Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The Odd Couple
Chapter Four:
The Letdown
I stare up at the ceiling and blink. This is unusual. I am a creature of habit, and this creature has a strict in bed by ten o'clock and asleep by 10:05 policy. According to the blue light of my alarm clock, it is now 12:30. An attendant has already brought me some warm, spiced milk, but I cannot sleep, and I know I won't be able unless I run again. This is the way it's been for almost half a year, but I refuse to change my sleeping patterns. This will eventually pass.
Pushing myself out of bed, I switch my pajamas for a pair of running shorts and a tank top. After lacing up my trainers and pulling my hair into a ponytail, I silently make my way down the corridor to the exercise room. The halls are darkened, and outside it's even darker. I can just make out the outline of the countryside as the train speeds closer to the Capitol. Not that I need light anyway. The scenery never changes.
We will be arriving at the training center bright and early in the morning, and the first day in the Capitol is always one of the busiest. The sooner I get to sleep the better, so I increase the treadmill's incline to the steepest setting and run.
If I let my eyes unfocus on the blurred terrain zipping by the window, I can almost believe that I'm running straight into the sky, leaving everything behind. Like watching Silk and Carat volunteering for this year's Hunger Games. (They should have been my tributes.) Like knowing the District One train has already pulled into the Capitol. (That should have been my train.) Like picturing Livinia Oglethorpe sending her tributes to bed in preparation for tomorrow's events. (That should have been my job. That should have been my promotion. Commodus promised. Two years. I'd be done. I'd be gone. Kept my part of the bargain. Just one thing left. The banquet for the victors. Then I'd be done. Then I'd be gone. Planned the best reception. All things considered. District 12 had nothing. District 12 was nothing. Still great success. Because of me. The banquet was done. The guests left. I could breathe. They were gone. I'd be gone. Waited for Commodus. He would call. Give me District One. What I deserved. Already had new wardrobe. Would destroy old clothes. Tainted with coal dust. Would watch them burn. They'd be gone. I'd be gone. Already told everyone. Friends. Family. Haymitch. Told him repeatedly. He'd be gone. Good riddance. Got the call. Not me. Livinia. My job. Gone. Gone. Gone…)
I pitch forward, collapsing against the machine. Apparently my time was over, because the treadmill had abruptly stopped. Pushing myself up, reality crashes in on me. My calves and thighs are shaking, and I grip the sides of the treadmill to keep from falling. My lungs feel like they are on fire. I put my hands behind my head and drag air back into my body, not caring that my mouth is wide open. Or that I'm drenched in sweat. It's running down my back, my legs, my face. Everywhere. I must look hideous, but that's alright. This is the only place where appearances don't matter. No wigs. No heels. No suits. No witnesses. I run by myself. I run as myself.
Beads of perspiration trickle down my nose, and I swipe the towel across my face, careful to soak up all the sweat. I've never liked the feeling of being sweaty, and the sooner I hit the shower, the better. I just hope I can drag myself there. The run has done its job. I am weary beyond words, and more importantly, beyond thought.
I lower the towel, and not even a second passes when more drops fall on the black tread. How is that possible? I touch my face and realize that the dampness is localized to one place: the area under my eyes.
I'm crying.
But I don't cry. Something is wrong.
I brace myself against the machine, slowly breathing in and out as my heart beat returns to normal. The seconds pass, and I've just about calmed down when I get this odd feeling. Like someone is watching me. I slowly straighten up, careful not to make any sudden movements. I pretend to stare out the window, and I see that I wasn't being paranoid. The reflection tells me I'm not alone.
Haymitch is watching me.
Running the towel over my face once more, I turn around.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to sound like I always do around him: annoyed. It isn't difficult.
"I was just about to ask you the same thing," he says.
He's staring at my face. Yes, I'm sure it's red, but that can be easily accounted for by my recent run. And if there are any tears that managed to escape my towel, those can be explained away as perspiration. Still, I feel unnerved, though I'm not about to let him see that.
"I was exercising. Obviously."
"I didn't know you run. You certainly don't need to. You're tiny."
Most women would find that flattering. But Haymitch doesn't make compliments; only observations. And he's seeing me as no one ever has before. Out of costume. I have spent years carefully cultivating Effie Trinkett's image. It's the only way to get ahead in the Capitol, where everything is dependent on how others think of you. If you let them, they will mold you. But not me. I tell them what to think.
My brightly colored clothing grabs their attention, reflects that I'm important and should be looked at and admired. The cut of my suits demonstrates my sophistication, and even goes one step further. Their design shows that I am capable. That I'm in charge. Even my wigs and shoes contribute to the overall picture. They announce, "Effie Trinkett shows exquisite attention to detail, and is always so well put together. She is the consummate professional." They also have the added benefit of adding five extra inches to my frame. Without them, I barely hit five foot three. Since I'm a larger than life personality that just will not do.
But right now I look about eighteen years old. Probably sixteen without any makeup. This is hardly the image a District escort wants to project, even if she works for one as embarrassing as District 12. I look small, unimportant. My shorts and tank top scream, "little girl." I don't even want to think what my ponytail communicates. It wouldn't be nearly so embarrassing if Haymitch weren't staring at me from the doorframe, completely blocking my only path of escape. From his file, I know he's only two inches over six feet. I've seen tributes much bigger than him, but he's still almost a foot taller than me. And nearly one hundred pounds heavier.
