"Effie Trinket is at the peak of her career and everything seems to be going well in her relatively simple life. Haymitch Abernathy had been hiding from the spotlight for years, until his old friend decided he should get back to work again. The two meet in front of a camera more-less out of necessity, and soon find out that the line bewteen reality and pretending can be often very thin. || Hayffie Actors AU"
"PROLOGUE"
i.
NOW
His eyes were fixated on the phone that just kept ringing. It was always ringing these days. The press was insistent but he wasn't planning on giving in. No wonder that people were curious - one would think that he'd never miss such an event. One would think he'd grab every opportunity. It was the same as after the press tour. Everybody wanted to know why he didn't come. Everybody wanted to know what all of this meant. How could he explain it to anyone if he didn't understand it himself?
He talked to Peeta earlier that day, right after he woke up. Peeta was the only person who could get him to actually respond to any attempt at contacting him. That was a bit of a surprise, really. Katniss seemed to be more understanding of the stance he took. The rest, not so much, but Peeta, if nothing else, at least didn't comment on his decisions, not until this morning when he left him a message on his home phone's answering machine to immediately call him back, knowing well that all texts and e-mails would go without a notice.
"Are you sure?" the boy asked, uncertainity vibrating in his voice. "I mean, this is… a big thing."
"I'm totally sure," he retorted. "Stop trying to make me change my mind. I've had enough of that."
"You've talked to Plutarch yet?"
"He knows."
Peeta sighed on the other end of the phone. Haymitch could imagine him sitting on the twin-sized bed in his hotel room, the helpless teenage mess all around, different shirts he'd previously tried on, the crumpled up papers with the scripts for the interviews, piles of magazines, notebooks with various sketches and doodles. He kind of missed the kid, though he wasn't really planning on telling him that.
"And her?"
Haymitch snorted. "She doesn't care."
"I'd dare to disagree with that."
He closed his eyes and rest his head against the wall. For some reason, the sound that was the most prominent right now was the ticking of the clock in the main hall, and he found it ironic. It was no secret that he'd been running out of time lately. "Look, if she wanted me to go… she would have just asked me."
"Haymitch," hissed Peeta impatiently. "You didn't even give her a chance. It's not as though you left her with many choices, you know?"
"I don't care."
"Yes, you do," argued the boy, "that's your problem. You care a lot."
"What do you want from me?" snapped Haymitch, immediately regretting this sudden outburst. "Look, sorry, Peeta, but it is how it is. There's no point in… just, enjoy it, boy. It's your day. And Katniss'. You focus on yourselves, okay?"
"Okay." There was silence for a while. "Katniss misses you. We all do."
Haymitch chuckled bitterly, bringing the bottle to his lips. "You're better off like this."
Peeta sounded hesitant when he spoke. "What are you going to do now?"
"What I've been doing for the past twenty years, probably."
"That's not right, Haymitch. That's… a waste. After everything-"
"You can tell Plutarch that he failed again," Haymitch shrugged to himself, "I'm not built for this shit. And things happened. You don't need me there."
"We do, Haymitch, we do." A pause. "And she misses you."
He was very well aware that Peeta wasn't talking about Katniss this time, but he couldn't bring himself to respond to it. It's been the same thing, over and over, for so many months. It felt as if for the past quarter a year, his world went grey again. He often shook his head at himself, but it kind of reminded him of the story where when you meet your soulmate, your world, previously just black and white, goes into color. When they leave, for whatever reason, the colors fade again. His world had been so devoid of color lately… his worst fear was slowly taking over him again. Once more, he was falling back to his old habits. Being drunk all day, falling asleep at random places, throwing sudden fits of anger, accompanied by destroying his house slowly and methodically, one breakdown at a time… he was slowly getting tired of all the dullness, but even more so, he was getting tired of having his world all lit up just for someone to make it go grey again.
And even more so, he was getting tired of somehow always managing to royally fuck up the only good thing in his life.
But that didn't matter now.
Nothing really mattered.
Peeta sighed again. "Look, I have to go. We've got some interviews. I just wanted to say thank you… for everything. You really… you still have time. If you want to come-"
"No."
