A/N: Okay I had this entire chapter written and then got feedback from Kat and was like NOPE DELETE and then rewrote it. That's why it took me twice as long to write lol. Also, only three more chapters of background exposition and then we get in to the 74th games! :D
Seashells
It's the 65th year of the games, and Chaff waits impatiently in the Capitol station for district Twelve's train to arrive. Normally he goes directly to Eleven's apartment, but after the reaping this year he knows he needs to talk to Haymitch first. Haymitch never watches the recap of the reaping, he won't realize what's happened unless Chaff tells him. When the train arrives, and district Twelve's tributes disembark, Chaff intercepts Haymitch and leads him off to the side.
Effie's eyes follow the two mentors disapprovingly as they both abandon their tributes to hold a private conversation. What Chaff tells Haymitch, Effie isn't certain, but Haymitch becomes a distracted mess from that point on. He barely makes appearances for meals, refuses to eat, drinks too much, and never even looks at the tributes. Every time he makes eye contact with Effie, it feels as if he's trying to apologize for something he hasn't even done yet.
When the tributes are sent to training and she finally has free time, Effie delicately arranges herself on the penthouse couch. She watches the replay of the other districts' reapings for the second time, searching for some kind of hint to explain her mentor's odd behavior. After watching the first three districts she senses Haymitch's presence standing behind the couch. He's watching too. During the district Four reaping, Sempronia calls out the male tribute's name, and Effie pauses the broadcast in surprise. It's a name Effie recognizes. One she didn't catch during her first viewing.
"Finnick Odair," Effie repeats, "He's that surfer you and Chaff follow, isn't he."
Haymitch nods. He sets his drink on the coffee table and sits next to her.
"You want him to win...over your own tributes," Effie concludes.
He nods again. Although hearing her say it aloud, he feels even worse about it. He leans forward, propping his head up with his hands. Too much alcohol, again. In the back of his mind, clouding everything else, is a small persistent twinge of pain. He feels a light hand on his shoulder and he turns his face to look at her, expecting anger or blatant refusal.
"In that case, we'll help him win," she says calmly, pursing her lips slightly.
He closes his eyes. It's what he wanted, but it makes everything worse. The pain in his head tells him he would feel much better in a lateral position. He surrenders to it, and slowly droops to the side until he is lying across Effie's lap, his head resting on her thigh. His hand is broad enough to cover her entire knee.
Effie laughs a little, humorlessly, and leans back into the couch. She runs her hand along his arm and shoulder comfortingly.
"We will make it happen," she promises.
And they do. It's easier than campaigning for Twelve, because the boy from district Four is naturally flirty, handsome, and well fed; everyone already likes him at the least.
In the betting room, Haymitch and Effie bicker over what sponsor to goad next, when Haymitch unexpectedly starts agreeing with everything she says. Effie glances up from her files, suspicious, and notices he's staring at someone across the room. She tries to discern who caught his attention, but the crowds are too thick.
"I wonder..." Haymitch muses to himself under his breath. Effie barely hears him.
"Wonder what?" she asks immediately.
Haymitch doesn't pay attention. The woman he's watching, he hasn't seen in over ten years. She's barely aged, if anything she's grown more beautiful; her queenly bone structure more defined. She catches Haymitch's eye, and smiles flirtatiously.
"Wonder what, Haymitch?" Effie repeats.
He turns to Effie, as if suddenly remembering she's there.
"Oh, uh..." Haymitch nods in the direction he had been staring, "Lemia."
Effie nearly chokes on her water. She cranes her neck to peer into the crowd, and sure enough, the celebrated beauty and socialite, Lemia, is surrounded by her usual bevy of courtiers.
"Oh. Her," Effie sniffs dismissively, "Although she is very rich, everything is in the family. She has no money of her own. Plus she's only famous because she's got hair down to her calves. Claims to have never cut it, only trimmed, since she was a baby." Which classifies her as a bit odd in the Capitol where most people can't go three months without tiring of their hairstyle and cutting it anew.
