Acknowledgements: S, for listening to me complain about all the things I remembered as I wrote this. R, for reading this before anyone else and always being honest. Everyone who was so wonderful to me in regards to As the Sky, for making me smile so sincerely for the first time in so long. My muse, for giving me such indescribable joy.
i.
A reputable bar isn't Haymitch's preferred place to meet, because despite the vast collection of high quality liquor and spirits available, it's crowded with Capitol fops who are either attempting to seduce over-colored ladies or other fops, or flaunting their own greatness (which, if you ask Haymitch, is really nothing more than a load of bull). But he isn't in a position to pick rendezvous points. It's the seventy-second Hunger Games, and the plans for a possible rebellion are in exactly the same place as they were five years ago: nowhere.
Which is precisely why he feels that listening to Heavensbee's updates is a waste of time. Still, Heavensbee is paying for his drinks as long as they're here, so Haymitch humors his fellow (would-be) rebel. Heavensbee is in the middle of a tangent about possible future arenas when Haymitch nearly chokes on his drink.
"Have I said something particularly shocking?" asks Heavensbee.
Haymitch blinks hard, because surely his eyes are deceiving him. The ghastly apparition in chartreuse and violet approaching them shouldn't be here, of all places.
"Now, Haymitch, if I've told you one thing since meeting you, it's to mind your manners. Staring is unbelievably rude!"
And his ears are deceiving him, too. They must be.
"Ah, Effie!" says Heavensbee, grinning widely. "I wasn't expecting you until later."
"Yes, well, things got a bit too exciting," Effie answers, adjusting an earring as she takes a seat at Heavensbee's other side. "I thought I'd get out for a bit."
"This isn't really your scene, though," says Haymitch, his voice finally under his control again. "Out-of-the-way Capitol bars and fancy escorts such as yourself don't really mix." She purses her lips, and he adds, "Besides, aren't you supposed to be somewhere? Bothering the tributes? Fucking your boyfriend?"
Effie narrows her eyes at him, taking a deep breath. She looks ready to contest that, but instead she turns to Heavensbee. "That reminds me: Seneca was awarded the promotion. I'm sorry, Plutarch."
"That explains why I haven't heard." Heavensbee shakes his head. "Thank you, but it's all right. Better him than any of the others."
"He says it was very close."
"I'm sure it was." Sighing, Heavensbee shrugs. "Alas. It could be worse."
"Celebration sex," Haymitch says, nodding. "Too much for you, was it?" He sees her eyebrow twitch, but she holds her ground. Damn her. He wants her the hell out already. No amount of free liquor is worth spending time with her outside of their required interactions.
"Have you still not realized how unnecessary it is for you to be quite so vulgar?" Effie shakes her head.
"Oh, definitely." Haymitch gives her a fake grin. "But I do it because I enjoy it."
"You really shouldn't be so crude to her," Heavensbee says.
"Thank you, Plutarch. You see, Haymitch? That is how a gentleman behaves. You could stand to learn a thing or two from him."
"Are we done here?" he asks, setting his glass down on the table.
"Just about," answers Heavensbee. "Only another thing or two: I've been speaking to someone in Eight who shows promise."
Haymitch frowns. Something is wrong with this picture. Heavensbee is discussing things that could get them worse than executed while the very embodiment of everything they want to destroy is sitting right next to him.
"You mean another flaky escort?" Haymitch prompts.
"Don't be silly, Haymitch," Effie cuts in, her yellow-green lips pulling back in a grin that looks nothing short of manic. "Domitia has been nothing short of excellent as Eight's escort all these years. No one in their right mind would seek to replace her."
"A new mayor, then."
Effie giggles, lifting a gloved hand to cover her lips as she exchanges a glance with Heavensbee. "Oh, goodness, now I see why you looked so surprised to see me here early, Plutarch. I should have known."
"Yes, well…"
"What am I missing here?" Haymitch interrupts. He can feel a headache coming along, and for once it has nothing to do with his bad habit.
"Nothing, Haymitch. Nothing at all." Effie shakes her head, frowning. "Not here. Back in the penthouse, though, you are missing the opportunity to do your job."
"Because you leaving them alone is so professional."
"It's still light out, and they are with their prep teams."
"So I don't need to be there right now."
Rolling her eyes, Effie stands. "I'm going," she proclaims, placing a hand on the exaggerated swell of her hip. In that color, she looks like a warped light bulb from the waist down, but knowing these people, that's probably exactly what she's going for. "You had better be there in time for the parade."
"Finally," Haymitch says as she starts to walk away. "Thought I'd never see the back of you."
She whirls to face him, glaring, and he has to admire her impeccable balance on those pointy, likely deadly shoes. "Do you know something? I think celebratory sex sounds like a fabulous idea."
With that, she marches off. Haymitch sits in stunned silence while Plutarch stirs his electric blue drink with the ridiculous zigzagging straw that came with it.
"Are you sure that was Effie? Effie Trinket?"
"Yes," Plutarch answers. "And I believe you upset her enough to think up a very interesting and possibly somewhat nuanced barb in response."
