So, I have job interview at ten in morning.
Instead of sleeping, I stayed up until 2am to write this.
Here's some feels for you.
Any mistakes are mine and induced by lack of sleep.
…
EFFIE
…
There was once a queen far, far back in history named Marie Antoinette. It was Effie's understanding that she did not have a very long life, but if she had lived long enough—until, say, she were in her sixties—she was certain she would look as Mother did now. A starkly white face, interrupted only by acid pink lips, eyelashes, and a mole penciled on the crest of her cheek; a towering white wig, and a dress so voluminous that should she ever have the unfortunate luck of falling into a body of water so small as puddle, she would likely drown instantly.
With their tributes now safely stowed away in one of the most secure buildings in the Capitol, Effie found a bit of time between intensive scheduling and Katniss's painful etiquette crash-courses to visit home.
It wasn't that she wanted to, however. In fact, she would rather stay in that penthouse discussing with Cinna and Portia what sorts of fabrics would be most comfortable and what colors would be most suitable for Katniss and Peeta. Effie and Katniss were both roughly the same height and build, so Cinna liked to borrow her for preliminary fittings to see how certain designs would work once on a moving body when the younger girl was busy training or strategizing with Haymitch. Portia didn't have terribly steady hands when it came to pinning straight needles into fabric, and oftentimes Effie would be pricked in the thigh or arm. Even still, she would prefer that over a visit home.
She didn't have much say in the matter, though. She could never disobey Mother. It was nice, however, to see her father. If only he hadn't gone off for a nap and left Effie and Mother alone. She understood, he was older than Mother by ten years, and older bodies had certain limits, even with the Capitol's abundance of any sort of prescription you could ever dream of needing.
"So," Mother sipped at the tea in her cup. "How are things at your…job?"
Effie noted the pause in Mother's question. "Fine, thank you," she answered curtly.
Effie personally had a glass of whatever was strongest in her parents' bar. Unfortunately, she had to settle for white wine. Maybe Haymitch would have a flask of whiskey to spare on her return. She suspected it would take a great deal of begging to get one willingly from him. She couldn't request any from the kitchen staff, in case it got back that she was asking for extra liquor to her superiors. She wasn't neglecting her job, she just couldn't handle a night of sobriety after a day with the woman who gave birth to her.
"I hear you may actually stand a chance of winning this year. 'The girl on fire' is the talk of the town."
Effie did her best to keep her expression from souring. First of all, Peeta had been "on fire," too, but the attention between tributes from the same district tended to lean toward one or the other at this point in the Games anyway. But Effie knew Mother's shorthand by now. She had heard about Effie's tributes because she hadn't actually seen. Viewing of the Games coverage may have been so socially expected that it became mandatory in the Capitol, but that didn't mean Mother had paid much attention.
Mother never paid much attention to Effie, unless she thought she was at fault. Then attention was solely upon her.
"Is she really?" Effie said lightly, her hand trembling just slightly. "I wouldn't know. I've been so busy working, I haven't had time to so much as leave the penthouse in the past three days."
"Work. Is that what you call it?"
Effie looked up from her glass. "Pardon?"
Mother's brightly colored lips quirked. The swirls of her inked on eyebrows furrowed downward quickly. Step back! Step back! Effie's mind shouted, but it was too late.
There was a sharp bite in her shoulder where Mother's china cup of hot tea shattered on impact. Effie's eyes didn't even water. Crying only made matters worse. Crying only made Mother angrier. She clenched her teeth together so tightly it seemed possible her jaw might snap.
It was nearly impossible to tell through the blinding sear of the scalding chamomile tea, but Effie believed her shoulder might be cut as well as blistering. Through her whitening vision, Effie realized this was the wrong day to wear an off-the-shoulder dress. An insane little chuckle escaped her lips when she remembered Cinna's and Portia's approval at her ensemble and Haymitch's surprise at seeing so much of her skin. Her friends understood her. Mother wouldn't approve of her friends.
