Hello-just figured I'd post my Hayffie fics here as well as on LJ and tumblr-spread our community's love, if you will :) I of course, don't own any characters mentioned in this, and this is a one-shot. Enjoy.

The world is black and white-good and evil, the sane and the twisted fucks who like to watch kids kill each other. He reasons that had he never been reaped, he'd be one of them, those who took entertainment from the games, because that's just how he's been raised-born into a world where kids fight to the death and is a yearly event in front of the television screen, how can you not?

It's something you never want to be a part of, and that distance of surviving each reaping makes it even better to watch. School friends die, but that was their lot in this life-just like his lot is to eventually work down in those tumultuous mines, just like his father before him, just like his future children would-so many men die early in those mines, you might as well make the most of it, getting to visit the Capitol and all it's luxuries.

Once he was chosen, Haymitch Abernathy's world gets a little lighter, more colourful-from the coal dusted District 12, the Capitol is like finally finding the end of the rainbow he used to be so desperate to catch the tail of. He's being sent to a death match, and he's never felt more alive.

Surviving the arena, his world turned a vivid red. Everyone looked like they were bleeding, constantly, and yet his hands, himself, were impervious to it-nothing he touched touched him back. Districts 1 through 11 were all different shades of red, everyone bleeding, dying before him, politely applauding his success.

It wasn't until he made it back home, back to District 12 when his world turned black. Being made an example of for being able to manipulate the arena and not having a direct hand in the final death brought him to a new dark world-black, white, and tinted amber.

Going back to the Capitol each year he expects the same rainbow he had experienced on his first visit, but each year he is surrounded by black and amber. Even Effie Trinket, who was merely a protégé the first time he met her, the girl in the rainbow of clothes and makeup, faded to a dull grey. (year by year she got darker)

It's after four years of traveling together (he wouldn't say he's ever really worked with Effie) when lighter hues start breaking their way into his dreams again. Ever since his Victory Tour he couldn't even find solace in sleep, constantly drowning in the black, the amber, the silence, the screams.

But something changed. He doesn't really know what, and to be honest, he drinks enough to think he'll never really find out-but it's a nice change from the literal black outs, going into this dream state of colourful hues again-this hope in sleep that leaves him restless in the morning, reaching for the bottle so he can return to the world of pinks and greens and blues again.

It's years later and he's taken up with Effie Trinket-he's not sure why, but she puts up with his drinking, and she's a great piece of ass (no acknowledgment to his feeling better with her around, of course). They're in her bedroom, and ready to go out to dinner, but Effie, in a fit of something he's never seen in her, can't figure out what dress will go best with her wig, already perched on top of her head.

He's leaning against the doorframe, long having given up rolling his eyes, just watching her hesitate over and over.

"Effie…" he growls, looking at his watch. They don't have time for this. Ever since she was reduced to five dresses and two wigs in her wardrobe (the rebellion), Effie had become unsure and hesitant, and constantly second guessing the world around her.

"Oh, Haymitch-I'm so sorry, but I-I just can't decide!"

She feels like she's on the verge of tears now, and Haymitch just standing there isn't helping her decide any faster. Ever since the dust from the rebellion had settled, Effie, no matter how hard she tried, couldn't seem to find a version of her former self to fit into this new world.

And it's just so very frightening.

Haymitch has helped, and after she came to terms with loving him, she's always known he hasn't quite returned the feelings-it hurts sometimes, but she relishes in the emotions of love and decides that as long as she can give, she doesn't need to take.

She holds up the two garments and turns to him.

"Which one do you think is better? The green," she lifts the left to her body, "or the pink?" she holds up the right to herself, tilting her head a little, hoping the colour of her wig getting closer to the dress would help show a difference, make a decision, get them out of there.

Haymitch remains silent, in thought. A beat passes. And as he continues staring at her in silence, Effie takes a look at him-his relaxed frame, his disheveled, gruff look, the colours reflected in his eyes. He really is a lovely looking man, and a surge of love flows through her body, reaching her fingertips and stopping there-it has no where to go, no one to flow into, and Effie feels electric.

Finally he looks right at her, and steps forward reaching his left hand for her right arm, her right dress, the pink-and pulls her up against him.

He recognises it now, what this is. Recognised it before he felt that surge of emotion as he touched her arm, realised it before he looked into her eyes. After years of colourful dreams and a grey Effie, he knows what this is.

"The pink. It looks good."

Her eyes sparkle, tints of blue breaking through the surface of grey.

"Me too."