Hey people. This is a HAYFFIE fic that will span from the 62nd Hunger Games, until the end of Catching Fire. It will detail the development of the relationship between Haymitch and Effie; in much more detail than is present in the books and the movies. Anyone notice the sexual tension between them? Well, I'll get to that too. Eventually this fic shall transform into an "M". But for now let's keep it kid friendly.

Disclaimer: No, no….Suzanne Collins is no here.

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The sweat trickled down his skin, paving the way to the already drenched sheets beneath him. His head rolled feverishly, attempting to shake himself out of the boundaries of his altered state of consciousness that held him hostage. His arm twitched slightly, the visions plaguing him so vivid that he was unable to differentiate between reality and illusion. He jolted, adrenaline surging through his veins and forcing him to bolt upright. He snapped his eyes open, the darkness of his bedroom dreary compared to the vividness of his nightmare. Haymitch cast his head downwards, groaning as he comprehended the fact that he was finally awake. "Fuck." He mumbled, bringing his hand to wipe away the sweat from the back of his neck.

It must be getting closer to the Games. It always got like this as the Games approached. The carefully, mercilessly plotted annual month or so that reawakened his horrors into a stark intensity, that reopened his wounds, ripping flesh apart that left him so broken he would be rendered unable to even attempt to begin living again.

The damp sheets were cold again his skin beneath his soaked shirt, reminding him of his hells that so taunted him. Sleep would not be returning tonight. Haymitch sighed, his head resting against his knee as his body begged for rest. But his mind couldn't go through that again right now. He pulled himself out of his bed, having to hold onto the wall to ensure he wouldn't fall back. A glance toward the window conveyed him it was still dark, although he knew by the length of his slumber that it wouldn't be long before the break of morning.

Haymitch fingered the hem of his shirt nervously, before pulling it up, over his head and making his may towards the bathroom. Fumbling around for the lightswitch, he shielded his eyes from the sudden flood of light. His reflection in the mirror greeted him, and Haymitch proceeded to eye it suspiciously. In just his boxers, the majority of his body was exposed in the harsh and unflattering light. His Games scars were prominent, particularly the one that ran across his abdomen, the one that almost cost him his life. It had been twelve years since he was graced with it, but it had never really healed well. It bothered him if he slept for too long on his stomach, when his body convulsed as he brought up the contents of his stomach, or when he engaged in carnal activities that got particularly rough. His hair was badly in need of a cut, almost reaching his shoulders. But Haymitch was against anyone else touching his hair, and so he compelled himself to cut it himself on rare instances. His face still retained the presence of youth, but was marred by the lines of anxiousness and worry. He huffed slightly, his body simply a physical manifestation of the turmoil beneath. But there was nothing he could do about it.

The shower cleansed his body and soothed his manic mind, yet stung against the cuts and scars that reacted to the water's presence. The sweat was removed from his pores, and his hair received a cleaning from the water that batted unrelentingly against his scalp. He closed his eyes, his jaw set in a hardened line. The only good thing that came from this time of year was the presence of others. Despite the fact that it was not a presence he particularly enjoyed, it was better than only talking to his empty house. He emerged after a long time soaking himself in the water, clad only in a pair of boxers. He retrieved a half-empty bottle as he descended the stairs. The liquid burned against his throat, aware that this time of year called for the harder stuff.

Haymitch ambled around, glancing at a package marked with the Capitol seal that lay on the floor on the hallway. He eyed it suspiciously, his distaste at the Capitol seal taking a back seat to the curiosity. It was rare that he received news from the Capitol, and likely indicated change. He was right. The official papers served to notify him that the escort for District had been changed. The reason given was that the previous escort, Thalia Ephingstone, had retired after giving birth to a child. Haymitch smirked, unsurprised that the escort had settled down with a family. She was rather sweet-natured, understanding of Haymitch's horrors and never pretended for a moment more than necessary that the Games were a jovial affair. Haymitch respected her, and was inwardly happy for her. The following passage of the letter indicated who the new escort was. Effie Trinket: a new escort barely out of the prestigious "Games Academy" that, in Haymitch's view; was just a further extension of the tyrannical indoctrination that the government awarded Panem.

