Okay, who missed me over Christmas? :-P

10.

The year after, she took one glance at him and realised she could not run the risk of trying to say anything important. He took one sideways glance at her and came to the same conclusion and so that night, when they found themselves alone in her room on the train, they fell together without a word. He was sitting in an armchair staring at the floor and before he knew it she was on him, taking the bottle nimbly from his hand and placing it on the table beside them. Before he knew it, her hand was on his cock and palming him through his trousers. It wasn't necessary, he was already painfully hard. He had been since the first instant in her presence. It was the only way he would ever let her know how difficult it was to go the year without her.

She took control in silence, wrapped herself in the quiet and nothing more as she sank down, impaling herself on his cock. He looked up at her, transfixed by this Effie, this quiet strange creature rising above him, biting her lip until her teeth were stained pink, reaching up to discard her wig, stroke the otter-like softness of her head, thumb gently brushing her cheek. He would have given almost anything not to feel what he caught himself feeling. He would have killed anyone who tried to take it away from him.

She was like a dream then, even coming in that same almost ethereal silence, her hands digging so tight into his shoulders that he later found blood beneath her nails. But in her eyes and the whisper of a kiss she gave before she left he saw a promise, a sad assurance that she would not do this again. That next time there would have to be words.

There were. A world of words, delightful and despicable.

-x-

"Tell me," she said.

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me you missed me."

Eventually he cracked, with his hands around her throat and his cock driving into her desperate body;

"Every minute," he growled in her ear, as though afraid anyone else could hear – "Every drunken second of every fucking day I missed you, with my hands on my cock shouting hate for you as I came. I missed your mouth –" he thrust into her roughly for punctuation – "Your cunt. Your tight little ass. Missed. Using. My. Whore." He came shaking, sweating, flooding her with seed and she screamed, cunt dancing around his cock.

("I hate you!" she screamed earlier that day – "You're rude, horrible and useless and I hate you!"

"Piss off princess, like your hate is worth shit to me."

"Like you're worth anything to anybody! Did you ever think about that! Did you ever take a look in the mirror Haymitch, or does it hurt too god-damn much?"

"Try it yourself bitch, you'd break the fucking glass."

"At least I don't ignore these poor children. At least I'm half way nice to them!"

"Nice? The hell with you. You don't even remember their names.")

"I didn't miss you," she said, lying back, breathing hard, glowing – "Not for a second. I had so many nice Capitol boys while I was failing to miss you."

"Did you now." It was not even a question, he knew she hadn't.

"So many," she lied merrily, wickedly desperate to make him jealous, and he wished he did not fall for it so hard, did not so completely hate the thought of anyone even touching her – "I let them touch me everywhere, fuck me again and again, they were so much better than you, so civilized –"

She sighed when he slapped her, so ready for him to do so.

("What am I supposed to do? You could help. You could give them more. Did you never for one moment think they might not all be dead if you did?"

"Did I never – you're a piece of work sweetheart you know that?"

"Saffron Rivers," she said bizarrely, back at him, too angry to look him in the eye, spitting the words out – "She was twelve, small, dark hair. She was so scared the first evening she was sick in the dining car even before you were. Didn't get past the cornucopia. Rose Meadows, seventeen, couldn't believe she was actually allowed to eat the food here. When she did she got obsessed with strawberries. Then poisoned berries in the arena. Second day. Catelyn Reed – do you want me to go on?"

"Actually, I'd think of begging you to stop.")

"You don't want civilized –" he sneered, rolling back onto her, squeezing her tits hard enough to bruise and make her cry out, liking her cries and the feel of soft flesh and squeezing harder, cock stiffening against her skin – "You want my coarse rough hands all over you, my big thick common cock filling you up, ripping you apart, that's what you want slut, isn't it? Isn't it?" he snarled it into her face and she whimpered, legs parting in answer.

"Turn over –" he snarled, manhandling her onto her knees – "Get your fucking face down. I don't want to look at you. Just use you, whore, fill you full of my cock –"

"No –" she whispered, because they both get off on it.

"Yes." He shoved in hard – "fuck yes sweetheart, so good, so fucking good –"

("It doesn't mean anything" he lied – "A decent memory doesn't mean you care. I could tell you the same details. Doesn't make you human enough to care. You'll never be human enough to care. You wouldn't care until it was the name of someone you loved being read out on reaping day."

"Yes well, that's not going to happen so you get to carry on thinking I'm a heartless bitch. Good for you."

"I wish it did happen."

"Would that make you happy?"

He snorted –

"I'm long past being made happy.")

He rammed into her, making her cry; taunted her for crying and fucked her harder, gloating when she whispered that it hurt, hurting her more until she groaned in pleasure. He leaned over her, covering her, kissing her shoulder, hissing in her ear –

"Anyone so much as touched you I'd kill them. Kill them and fuck you until you knew that you were mine –"

He didn't really mean to say the rest but it slips out treacherously and far too tenderly –

"Mine Effie, only mine."

He almost came hard enough inside her to obliterate what he said, but not quite.

She doesn't forget it either and files it away in the list of things of which they do not speak.

-x-

The file of Things They Never Said grew longer as the years went on and they sealed it further and further away, getting better and better at not adding anything to it. Her corsets got tighter, he pushed all the boundaries of how much more he could drink, and the years performed a treacherous waltz of lust and lies, bitterness and dead kids. They tried not to talk about it; how every instance they got together also meant two more dead tributes. Then they talked about it and it came out in screaming matches resolved only in feverish angry sex and so never resolved at all.

It seemed the dance would only go on, becoming more bitter, more twisted, until the year finally came that brought the children who did not die.

_x_

Only a few more chapters left now! Don't be sad though, I've decided to make this the first in a three-part series! Woot? :-)