Haymitch was asleep beside her, a rarity in itself. She stroked his hair, hoping not to wake him, but just wanting to reach out to him, to be there for him-just like he always was for her. It was mid-day, and he had been working all day-helping to rebuild in the district. He had showered and flopped on the couch, falling asleep almost immediately.
Even more rare was the fact that he had left his wallet on the coffee table. She wasn't sure why he kept it on his person at all times- he wasn't concerned about the money- but he would never let her see it.
Now, she gently opened the worn leather pouch, jumping as the roll of pictures fell out. she marvelled at them at first, at the simple age of them, and the worn edges and wrinkled images.
The first was a picture of a beautiful woman with long blonde hair, laughing. She had the same bright, lively blue eyes as Haymitch. The next picture was of her kissing a little boy with almost white blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was smiling, and Effie noticed the gap in the boy's front teeth. It was Haymitch, only about 7 years old.
The next two were of an older boy and a smaller boy- the older about 15, and the younger around 5. She recognized Haymitch from around the time he had been reaped, considering he was probably around that age in the photo, and she knew he had had a younger brother, but not that young...Haymitch, however, looked a little different, even from his games. He looked...thinner, more gaunt. Miserable and tired, but still bright eyed and defiant.
She, for some reason, always neglected to remember that he grew up in the seam. He was such a different person to her than that. He wasn't even the same person to her that she met, not since he had quit drinking. She saw him now always as the victor of the 50th quarter quell, the man who had pulled her out of that prison cell. The man that, even though he acted like he had hated her all those years, he had really loved her all along.
Looking at him now, sound asleep on the couch, muscles built up again and slimmer from the work in 12 and the work of the rebellion, worn both mentally and physically from all the years. His blonde hair falling in his closed blue eyes. And she almost couldn't place the boy in the pictures.
That boy seemed so innocent, though she knew he had to work hard from a young age, and hopeful. So different from this broken man who had been abused by the world's systems of "justice".
Although, thinking of old pictures of her, she was sure she would look the same way in his eyes.