Not Suzanna Collins, folks. Obviously. All she cared about was Katniss.
-thamockingjayandpeeta
SIGHT
The first time he saw her without her mask was on the first night of the Victory Tour. He hadn't been on one of these in nearly twenty-five years, and that had been his own. Nobody knew, understood, or cared about difficult this was. No one but the kids, maybe.
Victory Tour, he scoffed.
He'd tried to drink himself into oblivion, but apparently he hadn't had enough, because the nightmares came, full throttle, and he woke up with a scream on his lips, his knife slashing at the air until he came to his senses: he was alone.
This is why he didn't like to sleep at night.
He was much more partial to sleeping during the day. He'd made himself into a night owl; everything got done in the dark of night. But tonight was different. Everybody had been mentally exhausted, so everybody had gotten on the train and wanted to relax—as much as one could at a time like this. And after Effie explained how all of this worked, everyone had called it an early night.
So when he got to the living room, he was surprised—and slightly annoyed—to find Effie and Cinna.
He had a snide remark ready for her when he noticed she was crying.
"It's okay, Effie," Cinna was saying quietly. Effie sat on the couch, her body wracking with sobs, Cinna sitting on top of the table, directly in front of her, holding her hands in his.
Haymitch had just realized how intimate this moment was, and that maybe he was intruding, when Cinna spotted him. The two locked eyes and Haymitch noticed Cinna's eyes were filled with their own sadness.
Guess she wasn't upset over a broken nail.
"You couldn't sleep either?" asked Cinna, and at his voice, Effie looked up and her crystal blue eyes locked with Haymitch's.
He openly stared. For the first time he noticed she was without her blonde wig, and pretty, naturally gold hair fell down to her shoulders. Her face was bare, and astonishingly beautiful, and for the first time Haymitch realized how Effie Trinkett modeled before she became an Escort for the Capitol. Her eyes may have been blood shot, but the shape of them was still beautiful without all the excess gunk. Her lips were full and luscious, and a host of other things that Haymitch refused to think about, let alone name.
"I jus' wanted to get a drink," Haymitch finally answered Cinna. "Didn't expect anyone else to be up." He made his way over to the cupboard, trying to convince himself that it was none of his concern, why Effie was crying. What the hell did he care? He certainly hadn't cared any other time over the past fifteen or so years he'd heard her crying.
But those times had been different. First of all, by the time he had first heard her crying, five years after having been an Escort, he had already hated her guts by then. She was everything he hated in her ridiculous suits, wearing her over the top wigs, and distasteful makeup. So when he passed her bedroom door in the penthouse after their Tributes had been killed within fifteen minutes, he thought she deserved the pain.
Second of all, normally he'd been too drunk to give a damn. One time, one time only he had offered her advice: to self-medicate, and the look she gave him, the look that he should mind his own business, was not lost on him, so mind his own business he did.
Except the problem was once you let one person in, and you allowed yourself to feel like a human being again, it becomes easier to start sympathizing.
He had Chaff. That should have been enough.
Haymitch reckoned he fucked up in letting Katniss get under his skin. She was just so much like him it was scary. He imagined if he'd ever had a daughter, she'd have been something like Katniss Everdeen: fearless, stubborn, resourceful.
And if you let Katniss in, you damn sure had to let Peeta Mellark in. He was fucking perfect, with his blond hair and blue eyes, and strong arms and chivalrous attitude. He worshipped the ground Katniss walked on, and it'd be pathetic if he weren't so damn sincere.
And when you let in two kids who end up becoming Victors, you start to notice things, like the way your Escort truly meant well every time she told you to go and get their Tributes Sponsors.
And how, no matter how much of a fuck up he was, he realized that in nineteen years they had always been their Tributes. She always included him, and encouraged him, and took care of him, and got damn it to hell he was not about to do this.
He hadn't even meant to let them in, but he had, and suddenly he realized the effect this caring for people caused him.
So he told himself he didn't give two fucks about why Effie Trinkett was crying.
He couldn't care.
He wouldn't care.
He didn't care.
And after he drowned himself in another bottle, he dreamt that he believed himself.