Haymitch scoffs at the implications of that. He's perfectly capable of finding a willing woman. A bit of time spent grooming, and then he can bank on the lingering charm of his being a victor, and a Quarter Quell victor, no less. He just doesn't want to. There's no point, not when he still dreams of his long dead girlfriend and wakes up in a cold sweat, her name spilling from his lips in a soft, broken plea.
"Well," he says, shaking his head, "so much for having the Head Gamemaker on our side."
Plutarch shrugs. "It could be far worse, believe me."
"Like when you started to tell me something with her right there?" Haymitch doesn't wait for an answer, simply downs the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass on the table. "Is that everything?"
"Everything pressing, yes," Heavensbee says, nodding. "Oh, there is one more thing: look for blue beetles."
Haymitch stares at the other man for a moment, arching an eyebrow. "Is that the best you people could come up with?"
"Beetles are in style," Heavensbee explains. "But blue ones aren't quite so common yet."
Sighing, Haymitch stands. "I have tributes awaiting my wisdom." He sways a bit when he says so, but he stays upright. That's the important part. "Blue beetles. I'll keep an eye out."
Back in the penthouse later that evening, fourteen-year-old Lilac rushes to her room in tears, eighteen-year-old Boris is red-faced as he heads down the hall for a shower, and Effie sends the Avoxes to get started on bringing in dinner. Haymitch considers it an accomplishment that he didn't spend the parade blind drunk, but of course no one will appreciate that. They don't understand, and they never will.
He has an Avox go get him a drink and settles down on the couch while he waits. The relative silence before Effie makes them all watch the recaps is short but precious, and he fully intends to be unconscious when the tributes come back.
"Well, that went less than well."
Haymitch rubs his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. This woman possesses an uncanny talent for bothering him when he most wants to be alone.
"Still, they could have been worse." She sits not too far from him, pursing her lips. "They could have been more like you."
"They were naked out there," he reminds her, suppressing a shiver at the idea of it. His costume for the parade in his year had been downright hideous, true, but at least he had been allowed the privilege of being clothed.
"They were miners covered in dust! It was—different. Unique! They will be remembered."
Her moment of hesitation gets a brief laugh out of him, and as he shakes his head, it turns into a sneer. "Yeah, I'm sure the sponsors will just be dying to send Lilac gifts. Because, you know, crying little girls make for the best victors."
"It worked for Johanna Mason," she reminds him.
"Lilac Carter is not Johanna Mason," he says sternly. "Don't even bother hoping she'll make it out of the arena."
She gives a delicate snort as an Avox comes to deliver his drink. He takes it, giving a quick nod to the servant, and takes a sip.
"You are impossible," says Effie, shaking her head.
The glittering pins and accessories in her hair and on her dress sparkle in the light of the elaborate lamps overhead and along the walls. Perhaps it's the boredom and exhaustion mingling with the alcohol already in his system, or maybe the new fashion is to be this obnoxiously shiny, but he swears he sees tiny rainbows in her hair from that ridiculous pin.
"Prisms?" he asks, shaking his head. Why the hell not ask her when there is nothing else to do? She might give him something to insult her for. It could be fun seeing how quickly he can get rid of her.
"Pardon? Oh." She touches the pin in her wig, the tiny, crystal-like beads he is staring at. "No. Not intentionally, at least. Lucky me! But these—" She lifts a few cerulean curls away, revealing her ear. "These are new earrings. What do you think?"
"Ugly."
"You haven't even looked at them!" He shrugs, and she rolls her eyes. "At least humor me, Haymitch."
"Fine," he mutters, but he takes a drink first. He'll need all the help he can get to deal with her before the tributes come back. Inhaling deeply, he lifts his gaze to the abominations.
He nearly drops his glass.
"Are those blue beetles?"
She nods, blissfully oblivious to the fact that he is still staring. "Don't you just love them?"
"What? Yeah. Sure." Of all the styles and designs at her disposal, she'd had to pick blue beetles.
"I would have preferred something floral, but—" She shrugs. "The choice was not mine to make."
He sits there for what feels like hours, calculating as best he can what the odds are that she would have randomly picked that particular pair of earrings in the few hours it's been since Plutarch Heavensbee told him about the blue beetles. And what does she mean that the choice wasn't hers to make? Had they been a gift?
"They're still ugly," he says finally, for lack of anything better to say.
She shrugs again, adjusting one of the beetles. "Tell that to Plutarch." Shooting him a grin, she stands. "I must go make sure Lilac is all right. There's so much to do with her before her interview!"
As Effie hobbles off to Lilac's room, Haymitch processes what has just transpired and decides he must have a few very serious words with Heavensbee, because there is no way on earth this is right.
ii.
"Go without me," Haymitch slurs, swatting the air where one of two Effies stares pointedly at him. There's no reason to go to a viewing party or be anywhere near the sponsors when Boris has just died of a nasty infection after two days of agony. Lilac, at least, was killed at the Cornucopia, beheaded with a top of the line axe as she stupidly reached for a backpack. The one piece of advice he'd given them was to stay the hell away from the Cornucopia, and she hadn't listened.