"Hmmm..." Haymitch says. His memory of when he first met Lemia is still vivid. He was two years out of his games. Her mother, an important Capitol dignitary, sent Haymitch an invitation to Lemia's debutante ball. He went. But only because of the excuse to go to the Capitol. He hadn't met Ripper then, hadn't even fallen in with Chaff yet. The Capitol was his only source of mind numbing substances, his only escape. He bribed his attendants to purchase alcohol and hide it on the train, enough to get him through another few months. Apparently a common request from victors, for the attendants were very efficient and professional about it. But he had dutifully remained sober at the party, long enough to be introduced. Lemia had asked him if he was enjoying the party. He was honest and said no. She laughed in his face and took it as a challenge. They both got shitfaced drunk in a tiny alcove behind a column, hidden from the rest of the guests. She confessed she still had a portrait of him hanging on her wall from his days as a tribute. "I liked you even before you won," she had announced proudly.
"Extensions," Effie says sharply. Her voice drags Haymitch back to the present.
"What?" Haymitch wrinkles his face in confusion.
"Half of her hair is fake," Effie whispers.
"Look who's talking, sweetheart," he smirks, "You're all wig yourself."
Effie swallows very determinedly, struggling to keep her expression neutral. For the sake of the sponsors.
Haymitch's smile broadens and he wets his lips.
"Fine," Effie snaps, collecting her files and stacking them neatly before slipping everything into her folder, "If you think she'd be a worthwhile sponsor, then as the person here with the best social graces, I shall go talk to her."
Haymitch chuckles, "I don't think that'd be the best approach."
"Don't think I can handle it?" Effie asks, "Think I'm out of my depth? I'm aware One and Two are her favorites. I keep my notes updated."
"I didn't say that," Haymitch argues, his mood souring.
"Implied it," Effie says. She watches Lemia out of the corner of her eye. When the group nears a break in conversation, Effie sidles over to join them.
"Hello, hello, hello," Effie croons, smiling as wide as possible.
Lemia also smiles, but in mockery, "Trinket."
"I was wondering if I could have a word with you," Effie says.
"Darling," Lemia draws out the sympathy in her voice to be most painful, "I don't support losing districts."
"Excellent," Effie says confidently, "Because neither do I." She laughs invitingly.
Lemia chuckles once in return. Her smile is patronizing. And she walks away.
Effie falters. She turns to the rest of the crowd, smiling desperately. They make their excuses and quietly leave. Suddenly she's alone. This is...not normal. Usually sponsors at least politely listen to any escort or mentor's pitch no matter what their district. No one is ever...rude. It would be social suicide. Or perhaps different rules apply to those of Lemia's status. Perhaps Effie is out of her depth. Perhaps she should stick with trying to get the attention of small time sponsors who she knows will listen.
She makes eye contact with Haymitch from across the room and she can't abide his slightly amused pity. Instead of returning to confer with him, she switches to a new sponsor. For the rest of this year's games, she intends to work on her own terms.
A week later, district Twelve's tributes are dead, and only the career pack live to slowly pick each other off one by one. Exhausted, but figuring she's done all she can to help Finnick, Effie collapses onto the penthouse couch. Her charms and cajoling pushed a number of sponsors who typically go for districts Nine and Ten into supporting Four. But she failed to switch any of district One, Two, or Three's sponsors; the only thing capable of turning the tide in Finnick's favor. She flicks on the projection and turns to the boy's channel. He's fourteen, strong for his age but still scrawny compared to the careers, and currently holed up in a cave weaponless; a problem that, unbeknownst to Effie since she still refuses to speak to him, Haymitch is currently trying to solve.
When Haymitch follows the directions Lemia gave him, he expects to find her in one of the private dining rooms. Instead it leads him outside to a secluded patio in the shadow of a towering column; a small dining table set for two. He smirks at her as she gestures for him to sit.
"I ate already," he says testily, "in the penthouse." With a very silent Effie who read sponsor files the entire time.
Lemia just laughs, "Well, I did expect you to flout convention, anyway."
Haymitch continues to stand beside the table, grinning.
"I was surprised when you requested a private audience," Lemia says, "I don't often listen to appeals for my sponsorship, I prefer to make up my own mind. But for you I might make an exception."
"Good thing I didn't come to advocate for my tributes then," he says.
Lemia raises a delicate brow, perfectly drawn in an arch over her dark eyes. Her refusal to conform to Capitol style, and instead turn to the ancients for inspiration, always distinguishes her from the other citizens. "If you're not going to sit down," she stands, takes a few steps off the patio, and casts a look at him over her shoulder fetchingly, "Walk with me."
