A/N: I do not own the Hunger Games Trilogy or any of its characters.
Title: Someone Else's Kisses
Rating: T
Summary: Pain comes from knowing that what she wants is not hers to keep.
Prompt: #7 Haymitch likes his fantasies; Effie does not
A violent shiver ran down Haymitch's spine as he felt the ice-cold water hit his naked body, soaking him and the sheets. His pulse pounded mercilessly against his head and a buzzing sound filled his ears. He was still disoriented from the amount of alcohol he consumed the night before; it wasn't enough to knock him out, he thought. He rolled out of the bed gracelessly and his face met the carpeted floor before the rest of him followed. It was not a good start.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. His teeth chattered while he struggled to pick himself off the ground.
The drunken mentor looked around, trying to find the source of his distress, but his vision was still blurry from sleep and all he saw was a fusion of bright colors, and in the middle of it all, a fuzzy outline of something pale. He rubbed the sleep off his eyes, but when he got a clear view of what, or rather, who the fuzzy outline was, he almost wished that he could rub the sleep back in.
Effie looked rather small without her high-heeled shoes, but the scowl on her face compensated for what she lacked. She stood in front of Haymitch, stripped of all her make up and clothes – except for a white blanket she used to cover her body. Amongst the bright pink hues of the walls, her pale complexion stood out. She eyed him with contempt, her blue eyes burning with unadulterated rage and something else; something unrecognizable.
"What the hell's your problem, woman?" he asked, irritated. His olive skin still resembled that of a plucked goose, either from the cold, or from her livid glare. He did not know if there was something he should be apologizing for, but even if he did, he could've sworn he'd get away with anything for the next ten years, considering the way she moaned and clawed at his back last night. Something must have clicked at the back of her mind.
"Get out of my room," she said through gritted teeth. "The others should be waking up, soon. I wouldn't want them to see you coming out of my room in that disheveled state."
Haymitch flinched. He must have done something unforgivable to merit such fury. She sounded dangerously calm, and the way her eyes glazed with unshed tears of loathing did not escape his notice. He turned around and started to walk off, afraid of what the mouth of an angry Effie Trinket could do, when he remembered that he was not wearing any clothes. He turned back to face her, his slightly confused gray eyes meeting the escort's blue ones.
"Given my state, I don't think it's a good idea," he said, hinting at mischief, "or do you want them to see me in all my glory, sweetheart?"
Effie's cheeks turned red, and for a moment, Haymitch thought that he was winning. It was only when she threw a comb over his head that he realized she meant business; it wouldn't do him well to argue.
"Gather your clothes and leave!" she hissed, her eyes burning even brighter with wrath and hot tears. "Do I have to tell you everything?"
Haymitch knelt to gather his scattered clothing off the floor, grunting as he went. He did not know where he went wrong, and he doubted if he would ever know. He would not bother to ask her about it because she would never tell. There were plenty of reasons to hate Effie, and being unreasonable was one of them. It was probably nothing, but then again, it could be anything. He thought that it may have been guilt. Effie, a prudent, well-mannered Capitol woman, should not be seen cavorting with men who had permanent stubbles and rarely took baths. It was unbecoming of her. When he finally gathered the last article of clothing he owned, he quickly put them on and left without a word, slamming the door behind him.
Normally, the escort would be inwardly clicking her tongue because slamming doors was not gentlemanly. But instead, Effie curled up on a corner, hugging her legs while she tightened the blanket around herself. Her rage was eclipsed by hurt. She knew that she could not really blame Haymitch for something that he had no control over. He was just being his usual self; drunk, lonely, and impulsive. She, however, had enough sense to refuse his advances, but she chose to revel in his intoxicating kisses because his warm breath felt good against her skin. She chose to believe when he told her that he loved her because of the way his raspy voice sent chills down her spine. She knew none of it was true, and she accepted that. However, she could not help but curse him for his unspoken fantasies while he trailed kisses down her neck. It was bad enough that last night was a lie, but knowing that it was not even hers to keep was too much to bear. So she wept silently because people might hear, and they would think she was insane because she cried even though she had nothing to cry about. Last night did not happen, at least not to her. It happened to the ghost of a lover who lingered in the confines of his mind. His words and kisses were not meant for her; they were meant for a girl whose name he uttered while he slept.