Prompt: so many things become beautiful when you really look
Just a tiny, (teeny tiny!) one-shot of Haymitch/Effie.
In those moments of pure silence, she looks at him. Straggly hair, scruffy beard, and though he must've gone through a full body polish after becoming a Victor, she feels like she can see his scars anyway.
His face is expressive of his time in the arena, though she's only ever heard him speak of it on the rare occasion when he's had enough to drink to think her worthy of his confessional.
He's not in shape, and he slouches, and though she's never looked at the old footage herself, her fellow escorts used to gush to her over how attractive he was, a young tribute in the arena. She's always been tempted to watch, but it doesn't feel fair, somehow.
She'll never know who he was before being thrust into the title of Victor, and despite everything she considers wrong with him (manners, appearance, alcoholic tendencies), she doesn't want to.
He's the only person she knows who can be scrubbed clean and still look like he's been through a war. His eyes look at her like they can cut through glass, the rest of his body and demeanor, a weapon and shield.
There's nothing in him that makes her think of the word handsome, and yet when she closes her eyes next to him at night, all she can see is his beauty.