It was one of those times when he seemed to watch himself from a great distance, aware that every thing he did to make the situation worse was a choice, unable to choose otherwise. The partygoers had frozen, though the sound could not have been louder than their laughter.
Haymitch could not in all honesty recall how his glass had shattered in his hand, but the punch bowl seemed to be the most appropriate place for him to clean the cuts on his palm. The sickly-looking alcohol began to turn a darker shade of pink, while, all around him, affected Capitol voices made noises of scandalised distaste. Haymitch's stomach turned over in spite of himself as he forced out a laugh that quickly became a retch.
"So," he managed, staggering slightly as he scooped up a now distinctly bloodied ladle full of punch with his free hand. "I guess this was part of the colour-scheme too, right? What was the name of that shade you…mentioned…just now?"
Ah, Haymitch thought, there it is.
And there indeed it was. The air of scandal had suddenly acquired a tangible note of danger. The cat-eyed woman with the bright pink wig who had been talking to be overheard up until a moment ago was trying to settle her face into an expression she clearly hoped would magically diffuse the situation.
"My dear Haymitch," flustered cat-eyes. "You of all people should be appreciative of the recognition your district is receiving in the world of fashion. It isn't as though we have a lot to work with, after all. I mean – "
She broke off to indulge herself in a slightly hysterical titter.
"I mean, you're the only victor we have to work with these days, and frankly we're running out of ideas."
If anybody laughed, it was uneasily.
"She has a point, darling," chipped in a woman whose neck wore a bizarre ornament that seemed to enter at one end and emerge from the other like a long, curved beak. "Metella Flutterby hasn't sold so much as a pair of socks since she tried to make disembowelling chic happ– aaargh!"
Her words ended in a long shriek as Haymitch, with an almost lazy flicking motion entirely at odds with his boiling veins, landed a ladle of bloody punch all over her face and neck. He was shaking badly now, but his voice still fought to remain calm.
"Adds a touch of realism, don't you think?" he said, removing his cut hand from the bowl and examining the damage.
"Sorry," he added, deliberately. "I seem to be bleeding."
And with that, he seized the end of the nearest tablecloth, pulled down violently, and, with an almighty crash, sent plates and bowls flying in every direction.
"Well isn't that just my luck," he said sardonically as the assembled partygoers squawked dazedly like concussed peacocks. "I've been practising that trick all day, but the funny thing about me is that I never seem to perform well in front of an audience."
He seized the corner of the cloth covering the next table and pulled. More food and drink went smashing to the floor on broken plates. The waste of it soured the thrill of it.
"Messed up again!" he cried, this time holding onto the tablecloth long enough to wrap up his bleeding hand. "Just like me to make a mess."
"HAYMITCH!"
The voice cut through the commotion like cannon fire. Haymitch closed his eyes for a split second as one corner of his mouth twisted into a smile.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Effie Trinket, cool as steel in a shade of grey that Haymitch couldn't place, was tottering furiously towards him, somehow managing to avoid the debris whilst never taking her eyes off his. For the first time that night, Haymitch felt himself relax. There was something perversely comforting about Effie's entirely predictable anger. He let it wash over him like alcohol. There was no need to feel or to think about anything else.
"Haymitch Abernathy, that tablecloth is couture. Don't even think of ruining another one on account of a piece of cheap high street design."
Suddenly, uproar. More than there had been when Haymitch had broken the glass. More than there had been when he had trashed two tables groaning with too much food. But the uproar was, suddenly, safe.
"Cheap!" squealed cat-eyes, her pink wig on end.
"This is Ariadne Shuttleworth," chipped in the punch-covered woman, who now seemed to have forgotten that she was covered in punch.
"Ariadne Shuttleworth for Tributaries," quipped Effie scornfully, actually clicking her fingers as she did so to indicate to the nearby avox that she required a glass of bubbles.
Incredibly – or so it seemed to Haymitch – several of the partygoers actually laughed at this, breaking up into bloodthirsty chuckles as Effie took her glass and sipped the tiniest of sips, while cat-eyes Ariadne and the punchdrunk woman bristled.
"Now, now," she trilled, having given her nose the smallest of wrinkles as she swallowed. "I mustn't forget my manners. Ariadne darling, I'm sure you weren't to know how very last season it is to be wearing fatality chic. I mean, heavens! It's not going to be considered tacky until my column tomorrow morning. Oh, editor's decision, darling, of course, not mine."
Another outbreak of chatter – laughter, intrigue, the beginnings of debate. Haymitch beckoned the avox to him in silence and, unnoticed by all but Effie, gulped down two glasses of bubbles, one after the other. He felt vaguely annoyed that Effie was now fully occupied with being the effervescent centre of the group, which was now totally engaged in vapid Capitol chit-chat, as the avoxes rebuilt the shattered party around them. He felt the burden of hatred rushing back to him like the forgotten pain in his mangled hand. He knew he was losing his grip on his surroundings, and was conscious enough to care. He wished Effie would shout at him some more.
Click.
More bubbles. He felt better. He missed the name of the designer, and the colour, that Effie was wearing. He thought he heard his name. He thought he must have been right in thinking it because Effie looked slightly hurt when he looked up at her a little too late.
"Not your colour, sweetheart," he said, hoping to provoke her into berating him again. She might have blushed, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to click his fingers, but he couldn't seem to feel them any more.