A/N: Just a quick little Hayffie fic I dreamed up in class today. It's unbeta'd, and I typed it up at lightning speed, so apologies for any mistakes. I was thinking about continuing this, so let me know if anyone wants to see a second part!
Disclaimer: Do you really think I'd be writing fanfiction if I owned The Hunger Games? Actually, I probably would...But unfortunately, I don't own anything but my own ideas.
It happened the same way every year. Their tributes never made it past the first day. Every year, Effie would watch them collapse to the ground, drenched in their own blood. She would excuse herself from the living area of the penthouse, wander down the hall, and she would always end up in the same place.
The first year, Haymitch had watched her as she slipped from the room, the thought of following her never even entering his mind. She was one of them, just another snooty Capitol bitch. It was by chance that he had stumbled upon her, hours later, on his way to bed. She was curled up in a chair on the balcony, sound asleep, with a half empty bottle of whisky still clutched tight in her hand. Even from his spot in the doorway, and despite the fact that he was well shrouded in his own drunken haze, he could see that she had been crying. Tear tracks stained her face, her makeup had run, creating even more of a clown-like effect than normal. Why had she been crying? She was Capitol, from head to toe. She couldn't possibly care about these children.
And yet, Haymitch couldn't stop himself from slipping back into the living area and retrieving a blanket. Covering her small form with the blanket, he noticed for the first time just how young she looked. Her wig had long since been tossed to the side, along with her ridiculously high shoes. Curled up like this, she looked more natural than Haymitch had ever seen her. She couldn't have been more than twenty. He retreated to his room, visions of a crying Effie flitting through his dreams throughout the night. The next morning, they both awoke with hangovers, and Effie with one hell of a stiff neck. Neither of them mentioned that night, but she had guessed, by the way that the hatred in his eyes was slightly dimmer, that the blanket she woke up wrapped in had been his doing.
The second year, he followed her when she fled the room. They sat together on the balcony in silence, each trying to drink away their own set of memories, until the night turned to early morning. Every so often Effie would whimper, tears trailing down her face, and eventually Haymitch reached for her, awkwardly patting her shoulder until the tears subsided. It was such a simple action, but it was everything to her.
When they awoke the next morning, they were wrapped up together on a single chair. Neither knew how they had ended up that way, and they never dared bring it up again, but something had changed. They began to gravitate toward each other, find each other instantly in every room they were in. Sure, everyone assumed they hated each other. They still traded insults back and forth in a way that no one else could, but the words lacked the venom they used to hold.
The third year, they slept together. It had never been part of the plan, and if it was something they talked about (which they never did), they would probably argue over who instigated it, but suddenly, she was sitting on the ledge with her legs wrapped around his waist, kissing him as though her life depended on it. And perhaps it did. Eventually, they ended up in her bed, bottle of whisky laying forgotten on the balcony. For the first time in years, they both slept soundly that night.
It became a pattern, a sort of twisted tradition. They would watch their tributes slaughtered within the first hours of the games. Watch the children they had grown to care for, no matter how hard they tried to pretend otherwise, as the light left their eyes and the cannon sounded. They would excuse themselves to the balcony, they would drink. Sometimes Effie would cry. At some point in the night, they always ended up tumbling into bed together, clinging to one another, hoping to block out the pain, if only for a few hours. They would remain in each other's arms until the sun came up, until a new day began. It was familiar, a comforting routine. Neither of them was willing to admit that it was anything more than that. And if they both whispered declarations of love when they thought the other had fallen asleep, well...they never mentioned it in the light of day.
I may go back and rework this if I decide to continue it. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Reviews make my day!