Haymitch steps over to her and holds his arm out. She takes it elegantly and loosely, like a dancer. She's nearly a head taller than him, even in her flat suede sandals.
"Is this your doing?" Haymitch asks, gesturing to the garden surrounding them. The trees are hung with icicle lights; a faint glow emanates from sparkles around the icicles, blinking on and off to create the illusion of dripping. A waterfall of twinkling blue lights cascades in the distance and flows along the ground past their feet. Blooming flowers litter the bushes decked out in tiny clusters of lights.
"Yes," she grins.
"Nearly fifteen years to the day, and still trying to impress me," Haymitch jokes.
"Still trying to convince you the Capitol isn't all bad," Lemia corrects.
"How many hours did it take your underlings to set this all up?" Haymitch asks pointedly.
"I did it," Lemia says. She releases his arm and bends down to fix the wires on a flower that came undone, "My grandfather taught me. Before he married my exceedingly wealthy grandmother, this was what he did for a living. Do you remember the light display at my debut?"
"The constellations across the ballroom ceiling..." Haymitch says.
"Correct," Lemia smiles, impressed, "And my grandfather's last installation before his death."
"Come to Twelve and you can see the real thing for free," Haymitch smiles.
"Ah but the real thing isn't directed," Lemia says, "It cannot tell its story as well as a replica can. The purpose of art is to take a thing and express it more poignantly than can be expressed naturally."
"But without the original, natural state, there would be nothing to inspire the story," Haymitch counters.
"Not so!" Lemia laughs, "The derivative can inspire further derivations, each one more potent than the last."
"Till the final piece is the original essence distilled," Haymitch surmises.
Lemia inclines her head in agreement, her eyes gleaming in the light.
"I'll tell you a story of the stars," Haymitch steers the subject of conversation to a more favorable track. He leads Lemia to a bench where they sit in front of the sparkling waterfall. For this story to have the desired effect, he needs a proper setting.
"Originating from your district?" Lemia asks, curious.
"No, it goes back further than that," Haymitch says, "About an ancient goddess whose daughter was believed to be the most beautiful woman on earth."
"I like this story already," Lemia smiles.
"This daughter was so beautiful, the sea god wished to make her his bride. But, he being a weathered old man, she refused him."
Lemia giggles, "Very sensible of her."
"Yeah, well, the sea god didn't like it much, obviously. He ordered monsters from the deep to rise out of the water and attack the goddess's mortal kingdom. The king of this realm consulted the fates and was told he must sacrifice the beautiful daughter to appease the sea god. The king ordered the girl chained to a rock where the sea monsters could devour her. Luckily, before the monsters ate her, a young hero happened to be passing by..."
"Why is it these old stories always have the women as damsels in distress?" Lemia asks, sighing.
"The story isn't finished yet," Haymitch protests, "Upon seeing her, the hero decided he would be the one to marry the goddess's daughter, and the king promised him the girl's hand in marriage if he killed the monsters and rescued her from the rock."
"Because the girl has no say in the matter..." Lemia's face takes on a very sarcastic expression.
"I'm sure, if the lad succeeded and their union was undesirable to the girl, he would have backed off immediately," Haymitch says, raising his hands in deference.
"All right," Lemia laughs, "I am appeased. Continue."
"Unfortunately the lad, no matter how heroic, is very young; the same age as the girl chained to the rock; and no match for the monsters. The goddess, though bound by word not to interfere directly with mortal lives, reached far into the ocean, into the darkest grotto, and pulled forth the sea god's trident. She gifted the stolen trident and all its requisite powers to the lad, knowing with it he would be able to save her daughter," Haymitch pauses and pulls his flask from his pocket to take a drink.
Lemia playfully nudges his shoulder, "Don't stop there. Did he save her?"
"He did," Haymitch smiles, "Using the sea god's own power against the monsters, the hero saved the girl, and together they overthrew the cruel king and ruled the mortal kingdom under the benevolent eye of the goddess."
He takes another drink to signify the end of the story. Lemia studies his face for a few minutes while he does so. He knows she suspects his intentions.
Lemia slides closer to Haymitch on the bench. "I enjoyed the story," she says, "Thank you."