"Are you going to watch?"
"No."
"Okay." He cleared his throat. "I will call you later, Haymitch. We'll come visit you. We'll bring Finnick and Johanna."
Haymitch smiled to himself, and he didn't know why, because the only thing he registered was the ugly sting in his chest when he noticed Peeta's sudden caution. "Take care, Peeta."
"I will. You do, too. The red carpet starts at four. Ceremony at five thirty. Just saying."
The call ended and Haymitch put the phone back to the cradle, but stayed in his place right beside it, staring at the wall in front of him, and he couldn't tell whether it had always been grey or if it had only gotten such a dreary hue lately. He stood there, and the phone didn't stop ringing for the next few hours, the sound resonating through his skull and vibrating in his bones, wafting through the empty halls. He decided to just let it ring.
ii.
March, New York City
It actually all started with a phone call.
There weren't many phone calls in Haymitch's life. He prefered talking face to face, or, even better, not talking at all. The only people he still talked to were mostly people he couldn't really avoid speaking with, like the newspaper boy, constantly complaining about not getting paid in weeks, or his neighbour, a young pious guy who kept inviting him to garage sells or Bible reading or, most recently, the gardening club. He also once hinted the support group that met once a week in the church's basement, which basically consited of alcoholics, drug addicts and stray kids of the neighbourhood, sharing their heart-wrenching stories of becoming homeless, losing their jobs, turning to addictive substances. Haymitch took a great pleasure in turning him down, mostly because that man never seemed to take it personally, but Haymitch was used to the gentle shades of sarcasm going unnoticed.
Aside from that group of people, there was one person he stayed in touch with. Chaff often called him, usually to check if he hasn't died from overdose yet, update him on his life, and promise to visit soon, Haymitch then wouldn't hear from him for a few weeks, then he'd call again. Haymitch never called him first anymore.
But that call was different. When Haymitch picked up, still a bit dazed from yesterday's spree, he could tell something was wrong. It wasn't like Chaff to be this impatient. It wasn't like him to be this serious, either. He said that he was in Richmond and that the two needed to meet as soon as possible.
"Is something wrong?" he asked immediately.
"Nothing's wrong," was the cheerful but careful reply, "I just need to talk to you. Like, soon. When does it suit you?"
"Slow down," groaned Haymitch, gulping down his water with aspirin, "where are you?"
"On the airport, actually. I need somewhere to sleep over, I'm going to New York tomorrow. So, is tomorrow alright?"
"Yeah, I guess." Haymitch paused. "Why?"
"I'll explain it later," promised Chaff impatiently, "but it's important. So today at seven, at Sae's? As always?"
They met up at Sae's and ended up going to the airport the next morning.
New York on the break of March and April was unusually hot. Haymitch didn't like the city in general - people, cars, loud noises - but the weather took the cake. He was used to Virginia's harsh winters and warm summers, but the temperature jumps were still nothing compared to the North East. He looked out of the cab's window, the surroundings all bright banners, flashy billboards and busy crowds, and rolled it down, ignoring the driver's dirty look in the rearview mirror.
"So," he started, turning his look to Chaff who sat next to him, fanning himself with his newspapers, "are you finally gonna tell me why we're here?"
"I already told you," his friend shrugged, "I've got a meeting."
Haymitch rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know, but I'd love to know what kind of meeting it is that you can't go there by yourself and have to drag me across the whole East Coast for it."
"I just like your company," said Chaff calmly, earning Haymitch's annoyed glare.
"Just for once do me a solid and cut the bullshit."
"You'll see."
Haymitch sighed and turned back to watching the Eight Avenue pass by, trying to think of the last time he visited the city. That could easily be over a decade ago. He didn't have many reasons to come here, as there wasn't much socializing in Haymitch's life in general. Plutarch Heavensbee was one of the people who never let the contact break for too long. He still lived in New York, that much Haymitch knew, and remembering it now, the last time he came over was because of him.
"We're here."
