TRIGGER WARNING: dubious consent.
Year of the 75th Hunger Games
Effie attends Seneca's funeral in black and grey, stylish enough that the media spend several long minutes following her through the procession, but subdued enough that they ignore her once they've moved on. They capture the ceremony from start to finish, leaving only when Mrs. Crane begins to weep in earnest and Mr. Crane demands they give them their privacy.
Even Effie leaves at that, glad for the excuse to stand by herself and breathe properly for the first time in hours. The fresh grave is still within view of the tree under which she stands, but far enough away that it is less immediate, almost less real.
She hears footsteps approaching, but she does not turn to see who it is. Possibly it is Seneca's sister, a nice young woman who works in the national archives, coming to stand in silence with someone who had been nearly family.
But it is, she realizes when she recognizes the voice, the last person she wants to see or speak with.
"It's such a terrible loss, isn't it," President Snow says as he comes to stand beside her.
She is not afraid to answer him, because the truth is, for once, exactly what he wants to hear. "Yes, it is."
"Such a talent," he continues, shaking his head. "I never would have imagined he was so deeply troubled. Tell me, did he ever seem that way to you? Did he ever say anything that might have indicated it would end this way?"
No one is near enough to hear them, but her stomach clenches regardless. This is a test, one she must pass. If she fails, the price to pay will be far higher than the time before.
"No," she answers, and her voice cracks of its own accord. She would be proud if she weren't so sad. "He seemed perfectly fine. If he felt so lost, he never said anything, at least not to me." She is caught up in playing along, but her rage against the lie of it burns bright, just for a moment. She fights it back, smothers it with her act. She will pass with flying colors. "Maybe if I had paid more attention, I could've-"
"You mustn't think that way, Miss Trinket," he tells her, and the affected concern in his tone tells her she has done as she should by him. She is safe for now. "You played no part in this, and I'm certain he would tell you the same if he could."
She stifles a sob, equal parts anger and grief, with a white handkerchief, one that belonged to the deceased and that she never got to return. And maybe that is what pushes her to speak the truth, to ask the questions she shouldn't of the only person here who has the answers.
"It's because of Katniss and Peeta, isn't it? Because he didn't kill one of them." She shakes her head, continuing just as softly, "I told him not to do us any favors. District Twelve was going to win either way. That was what I had hoped for, you know, just to have a victor, just once. He could've sent in a mutt, or a flood, or-"
"It was his pride that did this to him," Snow answers, serene, satisfied with his decision. "He forgot the purpose of the Games and focused instead on seeking glory in the execution of them, in making this year's ceremonies especially memorable so that he would go down in history as the one who made them possible." He shakes his head, and Effie almost believes that he had cared at all about the man he killed. "I suspect he would not have heard your advice even if you could have given it to him.
"I am glad, however, that you remember why we do this, why we hold these pageants every year."
"I will always remember," she says, and every ounce of conviction in her voice has nothing to do with the Games. What she will remember is that she must play her part or suffer the same fate.
Year of the 74th Hunger Games
"You're bleeding," Effie says, the smile she greets him with disappearing in the frown that takes hold of her face.
Seneca tries to hide it; likely he succeeded in public, but she knows him too well. When she reaches for his hand, he does not resist, but he is tense regardless.
"It's nothing," he says. "I've had worse."
"It's something," she insists, shaking her head. It's a clean cut along his palm, and the bleeding seems to have stopped, but it needs care. "Go sit down, I'll get some things to clean it up."
She retrieves some supplies from her bathroom, wasting no time once she's by his side. She is generous with the rubbing alcohol on the cotton, but to his credit, he does little more than wince.
"Hell of an argument," he remarks once she's patted the excess alcohol off with a fresh cotton ball.
"You don't get into fights like this," she says, smearing ointment on a cotton swab. "You generally don't get into fights at all."
He shrugs. "Yes, well, some people will take anything as a personal offense."
"Then you walk away," she insists, dabbing ointment on the cut. "Honestly, you know better." But he also runs in social circles of men just like him, men who know that there are far better ways to handle disagreements than with fists and knives.
Chuckling mirthlessly, he shakes his head. "It isn't enough, being Head Gamemaker." He is quiet for a moment, watching her work. Then he adds, "Nothing has ever been enough."
She exhales slowly, nodding. "I don't think anything will ever be enough for your father. Or for mine, for that matter. Still…" She sets aside the cotton swab and stares at the now clean cut.
"I've had worse," he repeats. "Having to pay for things with blood is nothing. When I was very young, he'd threaten to send me to the Hunger Games."
"Goodness," she gasps. "You can't have been so bad as to merit that."
"He used to think so. He still does. Any act of disobedience is an act of rebellion against him. So he would say he would have me thrown into the arena to fight with all those other kids." He smiles at the memory, though it is tinged with a hurt that time has not yet healed. "I used to tell him I'd win. The first and only Capitol victor."
"Surely your childish misbehavior didn't deserve punishment suited for real traitors." But even as she says it, she has to wonder why generation after generation in the districts is punished for their grandparents' and great-grandparents' transgressions. Yes, it keeps them from rebelling again, but there must be another way.
She shakes her head and reaches for gauze to dress his wound. She knows better than to voice those thoughts.
"My father says I should quit," she tells him, wrapping a gauzy bandage about his hand. "He says it's not worth it anymore if I'm not promoted by the Quarter Quell. I tell him that it doesn't really work that way, but ever since I mentioned that Hesperia got assigned to Ten right away, he won't let it go."
