A/N: Honestly I didn't think I'd be updating so soon. It took me over a week to write Haymitch's part, but I was so invested in Effie's that it took me, like, six or seven hours at the most? I just really wanted to finish it, and I ended up really liking it. Not gonna lie, though-it was hard writing her part. I started off having a rough idea of how I wanted her to be-drunk and alone, writing her letter to Haymitch in a similar fashion as he had-but then I remembered she'd be taken prisoner during Catching Fire, so I had to scrape my near-finished one-shot ): But, I must say, this one turned out much better than the other one would have.
Anyways, without further ado, enjoy Effie's half to this two-shot.
Disclaimer: I still don't own these characters from the Hunger Games, or anything involved in it (sadly ): ). It's all owned by Suzanne Collins.
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A tremble tore through her body as she broke out into another bout of coughs; she just barely managed to catch her breath as the fit ended. Turning her back to the metal door and the armed guard, Effie brought her knees to her chest, hugging them. It had been days—possibly even weeks; time was too loose of a concept around here—since she'd been anywhere but in this cell. Her body physically ached from lack of sleep and food, and it was becoming clear that she was getting sick. Still, her sore and battered figure didn't compare to the dull and consistent pain that throbbed in her shattered heart.
Glancing back, the former escort watched carefully as her guard glanced down at his wrist. After a second, he pressed a button on the side of his helmet and murmured a few incoherent, muffled words before straightening up and turning. He didn't so much as glance in her direction as he marched down the hall and out of view. Waiting for a heartbeat, Effie carefully uncurled her stiff limbs, unsteadily getting to her feet and letting out a small breath. Checking to make sure no more guards were coming—which they weren't because she was hardly a violent criminal that needed constant watching—she kneeled down in front of her bed and pulled out a few loose sheets of paper and a pencil. Any sort of writing materials were hard to come by in the Capitol's prison, but she had a few people in here who were willing to help her, for which she was grateful.
Settling down onto the cold, white concrete floor, Effie pressed her back firmly against her stainless steel bed, leaning against it. She spent a moment making a neat pile with the papers before she hunched over, gripping the pencil tightly in her hand, and began to write.
'My dearest Haymitch,
I hope you're okay and you're safe. I know it was you who broke the arena—I honestly have no idea how you managed to do so, but I have no doubt it was you. Whether you made it out alive and okay, though… well, I just don't know. I pray you got them both out and you got far, far away from this place. It's not the same anymore, Haymitch; chaos broke out the moment the Games went dark. Panem isn't a place of beauty anymore; it's just a place of wars and deaths and pain and suffering. God, Haymitch, there's too much suffering; I'm not even talking about the Districts and Capitol anymore—there's too much suffering going on inside of me. I'm trapped inside a cell, and I know I'm never going to leave it—I'm dying and I know it, and I don't even care anymore. All I care about is you, and all I can think about is you. Your face paints the inside of my eyelids each time I blink, and fills my mind and dreams each day. Your voice is the only thing keeping me sane right now, whispering to me softly. I've gone crazy, Haymitch, and I'm scared, and I need you. But you're not here and it's all my fault.
I was going to come with you, you know. After you asked me to help you the night before the Games started, and you stormed off after I said no; I spent a long while thinking about it. I knew what you thought, that I was choosing the Capitol over you, even after all they'd done. And I guess you were right, Mitch, because I did choose them, just not because I loved them more. Tell me, Haymitch, did you ever think about what would have happened had I helped? Because I did constantly; it was all I could think about, day and night. I really did love those kids, and when they were forced back into the Games I wanted to scream. They were the first ones to stay alive; they were in love and deserved to live out the rest of their lives together, not to be thrown back into an arena to possibly lose each other. No, it wasn't fair, and that was one of the reasons I wanted to help—one of the things that gave me enough courage to ask you if I could help. I knew getting involved would put more risk on all of us; the Capitol watched everyone in it closely, like a hawk watching a field mouse before striking. I didn't want to get tangled into this mess because I could have been the reason it went wrong, but I just couldn't stay away. What you were doing was secretive and dangerous, and it just made me want you more; just the thought of running away with you and escaping everything made my body thrum with an urgent sense of longing. I needed to be with you, no matter how unsafe it was. You made up my mind, Mitch; honestly, I think it was made up right from the beginning, but I was just too narrow-minded to notice.
