CHAPTER ONE
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Effie
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According to Effie's sister Rosalie, there's nothing better than two rough and rogue district people fighting to the death. For the crown. For the glory. It's exciting and breathtaking, the Games are, and she takes pride in being able to measure the strengths of the tributes and guess who will be deemed Victor. She's good at calculating, and that's what makes her good at placing bets.
According to her brother Marko, it's pathetically entertaining, the quarrel for the gold between the last two standing. That they think they have won it all when in fact they lose everything altogether. Marko thinks it's funny to see peasants clamor up the ladder only to be easily flicked off by people like them. He's the favorite of their mother for this; his thought relay hers, and there is not a hint of rebellion in him in any sort of way.
Effie's little brother Mason thinks the Hunger Games is the coolest thing in the world and practically relishes over each one. Then again, he's ten, and there's very little he doesn't consider "cool," especially when it comes to things with bloodshed. God knows the bloodlust packed in the sweet little boy. He's not very violent himself, but he's enamored by fighting and gore.
Then there's Effie.
Effie Trinket thinks the Hunger Games are all quite horrifying, but she never voices her opinion. It wouldn't matter anyhow. Her father and brother blame it on her age — you're only twelve, you do not understand the politics of it all. Which is true. She doesn't get it. But they never take the time to explain it, and she reckons it's because they don't understand it either. Her sister is supportive and comforting in a certain Rosalie-type way. She tells her violence is an acquired taste. Whether or not it is, Effie takes care to try and acquire it, for her mother tells her that she's an embarrassment to the family name for not loving the Games as she should. So Effie shuts up with her nonsensical opinions and ludicrous ideals. Besides, she is to never speak unless spoken to, which is the number one rule in the Trinket household.
And Effie always follows the rules.
...
If there's one phrase to describe Effie, it's that she's the good child.
Usually, as her rowdy younger brother engages in obnoxious reenactments of the Games or as Rosalie and Marko let bundles of money slip away through bets, she watches quietly, without qualms, like a perfect citizen of the Capitol. Nothing more and nothing less. She would watch and move on, never getting attached to tributes or risk money on them, which satisfies her mother's disappointments and does no harm to her father's eternal campaign.
But this year, this year is different. It is during the famed Quarter Quell - the Games with double the fun (as her mother says it is) - when she sees a boy on the glassy screen with grey eyes and a smug smile. And before the Games even start, she's concerned for his survival. She's praying for him to live, She wants him to win. For the first time, she's engrossed in the Games and she thoroughly blames it on Haymitch, Haymitch Abernathy, the District Twelve peasant with grey eyes.
Her older siblings called it crazy, this insane fangirl obsession she has with the poor boy from District 12. Marko even goes far to say that he wouldn't be surprised if her crush on him becomes so big that Daddy has him win just to shut her up. "That's the only way he'd win, you know, Eff," the fourteen year old says to her one night in the loft. "If our father makes Head Gamemaker Gibbons manipulate the Games so your silly idol would win."
Effie sneers at him then and crosses her arms. "I'll have you know that what you're suggesting is illegal."
"What code of law has ever stopped Father before?" Marko replies just as coolly. "You know him as well as I do. Wouldn't he do anything for his precious little girl?" He pauses. "I bet my buttons he'll die at the hands of that girl from One."
He leaves quick enough, out to the tennis court to resume his lessons, but Effie's been thinking about the proposition. Father certainly had power in the government, almost just as much as the President himself. He walks with Snow's entourage of politicians, banded together by age-old surnames and heaps of cash collecting dust in banks. There's nothing he can't do, right? At least that's what Effie thinks of him. He's always been her superman.
No, that's a dangerous way of thinking. Her dad may have done corrupt things before (for the good of Panem, of course), but never has he, nor anyone, manipulated the Games! Completely unheard of. The Games are a fair way of reminding the Districts of their fatal mistake in resorting to treason. But what for? There is no complaint for a perfect nation under a perfect government. And at what cost did they pay for? There's a reason for the Games and there's a reason for everything. If Haymitch was meant to win then he will.
Such risky thoughts shall never cross her mind again.
...
When Haymitch kills the girl and wins, her heart soars and she wonders if she'll ever see him again. Well, if she ever does. She can't wait for the Victory Tour to start up and for him to arrive to the Capitol! He'd probably be all dressed up, grey eyes shining with pride and that smart arrogance he possesses. By that time, she'd be almost thirteen, and he's basically sixteen. Maybe they'll cross paths at the Victory Ball at the Capitol. Maybe they'll talk and maybe they'll exchange numbers. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
It's around the time Haymitch is giving smart-aleck answers again to Cesar Flickerman that she becomes very insecure that given the chance that she does in fact meet him, she will do nothing but annoy him. She's also slightly worried that Rosalie will steal him away from her or Marko will scare him off with his superiority complex.
