A/N: This was written for day 1 of the ongoing Hayffie Challenge over on Tumblr, which is being run by myself and the amazing cardinalzen. If you're a Hayffie shipper, we'd love to have you around. Come join us!
She would never admit it outside the privacy of her own thoughts, but she's almost glad when their remaining tribute breathes his last. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and she can't help but be relieved that it's all over. now she can breathe again. She feels like she hasn't in weeks.
"Well," she says with a quiet sigh. "They made a valiant effort."
Haymitch glowers at her, and beneath that withering gaze, she suddenly feels very small and very stupid.
"Do me a favor, Sweetheart," he says as he stands and makes his way into the kitchen, picking up the nearest bottle and unscrewing the lid. "Keep your mouth shut."
She gapes at him indignantly as he brings the bottle to his lips and guzzles down nearly a third of whatever vile swill it contains.
"I was only trying to—"
She stops short, startled by the sudden, loud thunk as he slams the bottle down on the counter.
"What? Look on the bright side? There is no bright side, Princess."
She presses her lips together tightly as a lump forms in her throat. For a long moment, the only sound is the sloshing of liquid as Haymitch takes another drink.
And then she says, very quietly, in a voice that hardly resembles her own. "Don't you think I know that?"
That tone is enough to give him pause, and he frowns slightly as he turns to look at her. What he sees ties his stomach in a knot and makes him feel like shit.
Effie Trinket - Princess Twinkle of Lollipop Land, perpetual cheerfulness personified - is crying.
He hardly believes it, at first. He must be imagining that tear rolling down her cheek. But another soon follows, and before long she has her face in her hands, and he can hear her quiet sobs.
He is at a loss, woefully ill-equipped to handle this sort of thing. So he does the only thing he can think of. He finds a clean glass and pours her a drink.
He approaches her cautiously, as one would a wounded animal, sits down beside her, and places a hand somewhat hesitantly on her shoulder.
"Here," he says, offering her the glass.
After a moment, she looks up, sniffling, and eyes the drink dubiously. Her eyes are red and her face is streaked with tears, but her makeup is somehow perfectly intact. How the hell does she get that stuff off? Turpentine and a paint scraper?
"Thank you," she ekes out, taking the glass in a trembling hand and gulping it down as if she's done this sort of thing before. And maybe she has. He wouldn't know.
But if that was surprising, what she does next is downright shocking.
She kisses him.
And it's not the sort of dainty, delicate kiss one would expect from her. No, it is forceful and insistent, desperate, and just a little sloppy.
It leaves him breathless and dumbfounded, and as soon as he can, he spits out the question that's been bouncing around his mind. "What are you—"
She stops him with a gilded fingertip against his lips. "Shut up, Haymitch," she breathes. "I want you to kiss me. Kiss me. Touch me. Do whatever you want. I don't care. Just make this all go away."
There's a desperate pleading in her voice and in those bright, blue eyes that almost frightens him. This is not the Effie he knows.
And though a small, quiet voice in the back of his mind whispers that this might be a bad idea, he feels inclined to comply. How can he deny her when she's looking at him like that?
He can't. If they regret it in the morning, so be it. They'll just add it to the list.
Still, he's a bit rusty at this, so he takes it slow, leaning in to press his lips to hers, reaching up to tangle his fingers in her hair, stopping short when he remembers it's a wig. With a quiet little growl of frustration, she tears the thing off and tosses it aside.
Under different circumstances, he might have laughed because, even under the wig, her hair is a pale, pretty pink. As it is, he merely smiles against her lips as he laces his fingers in those candy colored locks, his other hand drifting down to the big, shiny buttons of her jacket.
"Oh, you'll never figure it out," she mutters, impatiently swatting his hand away. "You can hardly manage to dress yourself."
Well, that certainly sounds more like his Effie. Maybe their little distraction is working. Maybe not. Either way, a few moments later, she's naked and attacking his pants with the same ruthless determination she showed her own clothing, now strewn across the floor.
His thoughts have grown quite fuzzy by now, the liquor catching up with him, at last, and any qualms he'd had in the beginning are gone now. He feels nothing but pleasure as she kneels before him and proves that that mouth of hers is good for more than chipper words and cheerful smiles.
And later, when he's looking up at that pale, perfect face, her pinkish-gold lips parted as she screams and digs her painted nails into his shoulders, he can't help but be a little glad that they lost.
In the morning they'll both feel a bit guilty - Haymitch for that last coherent thought, Effie for the weakness she has shown him. But they won't regret it. Not really.
Because the greatest pleasures are often the guiltiest.