I went to find you the night before everything happened. I was so nervous—almost as nervous as I was the first day I talked to you. Do you remember that day? It was your second day at the Capitol; you'd already visited all the other Districts, and this was your last stop before you were sent back to District 12. I was terrified to talk to you—I watched you during the Games and every interview you were in after, and you just seemed so much older and more mature than I was. All I kept telling myself was that I'd just make a fool of myself and you'd think I was stupid. It took an entire day to work up enough nerve to just say hi, and of course when I did work up enough courage it was at seven in the morning. Still, you opened the door when I knocked; I knew you had been sleeping off the drinks from the night before, and I felt awful for waking you up, but once I saw you standing in the doorway, my mind was consumed with the pressing need to know you. Like, actually know you—what you liked, what you disliked; every little detail was what my brain craved. For the rest of your stay I refused to leave you alone—I wonder if that ever annoyed you? I never asked. God, I hope it didn't. Maybe that's why you dislike me so much, Haymitch; maybe all you saw when you looked at me was a pesky little sixteen-year-old who never left you alone. You probably did, which is horrible.
I'm getting off track, though, aren't I? It's just so easy to do when I talk about you. My mind wanders a thousand different directions, digging up memories and creating fantasies. Anyways, as I was saying, I planned on telling you that night. As hesitant and unwilling as I was, I was going to warn you about how risky this partnership would be—maybe that would have been a deal breaker, but I had to be honest with you. I couldn't lie to you—I loved you too much to do that. If you did agree to it, I knew you'd see me only as a beneficial acquaintance—if even that—and nothing more. It hurt to think that I would mean little to you, but it was better than nothing; at least I'd be with you, right?
I hadn't expected you to say no, though. Why did you say no, Haymitch? Had I really messed up that bad? I thought you'd still want me to at least be there—I'd have inside connections; didn't you want that? Obviously not, because I hardly managed to say that I changed my mind before you turned and stormed off, leaving me alone by the bar. I didn't know what to do, Mitch. I had it all planned out—we'd leave this place together, and maybe, just maybe, you'd develop feelings for me, too. But you turned me down, and I didn't have a plan B. So, I did what you do best, Mitch—I got drunk. I didn't mean to in the beginning; all I wanted was a few shots to calm my frazzled nerves and fluttering heart. But the more I thought about what you walking away meant, the tighter my chest became, and the harder it was not to cry. So, before I knew it, those few shots turned into five, then into ten, until I was stumbling up to my room. It worked, though—you were right about that; the alcohol really does make you forget. But you never told me it doesn't make you forget forever. A few hours later and I was curling into a ball on my bed, crying and hurting and missing you already. All I wanted was to be with you Haymitch, but you just left me here, and I didn't know what to do anymore. It's sad that that was the last time we actually saw one another in person, isn't it?
You avoided me that next day—God, Haymitch, I never meant to hurt you that badly. I tried at first to make it up to you, but after a while I couldn't do it anymore. I hope you understand that now. Your refusal to accept my help hurt me just as badly as my rejection to help in the first place probably hurt you—you thought I chose the Capitol, and I thought you chose your pride. Looks like we're great at picking the wrong sides, huh? At least yours got you out of here, though; mine just got me trapped in a jail cell, constantly thinking about you. Maybe you made the right choice after all.