"You worthless girl!" Mother shouted. Mother screamed. Mother was upset. "You had years of training in etiquette! Years of hard work and toiling over you—wasted! You could have had any man you wanted! Men have been driveling over you since you were eleven! So many marriage proposals tossed to the wayside because you had to be happy! 'Love,'" she said the word with a sickening curl of the syllable, "doesn't exist! You had to get a job, an utterly trifling little fling of yours, I assume? Just like Baxter Verge when you were sixteen."
Effie's body tensed. Getting to know Baxter Verge had been Mother's idea. Leaving the party with Baxter Verge had been Mother's idea. A maniac grin was stretching her face as Mother continued. The pain was too much. What if she died? Wouldn't that be something? She didn't want to remember Baxter, she didn't want to remember anything. Dying would be nice.
"Oh, when I found him leaving your room that night—you thought I was still at that soiree. I beat any of those silly notions of 'love' out of your head that night, and I will continue to do it! Don't think that this job of yours has earned you any independence! You need me, and always will! When this little flash of fame, at being the escort of the hour and your fluffy little campaign ads, you will come crawling back to me!" she stood from her seat. "Oh, don't you look at me like that. You know I only want what's best for you."
Effie didn't move an inch when Mother walked toward her, kissed her forehead, and situated Effie's wig. "Straighten up, dear," she smiled, "the day is yours."
Mother left the room. From a storm to a breeze. Effie always hated the weather in her parents' home. After a moment, as though waiting to see the coast was clear, the small staff that worked in the house came flocking to Effie, cleaning up her shoulder, placing ice on her aching skin, offering her something to drink as they cleaned the mess Mother left behind. Effie ignored them, her laughter dying out as pain finally, really settled in. It was all she could do pick herself up from the chair, holding the ice pack to her shoulder, dragging her feet to the familiar bedroom door.
It was dark inside. Effie could hear the soft push, sigh, push, sigh of the less-familiar oxygen machine. There was a faint slant of light from the side of the thick drapes, it fell softly over the sleeping body in the bed. Effie stood there, watching her father sleep in the quiet that always came once Mother had finished raging. The room was nearly dissected in how different the décor appeared on either side of the bed. On the left, where Mother slept, it was pristine and spotless, with a small vase of flowers and a shifting photo frame that cycled images of life that all predated Effie's existence. She tried not to read into that.
Her father's side was taken up by a respirator machine and some sort of gizmo that kept record of his heartbeat. The bedside table held rows of prescription bottles, different little pills that the doctor had assigned to keep seemingly every piece of his body working.
The machine's beeping changed before the body stirred in the bed. "Who's there…?"
Effie stepped into the room, she used the shadows to hide her new damages. "It's only me," she hated that her lips trembled when she spoke. "Don't worry. Go back to sleep."
"…Euphemia…?"
Her real name. That he seemed to question it was her gave her a pang of sadness, but she hardly ever heard it anymore, not with tenderness. Her mother used it, when she deigned to refer to her daughter directly. "Years of hard work and toiling over you—wasted!" Effie closed her eyes tightly, wanting to scream "I'm sorry that being my mother was so difficult for you!" but didn't. She never had, never would. That sentence had been sitting on a shelf in her mind for so long that she doubted it would even work if she dusted it off.
She forced a smile. That was easier than breathing to her. She only had to put on this same grin every year, for days on end. Really, the pain in her shoulder was only a fraction of how it festered inside of her on those days. Unfortunately, it was that time of year again presently, that compiled with her newest injury—not Mother's remarks, those weren't anything new—made it positively unbearable.
"Daddy," her voice broke. She buckled, her knees crashing to the floor, and cried into the blankets. So was so hurt, so tired.
His hand on hers made some of the pain go away. Daddy always knew how to make everything better. Mother only hurt. Daddy only loved.
…
"Well, this is interesting." Haymitch leaned against his doorframe, drumming his fingers against the wood. "Spotless little Miss Trinket, asking for hard liquor? My, my, my. You know, I'd be more surprised if this didn't happen every year. What's the matter, sweetheart? Does sending children off to small-scale war only just now get to you?"
