Disclaiemer: Radda radda, don't own, yak yak, etc.

So I've been meaning to write a HG fic for a while, but an actual plot escaped me. Then I was feeling down and this idea sort of happened. I guess a bad mood can be constructive. XD This is Hayffie with a dose of Everlark as well, but it's not all that central to the story. Kind of angsty and a bit of a deeper look into Effie's character. (I'm aware she's a minor character but she's one of my favourites. I kind of wish she got to do more in the other 2 books, but that is by the by.) The song was a last-minute addition...I discovered this band, like, yesterday and was listening to it and it just kind of seemed appropriate given the subject matter. (It can be interpreted as being directed at the Capitol, I think. Ha.) This takes place during Catching Fire, before the Quarter Quell.

Enjoy!

Drink the wine my darling, you said
Take your time and consume all of it,
But the roses were only to drain my inspiration,
The promises were spoiled before the left your lips and,
I breath you in again,
Just to feel you underneath my skin, holding on to the sweet escape,
Is always laced with a familiar taste of poison.

~ The familiar taste of poison (Halestorm)

She never expected to take the news as hard as she did.

But Effie cannot think of another explanation for her behavior.

Sitting in one of the elaborate corridors of the penthouse, Effie cannot bring herself to pretend that everything will be all right.

I just wanted us to have a winner. Effie thought, the numb sensation she had first experienced upon hearing the news giving way to depression. I just wanted them to come out alive.

And it was true. The fact that Katniss and Peeta were poor children from an even poorer District and Effie was a born-and-raised Capitol citizen had meant surprisingly little once the Hunger Games had officially started.

Their personality differences aside, Effie's practiced method of thinking of the District 12 tributes as merely tributes upholding the honor of tradition had proved ineffective. When Katniss burned her leg onscreen, and was then forced to hide up in a tree in agonizing pain, grey eyes swimming with agony, Effie could hardly bear to watch as the Careers circled the tree, bickering and angry at the loss of their prey, like a pack of wolves. Peeta almost getting gutted like a pig by Cato's sword made her stomach clench in anticipated horror.

For all of Effie's planning and determination to chivvy Haymitch out of his drunken stupor and boss Katniss and Peeta into co-operating with him, she knows that is where her help ends. She feels small and inconsequential- Haymitch is the one saving their lives, not her. She is not allowed to send gifts any more- her generosity to previous tributes made for poor entertainment when they got food and drink on demand. Haymitch is able to be pragmatic; Effie's sentimentality means she cannot watch impassively as their tributes struggle. Katniss may not have made her disdain for Effie much of a secret, but that doesn't mean Effie wants to watch her slaughtered by Careers onscreen. Peeta may have been clumsy and awkward, but Effie still holds her breath when Katniss finds him, buried at the foot of a waterfall and half-alive, even if she is one of the few who knows that their love is an artificial display for the cameras. Still, she thinks they look lovely together onscreen.

Yes. Before she met them, Effie had only intended to do her job. The last tributes lasted about ten minutes, tops. She had not watched the rest of that game. Haymitch is not the only one who sags under the burden of raising a new boy and girl every year, only for them to end up as mere pigs to the slaughter. Effie, of course, is not privy to exactly what happens to tributes who actually win the games, but she has heard dark secrets whispered in the softest of voices amongst Capitol citizens, and the reality of it makes her want to break down and weep. But she doesn't, of course. The ridiculous standards she has set herself in an effort to be what the mentors like Haymitch aren't, she wakes up each day with her smile firmly in place, makeup done to perfection and back straight. Effie has stopped trying to convince herself that if she speaks well enough, does everything perfectly, then perhaps something will go right. But the rituals stay the same. Sometimes, her hand shakes when she holds up a brush to her cheeks or eyelids, but she forces herself to remain steady. Effie Trinket does not have smudged eyeshadow.

But the problem is, her rituals and schedules and obsession with doing everything right just aren't cutting it anymore. Perhaps it was almost easier when the tributes were labeled as goners from the start- her hopes weren't raised, she had no spirit to be dashed underfoot. In a sick way, the routine of it helped her stay sane.

