Intoxication
Summary: Effie and Haymitch have an ... encounter of sorts, the night before the first day of the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Effie's POV, part one in a series.
Author's Note: I read the books a while ago and have finally gotten around to seeing the movies. I was blown away with what amazing work they did adapting the novels to the screen and I was on board with most of the changes they made, including giving Effie a more prominent role. I also noticed something I hadn't picked up on in the books – chemistry between Haymitch and Effie! It's been on my mind so much that it's gotten to the point where it pretty much demands fanfiction. This is my first writing foray into this fandom, so do let me know how you think it went!
He's certainly not what she expected.
She's tried to prepare herself, told herself not to be too disappointed – after all, the real him couldn't possibly match the image of him she'd built up in her head. She was a child back then, when he had his Games, the Second Quarter Quell, she was very young – too young, really, to be exposed to such brutality, but the Games were required viewing in the Capitol as much as they were in the Districts. But young as she was, she stills remembers those games vividly, remembers watching them, hanging on every moment sometimes frightened, sometimes thrilled, but never bored.
The fact that boys and girls not that much older than her were fighting and dying in that Arena – it sounds strange and horrible to say, but it never struck her, not then. It never struck any of them. Yes, they rooted for their favorites and pined a bit if they lost, but their deaths … their deaths seemed unreal. It was like … it was like hearing that a friend of friend was dead, someone whose name you knew but met only once, someone who's face you couldn't quite recall. There was a strange surrealism to the Games, and she had never been able to reconcile the thrill of watching them with their underlying sadistic brutality … until she became an escort.
But that's getting ahead of things.
In any case, the Second Quarter Quell was inked indelibly on her memory. The beautiful, deadly Arena. The sheer number of tributes – twice than what was normal. And of course, the boy, the cocky, brash, handsome boy, who would emerge as the unlikely victor.
Haymitch Abernathy.
Years after his games, when she herself was a teenager, she used to lie awake at night and pretend… of course, she was from the Capitol, she would never be reaped, but even still…
But oh, to be quick and clever and brave, like Maysilee! The girl who forged alliance with Haymitch, who earned his respect, his admiration … perhaps even his affection?
He must have loved her, Effie thinks. Or at least cared for her, the way he went running towards the sounds of her screams, even after they had broken off their alliance, the way he held her hand as she died.
She could, and did, weep at the idea.
It was all so frightfully romantic!
In time, she grew older. She still smiled, and talked of nothing serious, as her mother had always taught her do. But she saw things, and she realized things, and she knew when she decided to take the job as escort, assigned to District 12 but with every intention of working her way up, that her childish … crush on the victor of the Second Quarter Quell was just that, childish, and unreal, and it was well past time she put it away.
Still, that didn't mean she had to be rude.
Though when she first met him, it was a bit of struggle to remain polite.
He was dirty and disheveled, reeking of booze and in need of a bath. She ignored this and smiled brightly, holding out her hand and informing him that she was to be his new escort, his partner in preparing "their tributes" for the Games. She saw his face twist into a sneer, saw the contempt in his eyes, and her smile faltered.
It disappeared entirely when he slapped her hand away and brushed past her, nearly stumbling, leaving a sour smell behind.
She drew her lips into a thin line.
"Well," she said, "All right then."
And thus all her illusions about him were shattered.
At least, she hoped they were.
Their first Games together were a nightmare, to say the least. The two tributes were young scrawny things who ate like animals, and when Effie tried to – gently! – chastise for their lack of etiquette, Haymitch growled at her to shut up, and she had to leave the room because she really could not take any rudeness that day.
Later, when she realizes so many out there in the Districts are starving (something they never see in the Capitol), she will be feel ashamed.
But that night, she just felt insulted.
Later, when their tributes get slaughtered in the first few hours, the Games suddenly feel far more … real to her. Far more horribly, savagely real than they ever have before.
Effie gave a little gasp as their girl goes down. Beside her, Haymitch let out a contemptuous snort.