There was an awful glint in his eyes. If Haymitch was combative and confrontational inebriated, he was even worse sober. Capable of more things. Mother was capable of more things when she was sober, too. Mother was always sober.
She tensed, turning her face away. She saw Haymitch shift, drawing himself back. That didn't make sense. Mother usually stood her ground when Effie flinched—but Haymitch wasn't Mother. Mother was unkind. But neither was Haymitch. Haymitch was rude and crass and belligerent…but he drew back…
"I think I have what you need," he murmured, sounding a bit distracted and thrown. Effie wondered why, but not too hard. There was still pain in her shoulder from earlier today. There were salves on her skin to help speed the healing process, but Effie disliked using heavier medications and remedies for healing. They usually involved needles, and Effie disliked them more than muggy days that frizzed her wigs. "Here. 'S not like I'm getting much use out of the stuff right now."
"I forgot," Effie took the brown, discolored bottle. It looked old. "You've been trying to keep sober for the two of them. You must really believe they have a chance."
"I don't try to 'believe' in much," he grumbled. "I'm surprised that steel-trap of yours disremembered something like that. You turned down more booze at dinner just the other night because of it."
Had she? Through the slight drowsiness coming from the salves bleeding into the cut and burn on her shoulder, she could hardly recall what she did earlier this morning. "Oh, yes," she blinked, and looked up at him with honest bewilderment. "You knew I didn't take any because I was worried about you?"
Haymitch looked away quickly, covering his mouth with his hand. She could hear him mutter something under his palm. "…was nothing…"
Effie pursed her lips, feeling a bit wobbly. But she wouldn't be satisfied until she had completely blacked out all her senses. Mother was particularly awful today, and it was all her fault.
"Well, all the same, thank you for this. I'll return the bottle in the morning."
"Same as always, little lady."
Effie almost managed a smile. For the moment, she didn't hate the little nickname. His deep voice almost reminded her of her father, how he said her real name in a deep, wary tone. She needed that right now. "Same as always."
He shut the door, and Effie somehow got into her room. Fortunately, her room wasn't far from Haymitch's. Too tired to change, she kicked off her heels, peeled off her clothes and wig, and slid into a bath that was ready so quickly it almost seemed instantaneous. An involuntary sigh escaped her mouth, but almost at once turned into a wince. The hot water hurt her shoulder. She sat up and curled forward. After taking a few moments to fuss around with the bubbles, situating and molding and reforming them, dotting her nails with the suds and even building herself a foamy beard, she realized she was only delaying the inevitable. This was how it was every year. It was tradition.
She took the bottle, and sipped. Interesting. Usually, Haymitch lent her something that burned on the way down, like whiskey. This was almost smooth in comparison. After a few more tentative sips, she realized it was sweet, too. Her senses were shot tonight, it seemed. She should have recognized the cherry wine the instant it made contact with her tongue.
Haymitch was full of surprises. She had confided in him once, in passing, not even at length, that cherry wine was a bit of a guilty favorite of hers. It wasn't something that was served often to adults in the Capitol. It was intended for the younger crowd. As a slightly weaker liquor, teens could drink it in small quantities at parties. Though, from Effie's experience, the "small quantities" were never very small at all. Cherry wine had been her first taste of alcohol, and it had lingered with her. That Haymitch had remembered that made her skin fill with heat, but she cast it aside as the warmth of the tub.
Until she recalled something else. Today just seemed a day full of reminiscing. First Baxter Verge, and now this. Cherry wine had been the first drink that she and Haymitch had ever had together. No, not together. But they had been in the same room, at the same table, only chairs away.
It was at one of the parties held for Haymitch after his victory in the second Quarter Quell. She'd overheard that it was his first taste of alcohol that night, and she pleaded with Mother for the night to be the same event for her. Mother said no. Daddy secretly ordered a bit of the wine and slid his glass over her way so she could take a sip. It was wonderful and awful all at once. She had wondered if the anguish on Haymitch's face was from the bitter acidity of the new kind of drink, too. But she knew that wasn't it. The look of anguish somehow both increased and diminished as he took drink after drink.