Not his fault.
But now that they are simply extras to the deals and advertisements of the mentors whose tributes are still in the running, Haymitch wants nothing more than to board a train home and bid this nightmare good-bye until next year.
"This is public relations one-oh-one, Haymitch," Effie trills—or maybe she doesn't, but that's sure as hell what it sounds like to him. She's like some stupid bird, flitting around in a cage full of vicious cats, tempting fate.
No way she's one of them. No way she's involved in the resistance.
"Take your murderer boyfriend with you. Take an Avox, for fuck's sake, just fuck off."
His drunkenness has dulled his senses better than he's hoped for, but not well enough, unfortunately. After a few seconds, her cheek begins to sting where her hand made none too gentle contact with it. Inhaling deeply, he narrows his eyes and focuses on her until he sees one of her, a livid atrocity in too many bright shades of orange.
"Do not speak to me that way," she demands.
He scoffs. Already he can feel the bile burning in his stomach, but no, it's too soon. He has to keep everything down for now, because he has finally provoked her enough that he might be able to get out of doing anything at all for the rest of the Games.
"You don't even match," he says. "Ugliest fucking earrings I've ever seen."
"Don't play the fool," she hisses. She readjusts a peach-colored curl, lifts another hand to fidget with one of said earrings. "For once, it doesn't suit you."
The shift in her tone clicks with him a few seconds later, how she has gone from the usual angry to a lower, more grounded enraged. In his state, the fact that he has noticed at all impresses him, but he holds back part of the cocky grin he gives. He is treading unknown territory, and this is a story he wants to live to tell.
"You must have figured it out by now," she tells him, almost whispers, as she steps closer. "So just accept the truth. And don't ever talk to me that way again."
He laughs, and she flinches back, away from the stench on his breath.
"You think you're such a brilliant man, don't you," she continues, shaking her head. "You don't know the half of it all. And do you know something? If you would just listen to me, you might be better off."
"Do you really want to parade your drunken mentor in front of all those people tonight?" he asks, chuckling. This is all so hilarious, so absolutely insane. "You have shit to gain from it."
"And you have everything to lose if you stay here."
"Is that a threat?" He tries to keep a straight face, but it's impossible, and he snickers as she shakes her head.
"Sometimes I wonder why he bothers with you," she says, sighing.
"Smarts," he tells her, tapping his head.
Rolling her eyes, she fidgets with her earring again. "Just go to the party. Show up late, I don't care at this point a long as you don't make a fool of us both while you're there. Just go for a little while. It will be crawling with people you simply must get to know. After all, you never can tell who will be helpful to you later on, can you?"
She gives him her trademark would-be dazzling grin and heads off, taking the widest steps her awful skirt will allow. He listens to the click-clack of her heels until it fades away down the hall outside the penthouse.
iii.
All the aggravation of another Games dealing with a drunken, belligerent Haymitch melts away when she sees the look on his face upon recognizing not only Seneca, but also the tiny decorations on his cuff links. They were her idea, the most subtle way to include the hint of the blue in such a way that it would not detract attention from the red sash he is wearing for his first year as Head Gamemaker.
Effie wishes desperately that her earrings were equipped with image capture software, because nothing will ever be as delightfully amusing as Haymitch's face in this moment, and she wants to treasure it forever.
"Is there something the matter?" asks Seneca, glancing at Effie as if for translation.
It takes all her strength not to laugh. "No, I imagine it's nothing out of the ordinary." She narrows her eyes at Haymitch, the customary response to his inebriated antics, but she cannot help the corners of her eyes from crinkling just a bit in her effort to suppress a grin.
"Just… fashion," Haymitch says, gesturing with his cocktail to Seneca's wrists. "How you people manage to keep up with it all is a f—" He stops short in the face of Effie's now more serious glare. "A phenomenal miracle," he corrects.
Effie grins, satisfied. "It isn't my favorite, either, but one simply must be up to date with the latest trends."
"Of course," Seneca agrees, giving a dazzling smile.
Haymitch chokes a little on his drink.
"Well, I'm glad to see you finally made it," Effie says to him. "Didn't I tell you it would be worth it?"
"And you were right," he says, baring his teeth as he gives an exaggerated grin. "Here's to you." He lifts his glass to her and takes a drink from it. "I'd better go socialize."
The acid in his tone only makes her want to laugh in his face, but she is not like that, not like him. She behaves as she must, and she must help him save face. "I'll see you later, then."
He gives her a short bow and walks away, off to find Heavensbee, no doubt. All the better. It isn't her fault Haymitch hasn't figured it out after all these years, and she'll tell him that when he brings it up later.
For now, she must enjoy the party and pretend to take joy in the building excitement of the Games, feign elation at Seneca's departure for the control room because it means there will surely be action onscreen. She watches, standing by Domitia, grinning so hard she forgets how to do anything else as a flash flood drags the boy from One towards the Cornucopia for a showdown with both tributes from Four.
As she watches the blood stain the tributes' clothes, she wishes this will be the last year that innocents are forced to kill or die.