Haymitch takes a lock of her hair in his hands near her forehead and runs his fingers slowly down the length of it. He notices she very carefully positioned her hair in her lap so she wouldn't sit on the fine gold strands. Following the hair, his hand slides down her shoulder and brushes the edge of her perfectly formed breast; and then all the way down to her hip.
"If I am the beautiful daughter, might you be the hero?" Lemia asks temptingly.
"The story is set in the time of the ancients. Any resemblance to current events is purely coincidental," Haymitch says, "but...if it did relate...I don't think you would be the daughter."
Lemia leans away slightly, offended, "I'm the mother?"
"The goddess," Haymitch amends.
Lemia sighs.
"I don't know who the daughter would be, but I know the hero," Haymitch continues.
"Who?" Lemia asks.
"You know who," Haymitch says, careful not to let his nerves show, this is when she's either hooked or lost, "Who has the power of the sea and the strength to be the fighter backed by another person's intelligence?"
She thinks about this question for a short while. And then it dawns on her, he can see the realization in her eyes. Lemia turns to look at Haymitch in suspicion, "Odair? The district Four tribute? They say he looks like the ancient gods all rolled into one. He's only fourteen..."
"Very young, like in the story," Haymitch points out.
"And he needs a weapon," Lemia states, satisfied to have figured out Haymitch's angle. She sighs and stands, "This is indeed, very unconventional."
Haymitch moves to stand beside her. The lights of the waterfall cascade behind her, reflecting on the pearls in her hair. In the light she appears to be standing underwater. "You are a goddess," he says honestly.
Lemia laughs, smiling at him. She tilts her head down so she can look at him from underneath her eyelashes and steps closer. She places her hands on his arms and leans in to kiss him, briefly, on the lips.
"I'll consider it," she says sensuously. She trails one of her hands along his chest as she walks away. She glances behind to make sure he's watching. He is. She looks him up and down, smiles, and says, "Don't follow." With that, she turns and strolls away leisurely. Her long, filmy dress hugs her hips as she walks.
Haymitch waits until she disappears into the training center before he sits back down on the bench and leans forward to rest his head in his hands.
Back in the penthouse the elevator pings but Effie ignores it. An attendant shuffles over to the escort and presents her with a silver tray. Atop the tray lies a seashell envelope. Effie takes it and cracks it open. Inside is a delicate replica of a coral reef with a golden pin attached. Scrawled across a shimmering note made of fish scales are the words "Thank you."
Effie hastily drops the shell, note, and pin onto the coffee table.
Haymitch arrives a few hours later. He finds Effie still sitting on the couch watching the games. On screen Finnick catches another tribute in his net and finishes the screaming girl from Two off with one strike of a gleaming, golden trident. Effie barely flinches. Haymitch decides to wait the rest of the games out in his room.
"What did you do?" Effie asks, her voice dangerous, her eyes still glued to the screen.
Haymitch stops and turns around.
"We received a thank you note this evening," Effie continues, slightly shrill, "From someone, I have no idea who, although the underwater theme may suggest Sempronia. And I have no idea what for, given that I certainly didn't raise enough support to warrant a personal thank you note."
She shifts around on the couch, drapes one arm dramatically across the back of the cushions, and concludes, "So it must have been you."
"Try not to sound so surprised," he drawls, not in the mood to humor Effie's tiresome need to know everything.
"Who is it from?" Effie demands, "at least tell me that."
"Lemia," Haymitch admits, aware the truth will irk Effie more than not knowing. Serve her right for pretending like he didn't exist for the past few days.
"How did you manage it?" Effie asks, slightly in awe.
Haymitch snorts, "I told you. You aren't her type."
"But you are," realization hits her and takes all the wind out of her sails. She turns away from him.
He gestures to the seashell, "throw that away."
Effie grabs the shell from the table, stands, and places herself between Haymitch and his escape route to his room. She yanks the pin out of the shell and tosses both the envelope and note onto the couch. Attendants will deal with the mess. She unclasps the delicate broach and sticks it in Haymitch's suit lapel.
"If you think, whatever it is you did...that Lemia won't be looking for that to appear on your clothes from now until the end of the games..." Effie can't string the words together properly. She laughs instead; fake, forced trills of laughter.
"Lemia...appreciates my company," Haymitch says evasively. He grabs Effie's wrist and pulls her hand off his suit. "And I convinced her to buy Finnick a weapon."