Now that she was older, she wondered if that had been the night that Haymitch began to wander down the path of becoming an alcoholic. It seemed wretchedly likely. Effie knew herself how welcoming the oblivion of a bender could be. As she continued drinking from the bottle, she thought about what life would be like in a continued state of drunkenness. To never really remember everything, but always haunted by what visions your drunken mind would bring up. To fumble in the darkness, when standing in reality was too much to bear. Yes, she could see the appeal in such a life with every drink she took. But that would change in the morning. It always would.
She stood from the bath. The pain her shoulder was efficiently smothered by the undeniable pull of the wine. Her giggling was back, but at least this time it wasn't in pain. Or so she thought. Really she couldn't feel much of anything, other than her gratitude toward Haymitch.
Haymitch.
She drew on a robe, wondering what that peculiar prickle was in her shoulder, but not really caring. Still wet, she stepped out into the hall. It was much cooler out here. Her whole body seemed so warm, toasty, light, weightless. Her body was humming. It felt like little warm spores of gold were spreading in her veins. Even the edges of her vision began to glitter with it. This was delight. She felt grateful that Haymitch had given her this feeling, and wanted to return the favor.
He clearly wasn't expecting to see her again when he opened the door after her continuous knocking. There were dark circles under his eyes that Effie hadn't noticed before. She seemed to notice everything about him now. How there was a slit in the neckline of his shirt, that a callous marred his thumb, leaving it chalky white, that his eyelashes weren't quite black, but a deep sort of brown. His hands were strong, sturdy, hands that could have created if he hadn't been forced to destroy all those years ago. His hair was tangled, but it looked like it would be soft if it were washed properly. His eyes, the irises, they were a deep sort of grey. They reminded Effie of clouds, or stars, or the sky on a snowy afternoon.
Huh. In his own way, when she looked at the pieces and then at the whole, Haymitch was almost beautiful.
"What are you doing?"
"I believe," Effie spoke from behind his fingers, the words barely breath, "I'm trying to kiss you."
She moved upward again, but he stopped her. "You're drunk."
"Funny how the table's turned, isn't it?" She laughed, she couldn't stop laughing. Everything was so right. "Kiss me, Haymitch…touch me. See? I'm so warm."
She took his hand and placed it on her cheek, letting the callous on his thumb touch the edge of her lips. She kissed it very softly.
He drew his hand back. He drew himself back. Again.
"Why?" Effie's vision began to tremble. "Why are you moving away?"
"You're drunk," he repeated. "You won't remember this at all in the morning. I won't bring it up. Go to bed."
Her lips trembled. "No."
"Eff—"
"No! Don't push me away!" She stepped toward him. He backed up. The process repeated until she was stamping into his room. He seemed adamant not to touch her. Her sight liquefied. "You don't want me? Don't you like me? Don't you?"
"Eff—are you crying?"
"Damn you, Haymitch!" She screamed, throwing pillows at him. "Damn you! Don't walk away! Don't move away from me! Stop moving! STOP IT! Don't leave me!"
Suddenly, all power in her legs seemed to vanish. She was on the floor instantly. Her shoulder hurt so much. Her head hurt so much. Her chest hurt so much. Didn't anyone want her near? Not Mother. Daddy couldn't have her too near, he was too ill. Haymitch wasn't like Mother. He was kinder. He was gentler. So why wouldn't he let her at least kiss him?
She was vaguely aware that she was being carried away. She couldn't do anything to stop whoever it was. She leaned into the warm body, wrapping her arms around their neck, suddenly very cold, as if all heat was draining into her injury. Tears wouldn't stop leaking from her eyes. Her body was shaking. When she was placed gently into bed, whoever had been carrying her took extra measures to tuck her in. She felt warm, safe, secure. She hadn't be handled like a child in so many years, she'd forgotten what being cared for tenderly could feel like.
Whoever had carried her, tucked her in, brushed her hair—short and an awful, ugly mousy color—off of her forehead. Before their hand drew away, she could feel just the slightest rough patch of skin on their thumb. Haymitch.
Effie burrowed into her blankets and prayed that morning would never come.
…
TBC