"Don't act like you care."
Effie didn't even look at him. She just went to the bathroom and threw up.
She tried not to think about it. Her mother always said, don't think about things to deeply, to probe and poke and prod at things, just glide on the surface, serene and smooth, and smile.
That's best way to live, she had said. Because someone is always watching.
And if Haymitch noticed that her smiles grow tighter and the makeup didn't entirely cover the hollows under her eyes after another sleepless night, he didn't say anything.
But the next year, when their girl was decapitated and their boy died screaming for his mother, he started handing her drinks.
"Thank you," she whispered each time, always one to remember her manners.
"Whatever," he muttered each time, always one to forget his.
On their way back to 12, he did say something to her, though. Something that stayed with her.
"You're the first one, you know," he offered, without looking at her.
"The first one?"
"The first Escort that's stayed more than a year since I became a mentor."
Effie took a breath, ignoring, the strange, giddy feeling his words bring on. "Well, that's not entirely surprising. You're not very easy to work with."
He chuckled. "Oh, now you're being rude."
"I'm being honest, Haymitch. I thought you'd appreciate that."
"So … I'll suppose I'll be looking at a new escort next year, then?"
He said it carelessly, as if it doesn't matter at all to him. She was sure it didn't.
Still …
"You suppose wrong. It's my job to be an escort, and I've love to move up, but if I can't, I'm staying right here … as long as they'll let me."
"Why?"
He actually looked at her then. No sneer, no smirk. Not very drunk yet. He seemed genuinely curious.
"Because I'm stubborn, I suppose. I'm … I'm not a quitter."
He snickered at her resolute look, saluted her mockingly with his glass, but as the train came to a stop and he staggered off it, he paused, turned, and looked at her.
"See you next year, Effie."
"See you next year, Haymitch."
As the train sped back to the Capitol, she let out a breath she didn't even known she'd held in.
The next year is the 74th Hunger Games, and this year is different. She can feel it, as soon as Katniss Everdeen volunteers. She sees a girl as brave as Maysilee and as stubborn as Haymitch. And in Peeta, she sees someone who knows how to charm, and smile … in short, someone who knows how to play the game on a whole different level. Later, Peeta will say how "everyone knows" Katniss is the one who has a shot at winning, but in that moment, with the two of them standing beside her, Effie thinks they both have the potential to be Victors.
She tells Haymitch as much, later, and for once, he seems to agree with her.
Which is why it's very irritating when, the night before the start of the Games, she finds him drinking himself to oblivion in his room.
It's not that this is unusual behavior for Haymitch, and it's not that she exactly begrudges him his indulgences, though she does wish he wouldn't drink so much. It has occurred to Effie, in the times when she forgets to stick to surface things and probe a little deeper in her thoughts, that watching your friend die and surviving and then having to watch other children from your district die might just drive a man to drink. But tonight is different, because tonight is the night before he can officially start finding the Sponsors, and while Haymitch has never been charming, a relatively sober Haymitch is apt to get Sponsors much easier than a surly, hungover Haymitch, and she has no intention of letting this chance to win slip through their fingers.
She knocks sharply on his door, calls him name repeatedly, and then marches in when he ignores her. He's sitting on the bed, bottle in hand. He's pretty drunk but still lucid, it seems.
"You know, for someone so stuck on manners, you'd think you wouldn't be barging into my room uninvited."
She ignores this, though she does feel a twinge of discomfort. It's hard for her to be impolite.
"You can't be drinking like this Haymitch. Not now. First thing tomorrow, you need to be out there getting Sponsors, and –"
"Relax. Loosen your corset." He'd said that to her earlier, and she'd frowned at him, thankful her layers of makeup hid her blush. "I got Sponsors last year, and we hardly a prayer."
"You barely got any Sponsors." Effie retorts, "And the ones you got were only because I helped you."
"Officially, you're not supposed to help me get Sponsors. Falls outside your … job description."