Effie sighs and gestures to the screen, "Which Finnick has now used to cut the career pack down by half. If he keeps this up, he'll be crowned victor in a matter of hours."
Haymitch nods.
"What convinced her?" Effie twists out of Haymitch's grasp and decides now is as good a time as any to make coffee.
"Lemia fancies herself a direct descendent from a line of ancient pre-civilization gods. I told her a story. She drew the parallels."
"Oh," Effie takes a sip of coffee and pretends to be interested. Or, more accurately, pretends to be not as interested as she is by pretending to pretend to be interested.
"It helps that Lemia's been harboring a crush on me since I was eighteen and she a fifteen year old heiress bored with Capitol boys."
Effie starts choking on her coffee. Her eyes bulge out. She blinks rapidly to stem the sudden stinging tears from lack of oxygen.
"Something about me being an uncontrollable victor who showed no interest in any Capitol women at all caught her interest, I think. She can never overlook a challenge."
Effie tries to cover up her difficulty swallowing with a coughing fit.
"You're not getting sick again are you?" Haymitch asks with mock concern. He knows exactly what's bothering her. He can see her jealousy in the set of her mouth, how her eyes lose focus slightly when she looks at him. She's shutting down on him, distancing herself, giving him the same fake happy she gives sponsors.
"I'm fine," Effie breathes, shaking off his protective hand from her shoulder, "Here, trade," she pushes her coffee mug into his chest and swipes the bottle of wine in his hand.
He catches her wrist when she turns to leave, it's instinctive, and shamelessly needy. He needs her to start talking to him again, to look him in the eye again. He spins her toward him. His free hand tangles in the hair at the back of her neck as he pulls her into a kiss. She surprises him by responding with equal enthusiasm. She leans into the kiss and pushes him against the bar. Haymitch entwines his fingers with hers and quickly moves their arms between them to keep some distance, otherwise she'd have them chest to chest already. The last thing he needs is for her to feel the front of his pants. He wants to reassure her, comfort her; not scare her off with what she would probably consider vulgarity. His hand on her neck slides to her ear, and he drags his fingers through her curls until he hits the mesh wig-cap.
Effie's eyes snap open. Immediately he notices her sudden unresponsive behavior and lets go of her. She shoves him away and slaps him across the face. His neck jerks and he half collapses against the counter. Effie gasps.
"I'm...so sorry..." she says breathlessly, horrified. Her hands hover above him, worried that she hurt him but reluctant to help. As if touching him again will only make things worse.
Haymitch groans and rubs his cheek, "No. It was deserved...I apologize for kissing y..."
"It never happened," she interrupts hastily, "None of this happened."
"Right," Haymitch stands straight and wiggles his jaw to make sure everything feels alright.
Effie's hand flutters forward as if to caress his cheek, but she manages to stop herself. She sucks on her bottom lip in shame and turns away from him. When she turns back around, her fake smile is in place.
She selects a fresh wine glass from the rack and carries it along with Haymitch's bottle over to the couch, "I think celebration is in order." She pours herself a glass and toasts to the screen where Finnick is catching himself fresh fish from a river for dinner. The boy even has the gall to build a fire to cook with. No career tribute dares approach, knowing the fisherman's deadly net traps lie in wait.
Haymitch watches her for a few minutes, grabs a new wine bottle, and proceeds with his original plan of returning to his room and getting drunk.
Finnick becomes the youngest tribute ever to win the games. Effie thought she and Haymitch kept their support covert, but Sempronia invites them both to the victory party. The invitation is a surprise, and not an entirely welcome one. Neither of them feel much like celebrating.
At the party, Effie keeps to herself. She sits at the bar next to Haymitch and swirls her drink around in her cup. If he wasn't so damn concerned about her mental wellbeing, Haymitch would have knocked the drink over by now to stop the "whirr whirrr whirrrr" of glass rolling on the wooden counter. But her face, while never slipping into melancholy in public, is too artfully cool to be believed. Instead he glares at her fidgeting hand, hoping she'll take the hint.
She doesn't. The whirring continues. Effie believes her invitation to this party came on false pretenses. It wasn't her move that won them the game this time, it was Haymitch's. She hasn't even gotten a chance to speak to Sempronia. As the escort responsible for breaking the age record for the first time in nearly twenty years, Sempronia is in high demand. There are lines of people waiting for her attention.