Effie doesn't do well with insecurity.
"You're really blond like that Maysilee girl," her ten year-old brother Mason tells her after she told him about her fears. "And Rosalie is dirty blonde. Naturally anyway. But you're prettier than Rosalie and vastly more proper. Haymitch will love you!"
Mason, always the sweetheart. She's grateful for the little blonde devil. He's the only one that knows why Effie prays to God every night - she wishes that it's in her stars to fall in love with Haymitch Abernathy like she did with those damned grey eyes.
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Haymitch
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There's supposedly something nice about homecoming.
Haymitch can see it - really, he gets it, the whole idea of being happy to be home - but he can't quite feel it. Of course he's happy. He wants to see his mom badly, and his brother Joshua must be missing him like hell. His girl must be worrying about him like crazy too. The thing is, he's not sure what he's supposed to be feeling right now. Victory? Grief? Fear? Anger?
Or perhaps it's a disgusting, shameful mixture of all four.
Regardless, as Haymitch stares out the window, elbow on the table and his chin cupped in his hand, he thinks about the one place his mentor told him to never go back to.
The Arena.
Ellis tells him it's a good thing to block it out if it isn't necessary to think about it. She says that if there's one thing she knows in her forty-seven years of mentoring, is that as a general rule, the Arena swallows you up whole. Victor or not, it's going to eat you alive. The best way to die, she says, is to not know you are at all.
So forget, she tells him.
But it isn't that easy.
"Haymitch."
He had been tapping an old District hymn on the table. Something he picked up from his old man before he kicked the bucket - his mother says hymns quieted the nerves of Abernathy men. He looks up at Ellis, meeting her grey eyes with his. The old woman is tired, and it's clear as day. Living so haphazardly as she does and so severed from the Capitol as she is, she must've bust her ass trying to cover up for him and his stunt in the Arena.
He's glad she's Seam. If she was any different, he might be bringing home different baggage. Or, more likely, not come home at all.
Her lips crease into a taut smile, a comforting, grandmotherly kind if he could recognize it correctly. "Don't think too much," Ellis says. She motions to the beauty of Four's ocean outside their window, the ebbing waves seeming to touch the railroad tracks with a kiss. "We're going home."
"I...I know, El," he whispers, casting his eyes down. Of the things about the Arena he loathes, there is one that stings him - pains him - worse than any battle wound. He hates how much it bothers him, but then again he's only human. If he hadn't let -
"You thinking about her?"
Haymitch feels his eyes open wide and his heartbeat stop at its peak.
Her. There's a million hers he knows, a million hers that he could identify by name or face or both. A million hers out there, and his mind chooses one to think about. And stupid stupid him, he chooses the wrong one.
Maysilee. Maysilee Donner, dead and young, of Merchant class and that prettyprettypretty blonde girl that used to stare at him in the halls who got torn apart to pieces by candy-colored birds.
Maysilee.
The girl
he couldn't
Maysilee!
save -
Maysilee -
...Maysilee.
"That girl of yours...Ivy, is it?" Ellis asks, cautiously. The way she chooses her words, Haymitch notices, is careful. Reminding, nagging. Like she knows - sees - his struggle with the death of Maysilee. With his feelings torn between her and his girl. With the Arena tugging at his mind. He's easily irritated by it, her way of having knowledge about him over him, and he doesn't know why.
Which bothers him even more.
"Yeah, her name's Ivy, okay?" The harshness of his words shocks even him. It startles him, his temper. Surely Ellis has no idea why he would even be angry - hell, he himself doesn't even know - so why show it? He evades her eyes. God knows how an old woman like her would be able to stomach a furious gab from him. He can't bear seeing pain anymore, even the in the slightest sense of the word. A month's worth of it is enough to satisfy him for the rest of his damn life.
But her voice never wavers, not even it bit. Whether she was truly unfazed by his lapse of respect or she was able to hide it from years of covering herself up beats him, but for now he is satisfied to know that an apology is not in order. Ellis claps her hands, a small smile dancing on her lips. "Well, you must be excited to see her then. I remember seeing you two walking and holding hands in town. Mm..." A look of guilt passes through her. She purses her lips. "Haymitch, would you promise me something?"