"Officially, I didn't," she replies and they share a small, conspiratorial smile, a rare and (though she's loathe to admit it) treasured moment.
"But Haymitch, this year is different. You know it is. They might actually have a chance…"
She trails off, and looks away from him, knowing they are both thinking the same thing, that they can only save one of them, not both.
"I know, Effie." He sighs. "But excuse me if I think I'm a better judge than you of how much liquor I can handle." She turns to find him taking another swig. "I'll be fine."
"Oh come on Haymitch, that's enough – I said that's enough!" Before she can even think of what she's doing, she snatches the bottle from him. She stands there, almost trembling at her own boldness, while his expression grows dangerous.
"You better give that back," he snarls.
She holds the bottle behind her, hoping her voice doesn't crack as she says, "No."
Haymitch leaps from the bed with surprising dexterity. She starts backing away, and before she knows it, he's got her pinned against the wall, wresting the bottle from her and taking several swigs before tossing it carelessly aside.
"You shouldn't have done that." He hisses, his eyes dark.
And then something … shifts.
Effie becomes very aware, suddenly, of how close they are, how they are pressed up against each other. She becomes aware of the firmness of him, the muscle and strength that all the years of booze haven't quite managed to wear away, and she becomes aware of his hot breath on her neck.
She thinks he becomes aware of it, too.
"I told you," he says, "to relax."
His lips move to her ear, and his hands slide down her back. His fingers seem to play down her spine like it's an instrument. Effie forgets to breathe.
"To loosen your corset."
His hand slides lower.
"Or maybe you'd like me do it for you, mm?"
He nuzzles her neck, and she tingles from head to toe. His lips graze her collarbone, and when his tongue darts out to tastes her skin, she lets out an involuntary moan.
He laughs. "Oh well now, look here, little Miss Prim getting all hot and bothered over an old drunk."
"Bastard."
He tuts. "So rude," he says mockingly. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to … reprimand you …"
His lips claim hers in a hungry kiss, and she forgets it all, propriety and Sponsors and everything, and when his tongue demands entry she grants it, and oh, she thinks she could just melt, he tastes like booze and sweat and sex, and she wants him, she's always wanted him…
The train gives an uncharacteristic lurch, and they break apart. He flops onto the bed.
Haymitch laughs, more drunkenly, this time, seeming unfazed. "Saved by the train."
"You shouldn't have kissed me." She whispers, trembling in both voice and body.
"Yeah," he agrees. "You kissed me back, though." He gives her that infuriating smile.
"I'm … leaving. Goodnight, Haymitch."
"Too scared to stay?"
At the threshold, she turns to back to him. She can see herself, going back to the bed, the two of them in a tangle of limbs, kissing, touching, joining …
She grips the door frame to keep from running back.
"No," she replies archly, her voice surprisingly steady. "Too smart."
For she is not Maysilee Donner, a brave and clever girl from District 12. She is only Effie Trinket, a silly, superfluous Escort girl from the Capitol, and Haymitch will never see her as anything other than that, even if he takes her to bed. And somehow, the thought of sleeping with him, knowing all that, is more unbearable than the thought of not sleeping with him, no matter how much she wants to. At least this way, he might retain some shred of respect for her … if he ever had any to begin with.
"You'll forget all this by morning anyway, Haymitch."
"Maybe," he says to her retreating back, "Maybe not."
She forces herself not to look back at him, and shuts the door.
The next morning, he says nothing about it. He's either forgotten or pretended he's forgotten; either way, she has no desire to revisit what happened. Things go on between then much as they have before, and if she sometimes imagines he's looking at her differently, well … she imagined many foolish things about him, years ago, when he was her victor, he hero … and she was as wrong then as she is now.
But at the end of the 74th Hunger Games, when they watch Peeta and Katniss with the berries, just before they're announced as winners, she and Haymitch are watching, and when Effie begins to cry, thick tears rolling down her cheeks and smearing her makeup, he slips his hand into hers.