A/N: So, I really didn't want to have two fics running at once, but I just have to! I fell in love with Hayffie after watching Mockingjay Pt. 1—yes, I'm late, but at least I'm on the ride—and this idea came to mind! It's not necessarily a role reversal, but it is AU. That said, it's still set in Panem, with the Games and Katniss and Peeta and all of that goodness! You can check out what I have in store for this story and/or graphics and such on tumblr at 'ianlevitt'.
For this tale, Haymitch is about 23, and Effie is 21. He's a 'Capitol Boy' and she's a 'District Girl' and...you see where this is going. I recently watched "White Men Can't Jump" starring Woody Harrelson, and I think that's what Haymitch looks like in this story, for those of you who can't picture a younger Mr. Abernathy XD
Without further ado, the prologue~
Embarrassment.
That should've been his son's name.
Not Embarrassment Jr., or Embarrassment Abernathy—simply mononymous. Because that is precisely what Mr. Abernathy felt whenever he took his son out in public, and, on several occasions, his son had responded to the name better than he did his government name.
Evidently, this behavior could only be attributed to the fact that Haymitch Abernathy took everything as a joke, whether he was drunk or not, and he was the former much too often for his father's liking. Aaron Abernathy had worked his way up the social ladder in the Capitol all his life just to score the position of Head Gamemaker; he hadn't counted on his son threatening to screw it all up at first glance.
Aaron had made the mistake of pressuring his son into attending a celebratory party, two months prior to the next Games. Haymitch didn't particularly enjoy festivities that weren't related to sports, especially when he was forced into showing up at venues. The last thing Aaron needed was to have Haymitch stumble into the party, tipsy with the intention of becoming all the way drunk; alas, Aaron's actions warranted no better.
If only he'd washed his hands of Embarrassment when he'd had the chance. The child was meant to grow out of it. The tantrums at five years old turned into the experimentation with dangerous substances as a teenager, which evolved into the loose, drunken fool that had earned the reputation of the Capitol's Finest Idiot in the modern day.
Aaron excused himself from his conversation with his colleagues when he spotted Haymitch off in a corner, chatting up a pair of Avoxes. The older Abernathy neared his son with his signature smile, adjusting his cuff links and shooting pleasant glances at people who passed by and wished him good luck on his first Games. As he halted a couple of feet away from Haymitch, Aaron overheard his son's conversation with the two undeserving young men.
"I wish we were all Avoxes." Haymitch paused, holding up a finger on his free hand as if he was about to puke. He belched instead, and he beat on his chest with his fist for a moment or two afterwards. Haymitch couldn't have noticed his father's presence, and, should he have, he paid him no mind, anyhow. In lieu, the 20-something regained his grip on the glass that was threatening to slide away and crash to the ground. He held it out to the Avox closest to him, and, wordlessly, the other man filled the glass halfway. Haymitch paid no mind to that, either, as he continued. "'Cause you don't have to talk and everything, but you can still play ball and drink." Perhaps for the purpose of emphasizing his point, he took that opportunity to throw back his fresh shot and request another. Haymitch met the Avox's irate gaze, nodding to the glass. "Want some?"
Having had enough, Aaron balled up his fists and opened his mouth to speak. As if on cue, another's hand latched onto his shoulder and averted his attention, causing the words to die from his lips. "President Snow." And just like that, Aaron's eyes were no longer kneaded, and his faux beam had returned.
"Mr. Abernathy." The president paid him back in kind with a grin of his own. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
Instinctively, Aaron looked back to where Haymitch had been, only to find that several people had joined his son and that it'd be inappropriate to both interrupt Haymitch's conversation and to deny President Snow's request.
"Of course, sir."
The elder man whisked Aaron off to the punch bowl, where they both greeted a few of their colleagues before President Snow addressed the topic on his mind. "Your son, Mr. Abernathy—Haymitch, is it?"
Anxiously, Aaron stared ahead, refusing to make eye contact with the other man. His soulless stare instead bore into the corner where Haymitch was. If this kid ruins this for me, I swear. "Yes, President Snow."
"He's not necessarily normal, now is he?" The president said this with a forced chuckle, and it stung Aaron in the worst of ways. It felt like not only an assault on his parenting but on him as a person. What if Haymitch's behavior somehow proved to Snow that Mr. Abernathy wasn't capable of performing well at his job? Briskly, Aaron shook his head, and President Snow went on. "That's not always a bad thing. Abnormality, that is. I believe that, when fostered in the right respect, he can be his own individual while maintaining his status as a Capitol representative. Don't you think?"
Hesitantly, Aaron nodded, his breath hitching in his throat.
"Good. I'll get right to it, then. Seneca Crane is missing."
Aaron arched his dark brows, recalling the last time he'd spoken to Crane, a few months prior. Crane had congratulated the man on his new assignment, and they'd exchanged a few words. Mr. Abernathy had an uncanny moment of sympathy, but it was fleeting. He asked no further questions on the matter. Disappearances, death—if he lost his wits at the mention of every one, he wouldn't be a very good Gamemaker.