"Stop pouting," Haymitch whispers.
Her head whips to face him, and she glares viciously.
At least she's showing some expression now. Even if defiant anger is the only expression he ever manages to coax from her.
Across the room, Sempronia extricates herself from her many admirers, and approaches the bar where Haymitch and Effie sit.
"May I have this dance?" Sempronia holds her hand out to Effie as if presenting it to be kissed.
Effie immediately smiles radiantly, "Why, of course!" She takes Sempronia's hand and allows the woman to whisk her away onto to the dance floor. Despite common protocol dictating that the person who requests the dance should take the lead, Sempronia somehow manages it so Effie ends up leading. Effie never leads. She deliberately never asks anyone to dance for precisely that reason. She confuses the hand positions and Sempronia swiftly corrects them. At which point, Effie's cheeks are bright red, augmented by the pink rouge. Sempronia also corrects their turning direction, and even performs a few hand spins on her own volition. She's effectively leading Effie's lead. Effie smiles and laughs, and hides her utter humiliation.
"Impressive," Sempronia smiles affectionately.
Sempronia clearly does not mean the dancing. Effie settles with inclining her head in recognition of the compliment.
Sempronia tries again, "I knew I was right about you."
"Right in what way?" Effie asks, still uncertain what they are referring to.
"You are aiming for a promotion," Sempronia says triumphantly, "Helping me secure the win of a favorable tribute is a very good way of ensuring my support."
Effie gapes at her.
"Don't be modest," Sempronia says, "I know what you and that mess of a mentor managed to do."
"He's not a mess," Effie's automatic defense of Haymitch is instinctive.
Sempronia laughs.
"He's...unconventional," Effie says.
"Whatever works," Sempronia winks.
"I didn't do anything with the expectation of a promotion," Effie corrects, figuring she should at least get that truth out in the open.
For the first time ever, Sempronia loses composure and appears confused, "You didn't?"
"No," Effie confesses, "I heard of Finnick's potential and pushed in the right places; Haymitch helped. Consider it the work of a friend, more than colleague."
Sempronia is silent for a while but she watches Effie with an unwavering wondering, and slightly calculating stare. They spin around the dance floor another two times before the music changes songs. Sempronia releases Effie's shoulder and lightly caresses Effie's cheek. She leans forward and whispers in Effie's ear, "Then I shall consider you a friend." Sempronia switches their positions, holds Effie close, and takes the lead. They spin fabulously across the floor, their twirling gowns and matching hairstyles drawing attention from all corners of the room. They don't talk during this song, instead feeling the music and enjoying the spectacle they're causing; a career district's escort dancing with one from Twelve? Unheard of! At the end of the song, Sempronia kisses Effie's hand and leads her majestically back to the bar.
Haymitch watches them in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar. Effie is glowing. His mood is growing increasingly surly the more he drinks, but Effie is positively glowing.
"Thank you," Effie gushes to Sempronia as she slides back onto the bar stool. Effie brushes a stray lock of hair from her rather flushed face.
"Three years tops, and I'll see you in district Five," Sempronia says, and with a final, significant glance at Haymitch, returns to her fans.
"Was that challenge for you or me?" Effie asks uncertainly.
"Both, I think," Haymitch replies.
"I understand why she would direct it at me; she expects me to rise in the social ranks. But," Effie's eyes turn towards her mentor, "What could she possibly offer as a challenge to..."
"...to keep you," Haymitch interrupts bluntly, "As my escort," he sighs and runs his hand through his hair, "You're the best thing to happen to district Twelve since I won the quarter quell."
"Oh," says Effie, "but I thought...after the trident..."
"Lemia is a onetime deal," Haymitch says firmly, "you, however, have been getting us sponsors pretty consistently."
Effie somehow manages to sit even straighter in her seat. A self-satisfied smile settles on her face.
"What?" Haymitch asks, suspicious of her mood change.
"You said 'us'," Effie remarks in a strong Capitol accent.
"I meant like the royal 'us'," Haymitch argues, "I was referring to district Twelve, and me as its representative."
"No, I don't believe you," Effie spins around on her stool, rests her chin on her hand neatly, and smirks at him, "You looked at me when you said it. You meant us." She gestures to the two of them
"I was looking at you because I am talking to you," Haymitch insists.