"Yeah, sure. What is it?"
Ellis reaches over and grabs his hand in hers. She pulls it slightly, forcing him to look at her. He eyes the wrinkles that crease by the corners of her lips, and the sickly light she gives off somewhat disturbs him. He looks at her intently, waiting for her to either say something or fall apart.
"Enjoy your girl," she whispers, her frail voice like metal for a quick moment. "Enjoy her. For the next two weeks, don't think about the Arena," here, her left eye twitches, "don't think about the Tour. Just... enjoy Ivy and your family."
In her Seam eyes, he sees a woman ruined by brooding. And he swears to himself he won't turn out like her. He'd rather die than end up like the lonely spinster. Maybe this is what she's telling him. Before he should get sucked in the city and color, he should enjoy normalcy for the time being. Was this her mistake before? He nods, but only slightly, only enough to promise but not enough to scare her away.
Her thumb traces his and just like that, she pulls away.
"Blossom made you cookies," Ellis tells him. Her voice is soft again, but with a bounce, one he's heard too much this past day. He hopes it's nothing to do with two decades of working with the upbeat escort called Blossom, who, terrifyingly, has her cheeks tattooed with jeweled flowers. Blossom has a skip in her step and a manically optimistic tone in her voice. Now, imagine Haymitch Abernathy, hardass (badass) Victor straight from the heart of the Seam with a Capitol trademarked bounce, skip, and flutter in his words.
It's enough to make him shudder.
"Cookies?" he asks, surprised at the thought of Blossom - the woman who hates his manners (or lack thereof) more than she hates him as a whole - baking him pastries. They're probably laced with arsenic, or worse: Politeness Powder, something she was harping on patenting just for his sake. He scrunches his nose in disgust. Even if they were old fashioned, totally safe cookies, something tells him that the escort can't bake very well.
"Yep. Pink and yellow, everything that embodies Blossom. She saw to it to bake some for your little brother too." Ellis sees his hesitation - Blossom, with a kitchen appliance? "They won't kill you, Haymitch. They're pretty good."
"You had my cookies?" Haymitch slams his hands on the table, jokingly appalled at the thought.
"It doesn't have your name written all over it, Abernathy."
"You owe me a cookie..."
Haymitch eyes Ellis and she gets up slowly. "Make that four and we'll be up to speed. Maybe more if you can't catch me..."
The old woman may have a slight hunch in the curvature of her back and a tic in her step, but she sure was fast.
...
Coming home is sweet, in a way.
He wonders if it's because of the way the familiar hometown breeze softly kisses his skin, welcoming him back like the flashes of cameras illuminating the rising daylight. Or if it's the gangly arms of his brother that immediately latches upon his middle the moment he sets foot on Twelve soil. Maybe it's the chapped lips that presses against his own, and the whispered promise of a damn good welcome later that night. But perhaps it's the still woman that simply stands there as his brother and girlfriend embrace him. Mom. The woman who moves past the shouting of reporters and the clicks of cameras, whose lax words assures him of home, whose fingers trembles over bruises that marred his face.
The entire District Twelve is alight with welcome, but none shine brighter than the three people around him at this very moment.
...
"Is the Capitol - "
"Yes, Josh, the Capitol is as shiny as it is on the television."
"Joshua, stop bugging your brother, he needs his rest. Haymitch, eat your dinner."
Haymitch smiles across the table at his little brother - only, at the brink of adolescence, isn't quite so little anymore. In a single month, Joshua has grown taller and a bit more stronger than he was before. And, as Haymitch looks at him closer, he resembles more and more like their father each second.
Josh rolls his eyes at their mother. "Mom, what are we supposed to talk about? The weather? He has stories and - "
Mrs. Abernathy turns sharply, her back now facing the stove. "Stories, Joshua, not meant for the dinner table and should be told at a later time. Right now, we just enjoy Haymitch's safe coming. We'll discuss the...recent events later tomorrow." She comes around to Haymitch, refilling his bowl with more stew. "Eat up."
"Thank you," Haymitch says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"No, thank you, sweetheart. For coming home to us." She bends down and places a careful kiss on his forehead. "Your father would be so proud of you."
If it's even possible, home tastes even sweeter.
A/N: So it's here as promised. I hope you guys like it. Um...I know, no Hayffie yet, but soon you'll see their interaction! God, I really don't know why but I had MAJOR writer's block with this chapter... Sorry if it sounds forced or anything! I just wanted to get the first chapter out for you guys. Could you leave a review letting me know what you think? It really does push me to write faster :3 Thanks loves!