President Snow set down his glass and clasped his hands before him. "I was surprised myself, Mr. Abernathy. As you know, he was District 12's escort for four wonderful years." Yes, and in the fourth year, Mr. Abernathy remembered, Crane had made the foolish mistake of crying when his estranged nephew was reaped, and he'd read his name from the card in a quivering voice. After Crane's nephew was brutally murdered on day 2 of the games, Crane refused to participate in an interview with Caesar Flickerman until the Games were over. On the fateful day when he'd agreed to sit down with Caesar, he'd burst into tears, and no one had seen him nor asked for him since. Aaron wasn't sure if the president believed him to be a blubbering fool, or if the other simply utilized the word 'missing' as a code word. "Now, I'm afraid, we're trying our best to get ahold of him—." All right, so Snow honestly did think his Head Gamemaker was as much of an idiot as his son. "But we need a replacement for the next Games, just in case. I'm formally offering the position to your son, should you oblige. I find that it may boost his nationalism."
Mr. Abernathy sipped quietly on his punch, looking everywhere except for at the president.
58th Hunger Games
The little blonde-haired boy sat crisscrossed in front of the screen in the living room. His father was busy paying attention to his files, but he glanced up whenever a cannon went off. In lieu, his son's gaze seldom left the screen, for he feared that he might miss something. However, Haymitch didn't watch the Games with enjoyment or excitement or anything of the like. There was pure, unadulterated bewilderment in his eyes.
Once Haymitch had fallen asleep on the sofa, Aaron assumed his normal routine of picking his son up and depositing him in his bedroom. When Haymitch was younger, putting him to bed was much easier. Now that he was so hyperactive and he slept a lot lighter, Haymitch often woke up whenever his father tried to put him to rest. Tonight was no different.
As Aaron tucked Haymitch beneath the sheets, Haymitch studied him as if he were looking for something to say. Taking note, Aaron sat languidly on the edge of his son's bed. "What is it, Mitch?"
Haymitch furrowed his brows, pursing his lips. "Why do they let kids hurt each other, Papa?"
Aaron sighed, shaking his head. He ran his calloused fingers through Haymitch's hair. "You've learned about the Rebellion, son. I don't understand why that question continuously comes up."
Haymitch shrugged, and he debated speaking for a moment until he simply said whatever came to mind. "I don't think it's very nice, that's all."
"Don't talk like that." Aaron was visibly less calm. His tone was stern. The man stood and headed for the door, but he glanced back and gave his son a look of contempt. "They're hurting each other because they hurt us. You fight a man when he hurts you. The rebels ruined this government once, mister. Don't you think we should retaliate?"
Afraid to disagree, Haymitch nodded numbly, shutting his eyes. They opened again when the door closed loudly behind his father, and he shot up in bed, reflecting on what he'd learned in school in comparison to the Games he saw annually.
"It's a wonderful idea, sir. I'm positive that he'll be honored." Aaron was very well aware that he was lying through his teeth. He simply hoped that the president didn't know him well enough to point it out.
President Snow smiled crookedly. "Yes, Aaron. He'll be thrilled, won't he?"
At that moment, a group of reporters came by to snap photographs of the Gamemaker and the president conversing. The former was glad for the interjection. Aaron had experienced Haymitch's wavering loyalty to the Capitol firsthand, and he was convinced that he'd require a lot of alcohol to get through the argument that would ensue when they got home.
After all, Embarrassment was never thrilled with his father, or Panem.
"Effie, open up! I've got your monthly stash of sweet cakes." Effie registered the voice of Peeta Mellark just as she was pinning her long blonde locks up. Normally, she met him at the front door; alas, today she was a couple of seconds off schedule, which would certainly not do in the future.
Why did he think it was acceptable to announce her dirty secret to the world? Everyone knew enough about her as it was.
Effie ran another hand over her head before she opened the door with a bright grin—it contrasted her dull, grey outfit perfectly. "Please, Peeta. Don't say it too loudly."
"Ah, all right. EFFIE ORDERED SWEET CA—!"
Against her better judgment, Effie narrowed her eyes. "Ssh! And give those here." She snatched the box of pastries from him and handed him his payment. The blonde calmed down quickly, and she smiled at him, her cheeks reddening from bashful embarrassment. She noted his distinct laughter. "I'm sorry, Peeta."
"No biggie, Effs." Peeta shrugged nonchalantly. Who could blame a victor for how he or she chose to deal with his or her nightmares and survivor's guilt? Other people turned to liquor, or pledged allegiance to the Capitol. Effie happened to find refuge in manners and treats. Besides, she rarely imposed herself on the townsfolk, although they wished to see their only victor more often. Effie had remained cooped up in her home—the lone house in Victors' Village—for seven years now. She had a handful of acquaintances; yet, Peeta was the only person she could honestly call her friend. Seneca Crane hadn't phoned her in months, and she assumed that he'd left her, like everyone else in her life. She wasn't looking forward to seeing him at the next Reaping. Then again, she wasn't anticipating the event itself.
"Would you like to come in?" Effie's offer was one of those that people weren't meant to accept; she only did it for the sake of politeness. Peeta had known her long enough to determine when Effie genuinely desired company.
"No, thanks. See you around." With a slight wave, he spun on his heel and retreated the way he'd come, the strings of his apron trailing behind him.
Effie locked herself back up, and she removed the light touches of makeup that she'd applied to meet Peeta. She released her hair from its prison, allowing it to cascade across her shoulders, and she curled up in front of the coffee table, forgetting everything temporarily with bits of sweet cake in her cheeks.
