(twelve)
"Do you have to be so rude all the time?"
"Do you have to be so fucking shrill? Just shut yer trap."
"Come on Haymitch, we need to leave."
"Are you thick woman? I've just told you I'm not going to this shindig. Me and this bottle are goin' to stay right here and have a little party of our own."
Effie stamped her heels impatiently and reached for the liquor. Haymitch shot her a look of pure loathing.
"Piss off."
"But the President..."
He waved his glass in her face angrily. "Bloody hell - just fuck off you stupid cow! I don't want to go. I don't give a flying shit about the dear President, he can go swivel as far as I am concerned."
"But..."
"And as for you, dear Miss Trinket, with your ugly get up with your uglier face – I don't want to go anywhere with you ever. You have as much wit as a bag of turds. You wonder why you're still alone and barren, you sad old spinster? It's because nobody can stand to be near you and your inane fake smile and your brainless chatter as you send kids off to their merry deaths."
Effie swallowed, turned away. "Oh."
Haymitch took a big swallow from his tumbler. "Yeah – and that's not all. You're getting fat. You disgust me."
She sucked in a big breath, "I am just going to go, now, then..."
He laughed her all the way out of the door, trying hard to ignore the tears in her eyes.
(What should it matter if her feelings are hurt? He doesn't want her.)
(thirteen)
Everything changes at the 74th Hunger Games.
Everything changes with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.
Flaming costumes and declarations of love has given Twelve money to play with for the first time. People want these kids to win - they want to buy into the fairytale. For once there is hope and Effie clings onto it tightly.
The escort has painted herself a more grotesque mask than usual; war paint for the masses as she navigates the sponsors. She flirts, smiles and laughs in all the right places, hugging her notebook, trying to keep herself glued together. Falling back on what she knows what she was bred for: etiquette, manners, social niceties. She is exquisite.
(What should it matter what a filthy drunk thinks of her? She doesn't want him.)
Unfortunately she does need him.
Of course Haymitch is in the bar. He stares sullenly at her when she tries to convince him to go and see some sponsors – she's done all the hard work she says, he just has to sign the papers. He's not at all impressed at her desperate corporate whore routine, laughs in her face again.
She tries a new tactic.
"Please Haymitch."
She still can't look him in the eye.
But it works.
(fourteen)
Peeta and Katniss are declared joint victors.
It is an unheard of achievement and a triumph for love. Effie is so ecstatic for them she could burst. As a child she always loved stories with happy endings.
(She ignores the emptiness in her own chest. What good would it do anyway?)
(fifteen)
Effie has mostly been keeping her distance from Haymitch, covering it with tightly packed victor schedules and brusque orders. Her gazes look right through him; it is as if he has ceased to exist to her.
He saw her in the penthouse just after Katniss and Peeta won. She had pressed herself deep into the corner of her closet, face covered by hands streaked in a rainbow of tears. He didn't want to be seen, didn't want to deal with the hypocritical bitch. He was only in search of a drink after all – so he slunk off quickly.
(He is not sure why his stomach twists so wretchedly at the sight of her sobbing – probably because he doesn't want to see her without her slap on. She is probably hideously deformed under all of it.)
He demands a dance from her at the Capitol's Victory Ball. By the sour look on her face there was nothing she would rather do less, but she couldn't refuse in front of all the sponsors without looking like a fool. He is tired of being ignored – even if it was his own fault.
She lets him lead, staring fixedly at a point over his shoulder. He is not sure why he so bothered by her disconnection.
"So... we did it."
She peeks at him through scarlet lashes, lips twitch into a vague approximation of a smile.
"Yes we did – congratulations Mr Abernathy."
The music changes. Haymitch responds by twirling Effie around, dipping her towards the ground. Her hands slip up his arms, nails digging into the skin at the base of his neck until she realises he isn't going to drop her. He pulls her closer, running a hand over her spine. He can feel her trembling.
He leans, lips just brushing the soft skin by her jaw and whispers; "I know how to dance, Miss Trinket. I had a Victory Ball too."
The flush that rises in her cheeks can't be hidden by the powder. Her eyes are huge and vulnerable he feels intoxicated by her proximity. Haymitch smiles.
"Oh, of course, yes..." she stammers, "I knew that." Her fingernails remain twisted in the short hairs at his nape. He feels like purring.
"Truce?" He ventures.
Effie briefly meets his eyes again – looks away.
"Yes."
(sixteen)
"Haymitch Abernathy."
Effie shakes with repressed fury as she draws the names for the second Quarter Quell. She forces a big smile through gritted teeth and says the words demanded of her. Her insides feel like they have been liquidised, her whole world knocked off its axis. If her corset was not laced so tightly she thinks she would collapse right there on the stage.
Peeta - dear sweet Peeta - volunteers.
She can't bear to look at him, at them, at anyone. As soon as she is able she rips off her heels and runs back to the train. This time she's the one tearing apart the carriage for a bottle.
Haymitch has never seen her rant and rage at the Capitol so freely, never seen her so undone. It scares him a little – a woman in her position can't be heard saying such things. He's heard the stories, seen the Avoxes. It would be a damn waste for such a talented tongue to be ripped out.
"Calm down sweetheart."
She whirls, magnificent in her ire.
"Shut up you... you...!" She trails off at the look on his face – the one that says she's treading on dangerous ground. She slumps unladylike onto the sofa, head in hands, stockinged feet and legs covered in mud.
"It is just not fair. They were meant to live happily ever after. I need them to live happily ever after!"
He nods, patting her shoulder awkwardly, trying to comfort her.
Her voice is tiny and broken. "It is not a game – is it? You are right. I am stupid."
He slides next to her stiffly, continues to pet her. He's not sure what to do with this new enlightened Effie Trinket.
"It never has been a game," He tells her.
She grips his hand so fiercely as if to reassure herself he is still there. Her nails leave crescent moons of blood in their wake.
"It could have been you."
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