The heavy thud of the reinforced glass against the unfinished wood of the bar was enough to make the small pink-haired woman sitting nearby jump slightly and glare in the direction of the source. He was a surly man, his eyes reflected the dull gray of a cool ember, though they seemed distantly alive under the overheard flickering fluorescent lights. They were meant to mimic flame to create a more rural atmosphere; in reality all they did was put up a shoddy facade to mask the watery beer and easily-amused population of the Capitol. The screens poised above the displays of liquor had been showing tired footage of the Training Days whenever things in the arena got slow. It was nearly four in the morning and most of the activity had been put on hold as the Tributes tried to rest through the nightmares that would plague them for the rest of their lives, however short that may be.
"Gimme another." Haymitch said and tapped the empty glass against the bar. He barely looked up, but could hear that tired reel of footage playing over and over. It was of the District 12 Reaping, it was of him tripping and falling off the stage. It was carefully edited, of course, to make him look like a clumsy idiot. Did anyone even know what he was saying at the time? Did anyone notice that he was in some small way calling out the Capitol for their abuse? No. All they saw was the fall and the strategically edited laugh track on top of that. No one took him seriously, they all treated him like the washed-up drunk that he was.
The bartender picked up the glass and shook the obnoxiously purple colored hair from his line of sight, "I'm uh, I'm cutting you off, Mr. Abernathy. You look like you can barely stand up." The false confidence in his voice sparked the ghost of a grin on Haymitch's mouth. "You're cutting me off? But don't you know who I am?" He pulled the hunting knife from its sheath at his side and tapped it purposefully against the bar. A finely manicured hand was upon his forearm in an instant and he narrowed his eyes as Effie glared at him.
Rather than scold him she nodded toward the bartender who then hesitantly pushed another drink toward Haymitch. He didn't look up, he didn't want to feel like he owed her anything. He would never owe her a goddamn thing, not in this lifetime. The drink was cold and strong, just how he liked it. He could feel his spirits lift a little as the liquid ignited a new lick of flame deep in his chest. "You know I don't approve of that behavior." She tapped her polished fingernails against the bar to illustrate her point. Haymitch shook his head and then nodded toward the television.
"I've got a reputation to uphold, don't I? I'm the laughing stock of Panem, the drunken mentor of District 12." He took another deep drink from the glass and grinned.
"You don't have to be like that, you know. You could be respected." Her tone was tolerant, though the irritation was increasingly apparent in the tick that had developed in the corner of her mouth.
"Do you think I haven't tried, Eff? It's not the drinking, it's everything. Anytime I try to actually get through to the Tributes, anytime I talk to the media...they always shoot me down. There's only so much I can take." He said and drained the remainder of his glass. "So excuse me for finding a way to cope at the bottom of a bottle." His bloodshot eyes met hers for a brief moment and recognized the hint of sadness behind her heavily made-up irises. Her eyes were blue, not the gaudy surgically-enhanced blue he was used to around the Capitol, they reflected the natural blue of a clear summer sky. It was hard to ignore the outlandish decoration that surrounded them in addition to her candy-pink wig, but something about those eyes reminded him that Effie Trinket was in fact human.
She broke his eye contact and cleared her throat, rapidly blinking away whatever spontaneous emotions threatened to unhinge her neutral visage. Once composed, she hesitantly set her delicate hand upon his rough one just held it for a moment. It was a strange sign of understanding, perhaps even affection. Whatever the case, she gave his hand a squeeze as she stood up from the bar stool.
"Stay alive, Haymitch."
He raised his eyes as she walked away and watched her walk toward the front door. The rhythmic clicking of her heels against the floor melted away into the atmosphere as she disappeared through the heavy front door of the tavern. "Can't even follow my own damn advice." He mumbled and pushed the empty glass away. For once in his life, he didn't want another.