Now, however, the idea of Peeta and Katniss being put through this, again, the possibility that this time the odds will not be in their favor...she finally cracks. Effie does not much like the taste of alcohol, nor the way it burns her throat and sits, smoldering, in her belly, but she has long grown used to swallowing unpleasant truths, and she figures that if Haymitch spends most of his time doing it, it cannot be this hard to actively destroy yourself.

Effie takes another swig of bright green liquid- she isn't sure what it is, but the bottle looked pretty and the emerald-green of the alcohol reminds her of meadows and jewels and that's all she cares about. She chokes back a hiccup as the liquor temporarily halts somewhere between her throat and esophagus and for a minute it almost sounds like a sob. But she will not cry- she doesn't want her makeup to run, for a start, but instead resolves herself to take another belt, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction that this time she has no problem getting it down.

It occurs to her that later, she might be in the same pitiful state that she's seen Haymitch in; slumped over a toilet bowl, passed out unconscious or even staggering around on her stupid, stupid high heels, burbling things that make no sense, but she finds that she's almost looking forward to it. That loss of control that is frightening and yet oddly, it almost warrants a degree of respect. Like, just how far are you willing to push it? Just how deep can you go before you drown?

How much pressure will it take before you shatter?

Effie does not know how long she ends up sitting in this big, empty corridor, her bare feet propped against a table, several empty bottles sitting haphazardly around her, like some kind of fairy holding court. She holds a long-necked bottle between jeweled fingertips. The liquid inside is a royal, iridescent purple that is almost too pretty to drink.

As Effie tilts the remainder of it down her lips and briefly pretends it's nightlock, she hears the slow but purposeful sound of footsteps.

Effie lowers the glass slowly, the image of a person crouching before her distorted and blurry before she realizes it's Haymitch.

"This is the last place I'd expect to find you, Princess." Haymitch tells her, in that funny way of talking he has that is both melodious and rough. "Lace your corset too tight or something?"

Effie regards Haymitch silently beneath strands of silvery-blonde hair. Normally she keeps her long, unruly locks combed back and hidden away beneath a multitude of wigs much more colorful then her own hair. She always finds her own hair color rather dull. Now, though, she feels the need to hide beneath her own her, and didn't bother doing anything with it. She can see emotions playing behind Haymitch's eyes; a remark like his would normally be met with some retaliation, however silly, but Effie just watches him like a cat, cool and remote. She wonders if it bothers him.

"They're going back in, Haymitch." she announces baldly; Haymitch does not react. "Back into the Games. Again."

Haymitch settles himself more comfortably, to Effie's dismay. She does not want an audience to her pathetic attempts at oblivion. But he surprises her with the honesty of his answer;

"I know."

Effie shakes her head, and the corridor swings wildly when she does this. It takes her a few minutes to speak again, as the flurry of movement makes her feel nauseous.

"It could have been you." she adds, and her tone is not accusatory, but sad. "If Peeta hadn't have survived, it would be you now. In the arena."

Haymitch doesn't say anything to that, and it occurs to Effie that he has probably been replaying this over and over again in his mind. Peeta took his place. Peeta's life was gambled on a handful of poisonous berries. Effie reflects that Haymitch always seems to be several steps ahead- things that she's just thought of are old news to him. She realizes how shallow and petty she must look now; she has never experienced the harsh, unforgiving horror of the Hunger Games personally. She would not last five minutes in there, and she knows it all too well. Yet, here she is, surrounded by bottles like it's her own children sent into the trenches. How pathetic she must seem.

So Effie offers the only thing she can to Haymitch now; Empathy.

"I'm sorry." she whispers, and Haymitch is still staring at her with his arctic grey eyes. "I'm so sorry, Haymitch."

Haymitch looks at Effie.

He doesn't see the point in telling her, because he doubts if she'll remember much of this exchange later and doesn't want to wax sentimentality, but he reflects that Effie is just as human as District Twelve. He's only just starting to realize that, but the Capitol's glitz and glamour is still a cage. Certainly a prettier cage then the Districts by a large margin, but unlike District 12, they are all so afraid to say what they think. Haymitch knows that he has no gift for decorum, without liquor people may have worked out that there's a lot more going on in his head then how to walk in a straight line. He doesn't think he'd do well in the Capitol. Effie makes her job look easy, but, as he suspects from the cluster of bottles littering the section of hallway, it's enough evidence he needs to know the truth.