Enclosed were some general information on the new escort, including her age, which in particular caught Haymitch's attention. She was just twenty. Haymitch snickered. She was younger than him by a long shot. Eight long years to be exact. To Haymitch, she was just a child. This is going to be fun, Haymitch thought. He took another slug from his bottle, scanning through the gabble that continued on laboriously in the letter.

Morning dawned; the birds began chattering and the soft pastel lights of dawn filled the sky. Haymitch finished the Capitol garbage, and tossed it aside carelessly, returning to the bottle. He rested his head against the sofa, and allowed his eyes to close over. He wouldn't permit himself to sleep, but he could at least rest for a second. It soothed him, and he continued downing the contents of the bottle with an acquired ease that only developed from experience.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered a faint sound that resembled a knocking. His brow furrowed, and he realised he'd fallen into an uneasy slumber. But he can't have been out for long, for his hair that he had failed to dry off was still damp. Knock knock knock. It finally occurred to him that the knocking was indeed at his door, and he rose out of the sofa, trailing his bottle in his hand alongside. He snapped open the door. "What?" He greeted in annoyance, his gaze harsh throwing the visitor off-guard, as she took a tentative step back.

It was not just his demeanour that had shocked her. Her widened eyes gazed him up and down, taking in the fact that he stood there, bottle in hand, dressed in nothing but a pair of black boxers that; thank god, were fairly loose. She felt herself blush fiercely, aware of the redness that was sure to permeate through her dense layer of carefully-applied cosmetics. Haymitch glanced down; wondering if perhaps he had a wound bleeding that had struck the woman into shock. "What!" He repeated eagerly, with traces of exacerbation evident in his raised tone. Effie Trinket pulled herself out of her shocked state, and struggled to introduce herself. "I-I…" Her throat constricted, and she swallowed hurriedly as her cheeks drained of all colour. Haymitch quirked an eyebrow at her. "Mr Abernathy." She stammered finally. "Oh." He replied. "Wrong house." Relief flooded over her and she looked as though she was about to grin in faked embarrassment. Haymitch stifled a smirk. "I'm kidding."

Dazed and confused, Effie struggled to hide the mortified look plastered onto her face, and found herself unable to make a quick recovery. Haymitch revelled in her displacement, having no intention of assisting her. Think Effie, think. On impulse, she held out her hand. "I'm Effie Trinket, newly assigned escort for District Twelve." Haymitch rested his eyes on her hand, and left it in awkward limbo before she tentatively retracted it. "You're Haymitch Abernathy, sole mentor for District Twelve." Haymitch raised the bottle to his lips, and could swear that as he did anger flickered momentarily in her eyes. "So we've established." He replied. Effie recognised the sarcasm, and pursed her lips. "You're not going to invite me in?" She spluttered, much too fast to be properly articulated, but anger lacing her words. Haymitch raised his head and appeared to consider for a moment. "No." Effie's mouth formed an "O" in the horror of being refused entry. She fidgeted momentarily, but Haymitch continued to stand in the doorway.

"Well, Mr Abernathy, today marks the day of the annual reaping, and I'd appreciate if you could muster up the manners to present yourself to the Justice Building at nine o'clock sharp…today." She placed deliberate emphasis on the manners, and Haymitch suspected she had to bite back not elaborating more on his lack of manners. "What time is it now?" He replied, forcing her to break the harsh glance she had directed towards him to look at her wristwatch. "It's twenty-four minutes past eight."

Haymitch nodded slightly, but didn't respond past that, and continued to stand in the doorway. Effie's glance darted around, trying to locate a safe place to maintain her gaze as the blush returned to her cheeks at Haymitch's state. He bent slightly towards her, causing her eyes to widen. His voice was lowered considerably. "The justice building is over there." He said, indicating towards the town. Effie swallowed hard, embarrassment and anger fighting for dominance. "Oh. Yes." Her mouth was left partly ajar as she took a step back, before turning in her high heels to exit. Haymitch watched her go, a smirk tugging at his lips. He couldn't tell whether she was an improvement or a downgrade from the previous escort. He shrugged, shutting the door behind him and began to prepare for the arduous parade that was The 62nd Hunger Games.

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Well, there is the first instalment. I have lots of little scenes and ideas jotted down, so review/follow/favourite or buy me pizza should you like this story to be continued. It's as simple as that. Thank you for reading! Ship the Hayffie!