The cab abruptly stopped in front of a tall art deco building in Chelsea. Chaff pulled a crumpled twenty dollar note out of his jeans, handed it to the surly driver and got out, Haymitch following his example without bothering to roll the window up again. They stood there until the cab left, Haymitch feeling the annoyance slowly taking over him. "Chaff-"
"Let's just go," Chaff offered, leading Haymitch to the entrance.
They walked into the building, a spacey hall full of people welcoming them. There were three elevators, Chaff called one of them and they waited for it in silence, occasionally moving out of the way of a hurrying lawyer or some pissed off assistant. When Chaff visited Haymitch the day before, he looked really smug and Haymitch didn't like it. It took him some while to let Chaff convince him to come along. Generally, convincing Haymitch to leave the house was craft. There have been times when Chaff grew seriously worried.
"Have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?" he brought up one day.
"What the hell should I be seeing a therapist for?" grunted Haymitch in response.
"Well, you know…"
Of course Haymitch knew what Chaff was refering to. His drinking, his moods, his nightmares… sometime, a few years ago, Chaff decided that Haymitch was depressed. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, in every case, his lifestyle was alarming at best and slowly but surely deadly at worst.
"You have trouble sleeping, you almost don't eat, basically don't go out, your house is a mess, you drink like a fish-"
"I'm fine," Haymitch cut him off, and that's how their first conversation on this topic ended, just like every single one after that. Chaff insisted that Haymitch just didn't want to accept that he wasn't fine. The truth was, Haymitch knew it very well, he just didn't feel like doing anything about it. After all, a life in solitude was maybe unimaginable for someone as social and cheerful as Chaff, but Haymitch, who had always been more of a melancholic and the reasonable one, was glad everyone would finally leave him alone. For people in Seam, his hometown in Richmond suburbs, he was still the same. He considered moving back there, but his house in one of the newer neighbourhoods provided him enough of a safe place with its quiet and emptiness, another thing Chaff thought wasn't helping things.
"Get a dog," he suggested.
Eventually, these suggestions stopped all together. It's been some time since the two saw each other, because Chaff still lived in Little Rock and still worked from time to time, mostly smaller roles - he eventually became more interested in production. Except for sending his best friend to a therapist, he also kept offering him jobs, but that had eventually stopped as well. But Chaff still wasn't giving up on Haymitch, not in the slightest. He kept looking out for him, even when it wasn't appreciated. And, actually, when he stopped by yesterday, Haymitch was kind of glad. Chaff's plans on taking a trip to New York didn't amaze him, but even he had to admit that just maybe he'd been sitting in his dark kitchen with a book and a bottle for too long.
Chaff watched him curiously as the elevator hurried to the eleventh floor. "Have you drank today?"
"No," Haymitch frowned. "But I'd get some, if you don't mind."
"Actually, I do mind," his friend replied and walked out of the elevator. They found themselves in a long hallway collaged by glass doors leading to different offices and meeting rooms. Haymitch followed Chaff's lead, and it felt like minutes instead of just mere seconds before they stopped in front of a door with closed sunblinds from inside and the little shiny slab with the name Plutarch Heavensbee proudly engraved in it in a golden cursiva.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Chaff sighed, slowly raising his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I know, I know, sorry. But he asked me to bring you along."
Haymitch shook his head, turning to leave. It took a lot in him to manage it without saying something he'd regret saying later. "Thanks, I'll pass."
"Mitch-"
"Haymitch! Chaff!"
Haymitch turned back and the door flew open and Plutarch's tall, chunky figure appeared in the frame, a cup of coffee in one hand. His old friend looked still the same; the last time he saw him was almost three years ago, when he paid him a quick visit at his house when he was in Virginia for bussiness matters. His round face was lit up with a warm smile, his hearty eyes were flitting between the two men. "You came!" he disclaimed contentedly.
"Plutarch." Chaff shook Plutarch's hand quickly, a smile creeping on his lips. "Good to see you again."
"It's good to see you, both of you!" Plutarch stepped back into his office to give them room to walk in. "I was worried you wouldn't make it- come in, make yourself at home!"
