Contrast, Effie realizes, is very important.
This dawns on her early one morning. Her limbs are intertwined with Katniss'. (She also has become cognizant of the fact that this is becoming a bad habit. A problem. She shoves that realization down.)
Everything is such a delicate balance, set up in an intricate spectrum where things can be any number of shades away from another until they are opposites. And that is when they become beautiful. The difference between the sharpness of Katniss' ribs and the soft curve of her hips. Loud, frantic, passionate screams that fade into whispers and gasps.
The difference between the two of them, problematic as it is, is gratifying. Katniss is so young and innocent. (She isn't, not really. But she somehow exudes immaculateness despite her past, despite the things she'd done with her tongue the night before.) She hasn't let the capitol destroy her. She's so strong. Effie admires her courage. It's one of the things that draws her in, makes her keep repeating this same mistake even though the risk grows greater every time.
Effie Trinket, on the other hand, is tainted. She let them get to her, sold out in exchange for protection. Maybe she's safe now, they can't really kill her. But haven't they already? She's a puppet. She doesn't have real feelings. Except for the ones she harbors for Katniss. That's why it's so addictive, so destructive. That's why she doesn't know how to stop.
She knows she has to leave. She's just not sure how to physically go about it, how to untangle herself and walk out the door. She doesn't really want to. It would break her heart. Or, more accurately, her heart broke a long time ago. Katniss is the bubblegum and scotch tape and paperclips holding it together.
She stays, because the alternative is unbearable. She runs her hands over the younger girl's skin until she stirs, hands already blindly grasping even before she's fully awake. They are clumsy, still half-numb with sleep, but they elicit the desired moans nonetheless. Katniss tastes like salt and vanilla and limes, and the moment is perfect. She wishes it didn't have to end.
It does, of course, in a series of whimpers and cries and yelps. When it's over and they are drained and the light filters in the window, gray and steady, Effie realizes it's the first time she can remember feeling happy. She sighs contentedly. It has to end, but not today.
