Authors note: It took me a long time to write this, so I will upload it in smaller bits (it's about 34 pages long in my document). It's yet another take at Hayeffie, though I tried to practice my English skills (or lack thereof) more in this than in my other fics. I've really tried getting everything correct, but I'm still not native and I suck at even my own languages grammar, so please be nice.

This story may be seen as triggering to people dealing or having dealt with self injury, suicide or depression. Rated M for descriptive violence and very dark themes.

Charming. Happy. Capitol. Those were the three words Mayor Undersee had used to describe the new escort, when he caught Haymitch walking home towards Victors Village with a new stash of booze. Haymitch agreed on the last one, but the other two … He hadn't seen much of that. He sat like a schoolboy in front of her on the train, drink in his hand and tried to fake not being the slightest bit curios about what kind of a person she was. If it weren't for her flaws he wouldn't be, but the wig had gone slightly askew – not enough to reveal her natural hair, but just enough to make his eyes dart up to her hair every time she moved her head, waiting for the thing to fall off. She had also made a mistake at the reaping, which he had never ever experienced happening before. A small one, though, but a mistake. She talked to the wrong camera when she read the initial speech. She seemed so beat up over it now, that he would feel bad for her, if she wasn't what he suspected to be just another Capitol scarecrow. And if he wasn't so drunk he could barely stop himself from laughing every time she went a bit too high with her silly Capitol accent and her voice cracked. She wept that evening, but didn't show him more than the red, puffy eyes when she came out for dinner.

"Maybe you could tell them about your Quell, Mr Abernathy, I think it'd be good for them to know a bit about what they're going to do. I saw the tapes you know, you were quite the survivor in there," The twisted compliment hit him with a bad mixture of memories. The two tributes, a tiny girl from the Seam and a coal miner's strong son, had gone to bed. The old escort, Juliet, had never even mentioned Haymitch's games. She probably knew better. But then again, she also reaped him and followed him to the Capitol. She probably even knew what happened to his family afterwards, so she had left him alone with it. This new one. Trinket, she didn't know. She was painfully oblivious to what seemed like everything but her schedule and the table manners of her companions. When he didn't reply to her suggestion, she asked again, a bit higher pitched. He took a messy sip of the bottle, allowing a little to drip on his clean shirt, just to irritate her. Maybe that'd take her mind of things.

"There's a few rules, Trinks," he said and looked at her with hazy eyes. His voice was barely a whisper and he saw her leaning forward to catch the words. He didn't want any eavesdropping tributes to hear what he had to say now.

"One: Don't tell me what to do. I do what I have to, nothing more, nothing less. I want none of your fancy ideas." He started seeing an already defiant look in her eyes.

"Two: I drink, don't ask why, just accept it," he continued cutting off her argument with a louder pronunciation of the word 'two'.

"Three: We never. Ever. Talk about the Second Quarter Quell. Pretend it never happened. Pretend I was never a victor. Pretend I'm just here for the drinks,"

He heard an unwilling sadness in his own voice when he said the last few sentences. She must've heard it too, for she didn't argue with him that night. He knew he'd startled, probably even scared her. An old alcoholic guy with a wild look in his eyes and uncombed hair. Him compared to her oh-so-close-to-perfect face and nicely pressed clothes. Though she had her flaws, she was prim and proper.

Charming. He thought. Where the hell did Undersee get that from. Effie Trinket was as charming as the piece of toast on his plate. Breakfast had gone by in an alcoholic blur, but somehow Effie had made sure he got a plate sent to his room with a piece of toast and marmalade. How she knew his favourite was unbeknownst to him. He didn't remember if she'd brought it here herself, but he suspected it, because he remembered hearing the distinct sound of her clicking heels. Just like he heard them now. Clicking and clacking down the hall to get to her own compartment. Maybe it was a bit charming after all, he thought reluctantly, while he made his way through half a piece of toast and flushed it down with some strong white liquor he didn't recall getting last night. He laughed a bit at the thought of her leaving the liquor for him. It hit hard and a minute later he was vomiting violently into the toilet. He heard that clicking sound again and felt a cold cloth being pressed to his forehead, relieving some of the pain and allowing him to rest a bit. A hand placed itself on his back, but no words were exchanged. She just nursed him, held his half long hair when he threw dinner up from yesterday. When he was done, she wrung the cloth in clean water and dried off his face. He didn't know what to do, so he let her. She smiled at him and even laughed a bit. Haymitch liked her laugh. It sounded more real than the rest of her. Maybe that was why she didn't laugh as much.