Chaff stopped in the doorframe, looking over his shoulder. Haymitch still stood in the hallway uncertainly, torn between staying and leaving. He was definitely going to have a talk with Chaff later. But Plutarch's eyes were on him, and as pissed off as he was, he did still hold some respect for Plutarch. For the old times.
"You look like you saw a ghost, Haymitch," trilled Plutarch cheerfully, waving at him in an inviting gesture.
Finally, Chaff decided for him. He grabbed Haymitch's upper arm and didn't give him much choice before entering Plutarch's office and shutting the door behind them. The office wasn't too big, but it was quite airy and modern, dominated by wide windows that let perhaps too much daylight in, and a huge mahogany desk in the centre with two comfortably looking armchairs in front of it. Haymitch dared to look at the walls only briefly. There were various scraps from newspapers, pictures of Plutarch with many famous people, photos from award shows, from sets, from interviews, and then there was, of course, the show-case. The Academy Award was standing there proudly, staring at Haymitch mockingly and he winced, rather choosing to look out of the window, glancing over Manhattan.
Plutarch gestured towards the chairs. "Sit down, I'll get you coffee, or tea, or maybe something stronger-"
"I'll have water," said Chaff and slumped down in the comfortable leather.
"I'll have something stronger," muttered Haymitch and did as Plutarch requested.
When Plutarch disappeared in the small attached kitchen, Chaff let out a heavy breath. "Look, Mitch, I'm really sorry, but if I told you where we were going, you wouldn't have come."
"Damn right I wouldn't have come," Haymitch growled, stabbing Chaff with his eyes. "You're working on something together?"
"Kinda."
"Chaff-"
"So a glass water and a whiskey with soda," declared Plutarch as he returned, handing them their drinks and sat behind his desk, still smiling excitedly. "I can't believe we're finally here. Like the old times, don't you think?"
Chaff laughed wholeheartedly. That was what Haymitch somewhat adored about his best friend; how open and easygoing he could be, without being annoying like Plutarch or forced like himself.
"Things have changed, though," the oldest man continued. "Haymitch, I haven't heard of you in ages. What have you been up to?"
"Same old." Haymitch shrugged, emptying the glass in one gulp. The poke in his ribs by Chaff's elbow didn't go unnoticed, but he decided he was better off pretending it did. "Whatever is the reason I'm here, the answer is a no, Plutarch. I thought I've made that clear years ago."
Plutarch sighed, but the smile didn't leave him. "Direct as always, I see. Look, Haymitch, I originally only wanted to meet up with Chaff. I didn't-" he hesitated, "I knew that you weren't interested. But this is emergency."
The urgent desire to reply with sarcastic snarks held onto Haymitch tightly. "What kind of emergency could it possibly be for you to come to me for help?"
His face darkened. "Have you heard about the scandal regarding CAPITOL?"
"Yeah," Haymitch snorted. "Who hasn't? That old asshole got what he deserved and that's all the closure I need."
Plutarch scowled. "That is one way to put it."
"That's the way I put it." Haymitch got up slowly, putting the fake politeness in his anger-soaked voice. "I'm out of here. Chaff, if you need me, I'm on a plane back to Richmond."
As he tried to slip past Chaff, he grabbed his arm, effectively stopping him.
"I swear to God, Chaff-"
"Just… listen. You never listen." He narrowed his big dark eyes at Haymitch, tugging at the sleeve of the shirt that once upon a time probably had a nice deep shade of blue. "Maybe you should at least give this a shot."
"I'm not going to give this a shot. I'm done with this. How many times do I have to fucking tell you that?"
Plutarch's pale blue eyes caught Haymitch's gaze, and if he didn't know better, he'd think Plutarch felt guilty. He tapped at the wooden desk lightly with his short fingers, furrowing his brows almost pleadingly. "Haymitch… you may think that it's unfair of me, and it probably is. But I really need your help. Sit down, please. Things are not good."
"Always melodramatic." Haymitch wrenched his arm out of Chaff's fingers. "What's the deal, Plutarch? Just spill it out. You need help. With what? You ran out of staff or what?"
The answer was a hesitant nod. "Yes. Acutally, yes."