I don't know what else to write about, Haymitch. The more I add, the more unwilling I am to get to the point—yes; there is a point to this letter. I just don't want to say it—God, do I ever not want to mention it. But I have to, Mitch, even though it'll tear me apart. I can't keep lying to myself—honesty's the only thing they can't take from me; I can choose whether I want to be honest or whether I want to lie. They don't have a say in it, and neither do you, Haymitch. You've had a lot of power over me lately—over my mind, over my heart… Hell, you'll probably still influence me even after this has been sent—I hope this gets to you. I have no idea where you are, but someone in here says they do; they offered to give you this letter, but maybe they'll just give it to Snow. Not that it would be useful in the slightest, because by now he already knows everything that's happened. Either way, I'm willing to risk it.
I love you, Haymitch. I've loved you since that day I marched over to your room just to say hi at seven in the morning, and you answered the door despite your hangover. I love everything about you—from your rugged and unkempt appearance to your closed off personality and mysterious and broken past. Everything that makes you who you are, I adore. But I can't keep living like this, Mitch. I have to be serious with myself now.
You don't love me. You never have, and you never will—by now you've probably forgotten all about me.
I like to think that at some point we were friends—not great ones, but friends nonetheless. Maybe we were, maybe we weren't—there's no question that we're just strangers now. Two strangers with a past—that's what they call it, isn't it? That's what we are, Mitch. And though it's not what I want us to be—God, we could have been so much more; we could have lived together forever, just as in love as Katniss and Peeta—I don't regret loving what we had. I just regret holding onto it for so long.
Haymitch, what I'm trying to say is… God, it kills me to say this, Mitch. You're the one thing that's keeping me alive right now, and here I am, trying to let that go. But I have to, because you deserve to be free of me, and I need to finally let you go. I'll still be in love with you—it's too late to stop; I was head-over-heels that first night. No, I'm not saying I won't care for you anymore; what I'm trying to say is that I'm letting you go. You would have never fallen for me, would you, Haymitch? I'm just a prissy District escort with her head way up in the clouds; I loved and lived for everything you hated, and by the time I changed, it was too late.
So, Haymitch—my dear, sweet Haymitch—this is my farewell to you. I know we'll never see each other again—you're not worried about me; you're not planning ways to break me free. You're not going to be my knight in tattered clothing, storming through the rubble to save me. No, I don't want you to come save me, Mitch—I just want you to be happy. Promise me you'll be happy, alright?
I just… What I'm trying to say is I'm giving up. I'm giving up on finding a way to escape. I'm giving up on my dreams of us becoming an actual us. And most of all, I'm giving up on you, Haymitch. You're not coming to my rescue, no matter how hard I beg and pray that you will. I've accepted that, Mitch, and I swear I'm not angry at you for it. It's safer for you to stay away.
I wish something had happened between us; I wish I hadn't been so scared to tell you I loved you. Maybe it was for the better, though; if you cared, you would have wound up in here with me, and that wouldn't have made a rebellion happen. I hope you make a change, Mitch—I really, really do. I hope you're happy and okay and proud of all you've accomplished so far; I know I'm proud of you.
Goodbye, Haymitch. Stay safe. Stay alive.
Love,
Effie Trinket, former District 12 escort.'
The pencil slipped from her hands as she gazed at the letter, eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Her shoulders shook and her body shuddered, but she refused to cry.
Straightening her spine, Effie folded the pieces of paper carefully before tucking them safely under her mattress. Her legs shook as she stood up to fetch the pencil. She grabbed it swiftly and forcefully shoved it beside the note, just managing to do so before the next guard came into view. He glanced at her curiously, daring her to do something wrong, but she just stood there quietly, defiantly crossing her arms. She wasn't afraid anymore; they could do whatever they wanted to her now and it wouldn't make a difference.
She was locked in an empty cell, imprisoned by the Capitol. She was tired and sore and eventually going to die, but none of that mattered anymore. Even though it didn't seem like it, Effie was okay—even if she wasn't, she knew she'd be one day.