"Are you feeling better now Mr Abernathy?" she asked when she took back the cloth. He was puzzled as to why the smell of vomit, alcohol and misery didn't make her frown. Happy. Yeah, she probably thought it was all just a little game. He growled in response and went back to his bed and lay down. She followed him, to make sure he hit the bed properly.

"I'll wake you up in a few hours," she promised him and disappeared, closing the door softly.

"No! No, you're not going to back out of this!" Effie shrieked as he left the room, leaving her alone with the dim light of the TV as her only light source. Their female tribute had died first at the Cornucopia. The boy held up a bit longer, using his raw strength, but he was in dire need of food right now.

"He's going to die, Trinks. Just … let it be," he said to try and avoid the storm of an argument she seemed to have in store for him.

"Get him a sponsor!" she demanded. He was surprised at her. She had been all excited during the training, getting mediocre scores cheered her up and she had been thrilled when the countdown started, though she hadn't dared look when it ended. She was the Capitol canalised into a human body, but still she was on the edge of tears looking at the screen where the focus was now on the usual Career pack following the seam boy. The arena was merciless this year. Snow and ice everywhere, to honour the president.

"I can't, I'm drunk and I have to pack," Haymitch replied to her and held up the bottle as to show her what he meant. He could've tried, he knew, but it would never happen. Sponsors for twelve? He could laugh.

"What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously, still heated with anger and the sort of Capitol sorrow, which would be devastating for a few days and then pushed aside the next time a collection of sparkling clothing came out. Haymitch knew very well. The different stylists had all had this approach. They wept and went into a state of depression for a few days, but when he hung around long enough to see the victor being crowned, they were the same bubbly butterfly-like creatures as always. Only Effie somehow seemed different. He couldn't put a finger on it and maybe it was just the alcohol talking to him, but he couldn't quite shake it.

"If he dies," His eyes darted to the screen, looking at their tribute cornered with a glacier behind him. His thoughts returned to the manner of him winning, finding the edge. The force field. "When … he dies. I'm going home tomorrow morning, first train," he concluded as he watched one of the careers drawing a crudely crafted spear.

"But Mr Abernathy," Effie said with a slight shock to her voice.

"But what, Trinks? Thought I'd stay forever? I'm flattered, but… You're not my type," he said and she raised her eyebrows at him. She gave him a lot of leash compared to how she'd treated the children, but there was only so much for her to give before he got out of hand. He needed to try her off, to know where the line was drawn, so he could entertain himself with her irritation. She grew red around the edges of her pale make-up as he said that. He laughed harshly at her.

"No," she said firmly clenching her tiny hand into a fist, "I was just informed, that most mentors stay to see the crowning of the Victor,"

As she said the word victor the cannon sounded from the TV and they both grew silent looked at the seam grey eyes closing. It had been a messy, death without honour. He'd seemingly laid there and let them stab him several times with the dull spear until he bled to death or whatever killed him. The two tributes from 12 had died.

"Oh," was all Effie said, "oh…"

Haymitch subconsciously took a step back, as if she was about to hit him or something, but nothing happened.

"Well… Have a good trip tomorrow, then. Good bye Mr Abernathy," she said in a flat, monotone voice, only broken by a few hiccups of what seemed to be oncoming tears. He didn't want to be around when she started crying, so he left as quickly as he could pick up the bottle from the kitchen table and gather the few of his belongings he cared about.

"See you in a year, Trinks," he yelled from the door and slammed it shut.