"Nope, we are a team," Effie pushes herself off the bar stool and stands, "It's official now." She places a hand on his shoulder and takes a deep breath. She intends to request a dance. After leading Sempronia, leading Haymitch should be a piece of cake. But before she can get the words out, someone else calls Haymitch's name.
Lemia appears behind Haymitch; who spins around on his stool to greet her. The woman takes his hands and kisses him on both sides of his face. Haymitch actually seems to enjoy it.
"You know...I never said anything about a gold trident," Haymitch teases their sponsor.
"If I can afford it, why not?" Lemia says, "besides it matched my..."
"Your hair?!" Effie exclaims and clasps a hand over her mouth in embarrassment, noticing for the first time what is different about the woman. The hair is gone. Lemia's new locks are cropped close around her ears like a pixie.
"I sold it," Lemia tells Haymitch with pride, radiating goodwill, "to pay for the trident," she spares a small head nod to acknowledge Effie, "The sacrifice is symbolic."
"Your hair went for that much money?" Haymitch almost laughs.
"More," Lemia smiles, "But I kept the small amount leftover. I held an auction. The hair went to the best wigmaker in the Capitol." She eyes Effie's wig. "It might even grace your head one day," she says to Effie, "Assuming, of course, that you use human hair."
It takes Effie half a second of quick thinking to regain composure after Lemia's dig. Luckily, years of wig wearing and receiving microagressions such as this prepared her with plenty of retorts. "No," Effie scoffs disdainfully, "I wear all vegan creations. Only the...finest...materials." Her accent thickens uncontrollably, punctuating each word to add weight.
Haymitch watches Effie with an amused and oddly proud expression.
Lemia's smile becomes somewhat fixed. She turns her attention back to Haymitch and interlocks her fingers with his, "Dance with me."
Haymitch shrugs, "Sure."
Effie is left to watch alone, in shock, as Lemia draws Haymitch onto the dance floor.
At first Effie refuses to watch. She looks anywhere but. She smiles at a few casual acquaintances on each side of her. Unfortunately no one seems inclined to join her in conversation. So her eyes reluctantly pick Haymitch out of the crowd, waltzing in the center. He's laughing; of course he's laughing. His conversation with Lemia is animated and lively. They talk almost the entire time; Effie can't understand why. She thought the point of dancing was to dance, not to chatter away over the music.
For half a second Haymitch glances over at Effie. The escort immediately pushes her shoulders back and looks away, embarrassed to be caught staring.
This feeling, which she's fighting down so hard, it's irrational, it's pointless, so incredibly silly. A gut reaction; and growing up in the Capitol one quickly learns to never trust a gut reaction. Always think it through first. Then, if the feeling is persistent, perhaps express the instinctual reaction in a harmless manner before responding. Otherwise risk creating an impassable gaffe that ruins advancement. She will not let a gut reaction dictate her actions. Or thoughts. She believes Lemia is a beautiful woman, who is very generous with her family's wealth and deserves every happiness. Haymitch is lucky to receive the attentions of such a person.
The fact that Haymitch returns to the bar alone, however, does not escape Effie's notice. When Haymitch sits down, he is met with Effie's coolly blank expression again. He straddles the bar stool and takes a drink as if nothing is wrong. He can tell she's in the sort of mood where she wants him to ask so she can decline to answer, and thus maintain her mysterious allure. The best way to find out what is bothering her is to refuse to give her the satisfaction of a question. Sure enough a few minutes later she sets her glass down.
"Fuck," she states, harsh and with great intention.
Haymitch's eyebrows raise and he openly stares at her.
"Oh," she waves his concern away with an impatient hand. When he continues staring imploringly, she sighs, "All that hair gone and she's still prettier than me. Life's not fair," she tosses her napkin on the bar and glides away.
Later that evening, Haymitch knocks on the door to Effie's room. It's the first night she's ever locked herself in, usually she leaves it open for him to come sleep on her couch if he needs to.
"Sweetheart?" he asks.
He hears the rustling of bed covers. And then a short pause before, "what is it, Haymitch?" in an exasperated tone.
"I like you better," he says through the door.
A slightly longer pause. He nearly goes away.
"I like you too, Haymitch," she admits, "Now let me sleep."