I can only hope he's drunk and won't remember a thing in the morning, though it really shouldn't matter. He might be physically larger than me, but he's ruined whatever edge that would give him in the people's eyes. It's almost pitiable, really. He won the most difficult Hunger Games, and he did it while being rugged, handsome, young; charming in that backwoods way poor people have. He could have gone down in history as the greatest victor of all time. Now he's only remembered as an incompetent lush. Lucky for him, the people of the Capitol find him amusing; otherwise they wouldn't remember him at all. No wonder I find him so frustrating. I had to work for everything I have, and even then, being the best wasn't enough. But Haymitch, he could have had anything he wanted, and he chose alcohol.
I can't stand the sight of him, and I can't stand him seeing me like this.
"My running's no secret. If you put down the bottle for a second, you'd notice a lot of things. Now get out of my way."
But he won't move his arm, which is blocking the doorway. He just stares down at me from his perch. As if he has any right to judge me. The smell of liquor on him is so strong, my nose wrinkles.
Naturally, he finds my disgust funny. Even so, it's different. I've always found him repulsive, but he's never laughed like this before.
"You have freckles on your nose," he says.
I tamp down the urge to cover my face with my hands. I hate the very idea, but maybe it's time to consider wearing makeup when I run. At least when I'm in the vicinity of nosy drunks.
"Yes, I do. Now would you please move? We need to be awake in less than six hours, and I still have a shower to take," I say, still trying and failing at getting by him.
"Why do you wear those stupid wigs?"
His fingers and lips twitch simultaneously, which are telltale signs of mischief. But if he so much as touches my ponytail, I will strangle him with my towel. "The wigs look good on camera, which you would know if you ever listened to anything I said. I've certainly told you to wear them often enough." I don't even know why I bother anymore. He will always do what he wants to do, regardless of my advice. Sometimes I think he knows I'm right; he just does it to spite me.
"Your eyes are red."
I stare back at him, confused. I hadn't worn those contacts in at least a month. "No, they're not. My eyes are blue."
He leans in closer, and I try not to cringe. "You've been crying," he says.
I have no answer for that.
"Is this because you didn't get the District One job?" he says.
Haymitch hadn't said anything to me about my failed job prospects until now, and I realize I've been tense, waiting for it to happen. Now that it has, I actually feel better. Not by much, but at least it's one less thing to worry about. I can handle this.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," I say.
He pulls me into a hug. I try pushing him away, but he won't budge. Why I haven't stomped on his foot and made him move is beyond me. It must be because I feel so tired.
"Cheer up, Effie. At least we still have each other."
I laugh. Hard. The noise is loud, unexpected. It's real. Completely unlike the girlish twittering I adopt in public. My eyes widen in shock, and I see that Haymitch looks as surprised as I do.
"You poor, deluded fool. This is it. I am leaving this District if it kills me. I'll even go to 11. Anything is better than working with you."
"Well, while we're pouring our hearts out, I have a confession of my own," he says.
I don't have any more time to indulge this foolishness. Lifting my wrist, I point to the watch. "Make it quick."
"You didn't get the job, because I asked Valentine for you to stay."
For a second, all I can do it stare at his face, uncomprehending what he's said. I blink, trying to puzzle out this recent revelation. How could such an unimportant man like Haymitch have Commodus' ear? Why would Commodus listen? Why would my boss let me believe it was an inferior job performance that cost me the District 1 job? And why is Haymitch telling me this now? But that's not even the biggest mystery.
"Why would you do that?!" I screech.
"I'm in love with you."
What?! I mean, it's understandable. I'm a lot prettier than the people in his district. Certainly, I'm more sophisticated and knowledgeable. He grew up in squalor; of course he is looking for the finer things in life, but I'm not available. Ever. Still, I should at least try to let him down gently.
Screw that. This bastard cost me my job and ruined my life.
"I hate you! You're vile and stupid and lazy. The exact opposite of what I would want in a man."
I gleefully anticipate seeing his face fall, but instead he starts laughing. I smack him as hard as I can across that smug face.
That shuts him up. His eyes quickly narrow, and I'm about to slap him again, when he grabs my wrist and yanks it to his chest. "The feeling's mutual, dear. I have nothing but contempt for you. Actually, you aren't even worthy of that. I pity you. I may be vile, stupid, and lazy, but that's infinitely better than self-absorbed, ridiculous, and callous. But that's how all you Capitol people are. Though for a second, without all your idiotic clothing, you almost made me believe you were human."
Self-absorbed. Ridiculous. Callous. Not even human.
I knew he disliked me, but no one has ever spoken to me like this. And what does he mean, I'm not even human? I can feel my eyes begin to water. It must be leftover from earlier, because I certainly don't care what he thinks.
"As far as I'm concerned, I did you a favor. You needed to be taken down a peg or two, and since it was in my power, I happily obliged."
So that's it. He's just jealous of me, like anyone from the districts would be of someone who lived in the Capitol. No wonder he told Commodus to keep me back. Haymitch wanted to bring me down to his level.
Well, he's going to regret that. He might not believe it, but I can fight dirty too. You can't succeed in the Capitol unless you learn to adapt. He thinks I'm inhuman? Fine, let's see how he likes dealing with a beast. Grabbing him by his dingy shirt, I pull his face down to mine and practically snarl out, "If that's what you want, Haymitch, but I will not be the only person miserable. I plan on making your life a living hell."
"It already is."
This time when I try to push him out of the doorway, he lets me by.
To Be Continued
A/N: I don't know why I labeled this story Friendship/Romance. It should be more like Angst/Romance and a little bit of humor. I think this is a tipping point for both them, so hopefully things will be a better for them in the future.
Thanks for reading. Please review.