Two hours later and Effie's on her third glass of whisky, the amber liquid going down easier now and not burning her throat with quite the same intensity as before. It seems to be distracting her from the cold, so at least that's something.

Well. That and the sweater she'd finally given in and asked for an hour ago.

It's large, hanging slightly off her shoulder and it smells of Haymitch. It's not an unpleasant smell as such, and she can't put her finger on what it is that makes it smell so distinctly of him, but she finds herself surrounded by the scent, and she's shocked to find that she's not nearly as repelled by that as she should be.

Her leg is still pressed up against his, and the blanket is draped across the both of them, and Effie isn't sure if the flush on her cheeks is because of the alcohol or if it's due to the fact that she hasn't been this close to a man in almost a year.

The fact that the man in question happens to be Haymitch, coupled with the fact that she can feel her body instinctively leaning in towards his against her better judgement is just making her more flustered.

"I can't believe you don't have a Christmas tree," she exclaims for the second time that night, and when she crosses one leg over the other and angles her body slightly towards him, trying to seek out some extra warmth, her calf brushes against his and she swears she hears a hitch in his breath.

She feels a little thrill run through her at the thought that she's elicited that response from him, and she brushes her leg against him again as subtly as she can manage, wanting to test his reactions. He doesn't disappoint, and when he throws his head back and downs the glass of whisky he's holding in one gulp, she thinks that maybe he's more affected by his proximity to her than he'd like to admit.

She's not sure what exactly she should do with that information; isn't sure what she wants to do with it, if truth be told. All she knows is that he's here, and that he's the only warm thing in the room, and that the look that he'd thrown her way when he'd seen emerge from the bathroom, candle in hand and wearing his clothes, had definitely not been platonic.

There's something else too, something bubbling under the surface that Effie can't quite name, and her tongue comes out to moisten her lips slightly as she tries to calm the beating of her heart.

"I told you. Don't see the point when there's nothing to go under it," he murmurs, and he's trying to sound nonchalant but his eyes are on her lips, and when he shifts slightly, the leg that Effie has crossed is suddenly dangerously close to being draped over his knee.

He looks down, eyes seeming to linger on the shape of her legs under the blanket, before reaching forward and grabbing the bottle of Scotch from the table.

"I bet Beardy makes sure your Christmas tree is fully stocked with presents," he mutters, leaning over slightly to refill her glass when she holds it out to him, "where is he lately anyway? Haven't seen him in a while," and it takes her a while to realise that he's talking about Seneca, the alcohol fuzzing her brain slightly.

"His name is Seneca and we broke up almost a year ago, Haymitch. I don't think you telling him he looked like he had a maze growing on his face helped," she huffs, and Haymitch laughs loudly. It's a proper belly laugh, the likes of which she's never heard from him before, and Effie feels small smile play at her lips before she's able to stop it, and it's clear that Haymitch notices by the almost imperceptible raise of his eyebrow.

"So you've been single for the past year? Because of me?" he enquires hesitantly, his tone almost shy, and he's not meeting her eyes, instead choosing to focus on the tartan that lies across their laps, but he's asked the question now, and it's out there, and there's nothing he can do to take it back.

Effie feels warm for the first time all night, and maybe it's the whisky, or maybe it's just him but the candles are flickering and the wind is howling outside, and it's now or never, and she makes her decision as she takes a fortifying sip from her glass and musters all of the courage she has.

"You could say that," she whispers as confidently as she can manage, and she moves her leg so that it hooks slightly over his as she clutches the glass tightly in her hand. Her heart feels like it's beating right out of her chest, and she thinks that this is quite possibly the most daring she's ever been, and she tilts her head up to look at him, lips parting slightly as their eyes meet.

She can see the exact moment he registers her intent, and he looks dazed, dumbfounded even, and for a horrible second, Effie wonders if she's completely misjudged this; if she's made an overt and blatant pass at a man who has absolutely no interest in her whatsoever, and she's going to have to live in the same building as him for the foreseeable future, and oh god, she really doesn't want to have to move just after she's finally got the colour scheme right in her bedroom.

But then his hand comes down to tentatively rest on her blanket covered knee, hand lightly tracing over the tartan pattern, and Effie breathes an internal sigh of relief as she realises that she hasn't made a fool of herself after all.

"Guess I should apologise for that, huh?" he says, and his hand seems to hesitate for a second before boldly slipping under the blanket and settling on her thigh, higher than before, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of her skirt, and Effie manages to stop the moan that threatens to tumble from her lips.

"No apologies necessary, he wasn't really that great. But I do find myself with some free time on my hands lately. I wonder; do you have any suggestions on how I can occupy myself?" The last part of her sentence rushes out quickly, and even to her own ears her voice sounds breathy and high pitched; higher than she'd care to admit.

But Haymitch doesn't seem to mind; quite the opposite in fact, and when his hand shifts to grip her thigh, Effie gasps before she can stop herself and her eyes flutter shut momentarily before opening to focus on his. She bites down hard on her bottom lip, and his eyes flicker down to take in the sight.

Things happen relatively quickly after that.

He groans harshly and tightens his grip on her thigh, fingers flexing as he yanks her body towards his, and Effie's hand jolts slightly, the remaining whisky in her glass spilling over the arm of her sofa.

.

Then his lips are on hers, and any thought of an apology flies out of the window.