His eyebrows shot up. "Do tell."
Plutarch apparently decided there was no point in stretching it out anymore and so there was nothing upbeat about his words when spoke. "Seneca Crane is dead. He hung himself a week ago. He was the lead in my new movie."
"I'm sorry," Haymitch uttered and shuffled his feet, still not decided whether to sit down or to slowly head for the door. He hated the way the small spark of curiosity stopped his legs from carrying him as far away from this whole mess as possible.
"Yes, it was very sad." Plutarch looked out of the window melancholically. "He had a funeral two days ago. We're all mourning, but as… morbid as it seems, I have to get to work. I need his replacement. In a matter of days, basically. That's why I called Chaff. He co-products the movie and I asked him if he knows about someone who could take the part. The studio started auditions again, but it's unlikely that anyone would just drop everything all of a sudden, grab a screenplay and move to Italy for three months."
Haymitch caught Chaff's steady gaze. "Why me?"
"Because I've got two weeks." Plutarch sighed heavily and started massaging his forehead as if he had a severe headache. He seemed spent. Haymitch wasn't really buying his little performance, but if what he was saying was true, then he actually could feel bad for Plutarch. It was fucked up. "I've got two weeks to find a lead for the movie, or the studio cancels it. I've got everything settled. The people are ready, everything is already paid. It's not easy. We could move the shooting, of course, but Coin doesn't want to wait anymore. We've already moved it once, before we got the lead actress. It took us a long time to find two people with the right chemistry, you know? I don't want to cast just anyone, but if I ever want it to happen at all… well, I don't have much choice, do I?"
The room became silent. Haymitch stubbornly studied the collection of golden brooches on the wall behind the desk and processed the information. So Plutarch Heavensbee was making a movie that Chaff produced and which's lead killed himself just a few days ago, and his body wasn't even cold yet and Plutarch was already looking for a replacement. He couldn't say he was surprised, really. It was all about the business with Plutarch Heavensbee.
"Look," he spoke slowly, "I'm sorry about this. It's a fucked up situation. But I can't help you. I don't act anymore, and I definitely can't drop everything, grab a screenplay and move to Italy for three months."
"Yes, you can," Chaff mingled in. "You can. You don't act anymore, Mitch, and it's not as though you've got hands full. I think you could use a distraction."
"Here we are again," Haymitch growled. "Will you ever just stop trying to make me do shit I don't wanna do, just because it's for my own good?"
"Probably no," the other man retorted, "because you're my best friend and you're fucked up. And somebody who you happen to owe a favor to also happens to need your help."
The two stared at each other as the tension built and Plutarch cleared his throat to prevent any further argument. "Of course, I can't make you do anything, Haymitch. But we're short of time and you could be… well, nothing is sure now, and the auditions may bring some fruit, but it's highly unlikely and right now, you're my only hope."
Haymitch looked out of the window again, mostly because he really didn't want to look into either man's eyes. "Who's that Coin you were talking about?"
"Alma Coin. PANEM, her company, sponsors and produces the movie. She's… well, you've probably met warmer people, but she's good at what she's doing. She knows how it works."
"Yeah, me too." Haymitch snorted bitterly, finally looking back at Plutarch. The aniticipation in his old friend's eyes was making him feel pressed and uneasy. "Sorry, Plutarch. I can't help you."
He turned slowly, heading for the door. He heard Chaff's annoyed sigh and the rustling of clothes as he got up to follow him out of the door. It was Plutarch's voice, calm but raspy, that stopped him in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder to see Plutarch has already stood up, too. "Can you promise me you'll at least think about it?"
"I can't promise you anything," he replied simply and left the office without uttering another word with Chaff at his heels.
Once they were in a good distance from the door, Haymitch nearly punched the elevator button, feeling like Chaff's glare could burn him to the ashes.
"What the fuck was that, Chaff?"
"What the fuck was that, Haymitch?" Chaff shook his head at him. "Look, I get it, it's all too much at once, it's out of the blue, and I get that it wasn't in your short-term plans-"
"It wasn't in any plans," Haymitch interrupted him, pissed off. "This was the worst fucking idea ever."