Effie Trinket is breaking, just like everyone else.

"It's not your fault." Haymitch tells Effie, and he sounds a little rougher then he intended to, but maybe it's because he's surprised. "You know it's not. There's nothing you can do about it, Effie."

Effie nods slowly and blinks, her eyelids flashing an opulent turquoise blue, like a kingfisher

"I know." she says, flatly. Again, it sounds unsettling coming out of her amethyst-tinted lips when buoyant is Effie's default mood. "I just don't want them to die."

This simple statement strikes a chord within Effie and (although she doesn't notice it) Haymitch. Effie buries her face in her hands, tendrils of hair falling to obstruct her melancholy from view, and Haymitch finds himself pushing away the urge to move her hair out of her face. Effie's shoulders shake with silent sobs, her mascara streaking down her tears like rivers of ink.

"What's the point?" Effie gasps her voice stopping just short of a scream. "What's the point of it, Haymitch? Letting them win, giving us two champions and then just trying to kill them all over again? Why don't they just admit it? Wouldn't that be easier? Why do they have to pretend, give you hope and crush it? How much longer are we supposed to cope?"

Effie's voice breaks into a wail and her sobbing turns torrential, tears pouring from her eyes like a rainstorm. Haymitch glances down the corridor, but nobody's there. He knows that these are the thoughts that Effie thinks, but would never, ever say. The Capitol does that, watches you, lets you know that anything you say can be repeated. People "mysteriously" go missing all the time. Seneca Crane was executed for his failure. He looks back at Effie.

"Come on." he says. He doesn't want to draw her into further conversation; she's borderline hysterical and it wouldn't do either of them good to be seen like this. He doesn't want Katniss and Peeta to see, either.

Effie lets him tug her to her feet, but she staggers on her bare feet and slumps against him. She smells like booze, but he can detect something more subtle underneath, something sweet like a flower or spice. He considers just throwing her over his shoulder (it's not like she weighs much), but the possibility she might either pass out or throw up in that position is pretty likely, so instead, he ducks and throws one of her arms around his neck and anchors another around her waist. Effie doesn't need to be told to follow him; she doesn't even seem fully aware of where they are anymore, but pads quietly along with him so he's not forced to haul her along like a ragdoll.

When they reach Effie's room, she slips from his grip and walks unsteadily towards the luxurious bed, like she's trying to get there whilst a hurricane rages all around her. Haymitch sighs and yanks the covers back, dislodging several of those ridiculous throw-pillows in the process, but Effie's glazed expression barely registers.

"Thank you, Haymitch." Effie says, formally, and he almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "I am sorry if I embarrassed you. It won't happen again."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Princess." Haymitch remarks sardonically, but Effie flops dramatically down onto the inviting pillows like a child and doesn't hear him. Mumbling in protest, she twists around and stares at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Maybe I understand." she says, dreamily, her panicked state quickly forgotten as she is pulled into the depths of unconsciousness before his eyes, like she is slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. "Why you do it..."

Her face looks younger without all that ridiculous stuff on it. Her tears have caused streaks in her makeup and Haymitch can see her real skin tone poking through.

"Night, Effie." he tells her.

"Goodnight, Haymitch." Effie returns in her fluttery tone of voice she uses with him.

He is about to leave, but, knowing she likely won't remember it anyway, suddenly allows a brief smirk to cross his face and leans down to her.

"By the way, I prefer your hair this way, Princess."

Effie nods, but it's clear she hasn't really heard him. She doesn't even have time to thank him for the frivolous remark before she's already gone, sucked into the relative bliss of sleep, at least until dawn breaks and the faded memories from this night are brought back in a wave of humiliation and resignation.

Haymitch leaves her to it, the doors closing with a small hush, as if they are asking him to keep a secret.

Strangely, several hours later, Haymitch goes to bed sober.

He doesn't feel like drinking tonight.

Again, I think Effie was also upset about the Quarter Quell, but she tried not to show it during. And hey, if she DID break down, who's to say it wasn't a nudge for Haymitch to get the plan in motion?

Thanks for reading!