capitol Spin. Now it’s endless staircase climbing in *the dungeon*.”

“What about the strength inside you? Where does that come from?”

“I... I don’t know. That’s not easy for me to feel.”

I feel it. “Thanks for getting me outside today.”

“Will you come to the dining hall this afternoon?”

“I’m all thumbs when it comes to making things like garlands. My parents’ craftiness skipped my generation.”

He seldom mentioned his family. There was so much pain there. She wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything. But if she pushed, he shut down. So she took in his comments whenever they came and tried to piece together a picture of the early life his Games destroyed. The more the images came together, the more protective she felt.

And the more she knew of anger.

She’d always folded anger up tightly and locked it in a box. The act was subconscious. Compartmentalization was happening less readily now, if for no other reason than the boxes she’d stuffed unwanted aspects of herself inside were getting full.

“You don’t have to make anything... I’d just like to see you there.” I’m anxious about facing people.

“After lunch I need to check on the kids, but I’ll try to stop by later.”

“I wish Peeta was recovered enough to participate.”

“He’s decorating in his own way.”

“Is he??”

The trail widened, and Haymitch walked alongside her. “It’s Plutarch’s big secret. If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.” His smile was wide enough to show the gap between his teeth. “And that wouldn’t work because I want you alive.”

The wind rushed around them, and she thought again about how easy it would be to let it take her. “Keep those secrets for now. My world has suddenly become rather interesting. I think I’ll stay alive and find out what’s going to happen next.”