Chaff sighed heavily. "He needs help, you can give him that. You owe him that."
"I don't owe anyone anything," Haymitch growled slowly. "The less him or anyone else from this bullshit fair. I didn't spend almost twelve fucking years leaving it all behind just for somebody to drag me back into this crap and rub the past in my face."
"Nobody's rubbing the past in your face, Haymitch," his friend tried to placate him, though he was obviously running out of patience, too. "I'm just saying it how it is. Just look at it from our point of view. He was right, where do you want to find an actor who can just board a plane and leave for quarter a year?"
"I don't know, Chaff, but the key word here is actor. I'm not that anymore." The elevator finally arrived and when the door opened, Haymitch walked in quickly and scowled at Chaff. "Go back and tell him all my apologies, I'm leaving now."
Chaff sighed again and ran his right palm over his face. He looked exhausted but Haymitch felt no grief for him. He was too mad for that. "At least think about it."
He didn't answer and they just glared at each other until the elevator door slowly closed.
iii.
NOW
She told herself she wouldn't care.
She told herself she wouldn't beg.
She told herself she wouldn't reach.
And she didn't beg and she didn't reach, but that didn't mean she didn't care.
They haven't talked in… she wasn't sure. It was over six months since they saw each other. The call in November sealed the deal and she hasn't heard from him since. Her pride was stopping her from bombing him with attempts at contacting him, but she felt stuck. She kept asking people about him. She tried to be unobtrusive about it, she masked it as mere politeness, but she wasn't fooling anyone. Not even herself, and that was news, because above anything else, Effie Trinket was great at fooling herself. It was kind of her thing.
But nobody knew how he was anyway. He didn't talk to anyone. The only person who knew something was Chaff and he didn't tell her anything. He was just trying to keep peace, and she knew that he didn't hold any grudges against her, he was Haymitch's friend in the first place, after all. She was just glad to know that Haymitch had someone who wouldn't allow him to let himself completely go.
Portia's long nails dug into her shoulder as she squeezed it lightly. "Effie?"
She smiled brigthly and her eyes darted to the clock on the wall. "Is the limousine here already?"
"In two minutes." Her friend watched her cautiously. "Effie, is everything okay?"
"Of course it is, dear." Effie got up. She met her own eyes in her dressing table's big lit up mirror. To her relief, she looked good. At least, not as bad as she was worried she would. She hadn't slept much and barely ate in the last few days, she was tired, but overall, she looked good. Portia did an amazing job as always. A sad smile stretched her red-painted lips. Too bad she had no one to impress there. "The make-up is beautiful, Portia. Thank you."
"You're welcome." Portia cleared her throat softly. "I'll wait in the lobby, okay?"
"Okay."
The second the door fell closed behind her, the clicking sound of her heels echoing through the Four Seasons' hallway, she finally breathed free.
She checked her phone - it was her new obsession, a habit she had developed lately. She turned off her notifications, so when she took a look, there were tons of unread emails, many texts from seemingly everyone she didn't want to talk to - her mother, her publicist, Plutarch, Coin, press… Peeta's name was standing out like a lone star in a moonless night and her heart skipped a beat, then another one, and the tiny flame of hope rose in her chest, but then her shaking fingers opened the message.
Just what exactly was she thinking?
You fool, she scolded herself, you foolish, foolish woman.
What did Snow tell her fifteen years ago?
A little hope is effective. A lot of hope is dangerous. A spark is fine, as long as it's contained.
And Effie Trinket was good at fooling herself. She was good at many things.
But God, she was no good at containing that spark.
Hi there! So, thank you for reading the first chapter of this new story I recently came up with and that I'm actually rather excited and also kinda nervous about. It started as a one-shot, but it eventually developed into a more complex plot. You'll see a bit more of Katniss and Peeta here, to make up for Till Death Do Us Part where they're mostly going to be just supporting characters. Also, there are two timelines, NOW and THEN, with absolute majority of the story taking place in the past, and we'll go back to the present in the very ending. I hope you enjoyed it, and I wish you all a beautiful day. x