"What would you do if you weren't an escort?"
"I don't know. I could do a lot of things with all this experience, but it wouldn't be the same. Besides, I like District Twelve. That is, I love giving them the chance to shine, the chance to bring their district honor and glory, you know?" She pulls the gauze a bit too tight, and he winces. "Sorry," she mumbles, reaching for the tape. "I should be more careful." She cannot afford to make even a single mistake.
She sets the remaining tape on the table, breathes deeply, and takes his injured hand in both of hers.
"Poor us," she says softly, giving a half-hearted smile, "leading these glamorous lives that our respective parents simply do not understand."
He catches one of her neon green curls with his free hand, twists it about his fingers. "No one ever really outgrows their parents, do they?" He doesn't bother with a smile. She doesn't blame him.
"No, I don't think so."
He slides his arm about her and pulls her close, and she leans against him. Neither seeks any more than this. It is hardly the best time, not when they are both battling memories they will never defeat.
For a moment, Effie forgets how this came to be and takes comfort in Seneca's warmth and quiet strength.
Year of the 73rd Hunger Games
She does not want to see him. She is ready, and she is on her way to meet him outside, but the last thing Effie wants is to see Seneca Crane.
Her mother was positively ecstatic when she heard, thanking goodness itself for the stroke of luck. Her daughter, her daughter and a Gamemaker - the Head Gamemaker, no less - why, it was a dream come true.
"I couldn't have arranged this better myself!" she had exclaimed, fussing over a flower pin for Effie's wig.
"It's only a date, Mother," Effie says, rolling her eyes.
"Yes, and that's how these things begin, dear."
Even now, with Seneca mid-bow as he kisses her hand, Effie wants to go back and tell her mother that this particular match did not begin the way she thinks. Maybe if it had, Effie would be walking on air, and every compliment he offers her would make her feel like a schoolgirl on her first night out with the star pupil in her year.
"You look like you're wearing stars," he tells her as he straightens, and she turns her face away.
To him, it is a show of diffidence, but to her, it is the only escape she has. The dark blue dominating her dress and hair, the sparkling silver of her jewelry and accessories, and the shooting star eyelashes make up one of her favorite outfits, one that never fails to draw admirers. But she does not want his praise. She hates this game because she cannot opt out of it, and she hates him because he is exactly the sort of man she would like to get to know in better circumstances.
It's that attraction she forces herself to think of later, when she sheds the night sky, so that he will not see the tears that dampen the shooting stars after every kiss.
The first time he gives her something - a bracelet with purple moon charms - it takes every ounce of her self-control not to throw it out when she goes home. It would be easy to get away with, too, to say she lost it at a party or a banquet, but she knows that President Snow is watching, so she keeps it safe and wears it every day, outfit permitting.
In return, she gives him the only thing she can: her undivided attention when they are together. That, at least, is easy. She asks him questions about his childhood, his hopes, his fears, all these things she might have saved for later if she weren't so desperate to find reasons to trust him.
Finally, at the end of the first month, she gets one that she cannot put a name to. He deviates from the normal course of action, leading her to the balcony of his penthouse instead of his bedroom. There, they talk of constellations and dreams, and he tells her that they are all made of stars, and that one day they will be among them again.
"There's a particular beauty in the quietness of the stars," he says, staring at the ones they can see through the light pollution of their city. "It's untouchable, and the only time I've seen anything like it is when night falls."
"You can make that happen whenever you like in the arena," she tells him, watching his brow wrinkle in thought. It's fascinating, seeing him not be one hundred percent certain of every little thing. Is this what he's like behind the façade?
"Yes, but it isn't the same. There's something about natural sunrises and sunsets that's just inimitable."
"Is that why last year's arena was nearly always in twilight?"
He nods. "We thought it would be an interesting twist if the tributes were forced to rely more on their other four senses. It was never fully dark, of course - night vision cameras don't provide the best images for viewers - but-" Frowning, he turns to her. "What did you think of it?"
"I thought it was beautiful. I love it when the sky looks purple and pink, or gold and grey, or any of the colors it gets between night and day." What had happened in the arena had been thrilling, too, but she had hated seeing her tributes die, one gored by a wild boar mutt, the other impaled by the girl from District Two.
That, however, she keeps to herself.
"As much as the tributes themselves are important, the arena is the setting for their collective story," he tells her. "And that's important, too."
"It's almost like a player in the Games, isn't it," she says. It seems a safe thought to voice, one that glorifies the Capitol's treatment of the descendants of the traitors of old, casting the playing field and those in charge of it in the role of gods. She can't take that away from them, really, not when there have been years where she has gone to visit retired arenas and imagine what it must have felt like to stand in them when they were at their most alive. Terrifying, surely, but perhaps also exhilarating. Whether they lived or died, tributes got to leave this world in glory.
"Exactly."
She doesn't know what makes them stop talking then, why they sit and stare at one another for what feels like hours. Maybe it's the starry sky that got them started on this, or maybe it's the simple fact that they can both still find mystery in the very event they are part of every year. Maybe even he has spared a thought for the tributes, has considered how fleeting their lives are, how even theirs here, exempt from the threat of death at such an age, aren't really in their hands.
She can't say, but what she does know for certain is that she cannot look away.
All they do that night is talk, but when she is home afterwards, she misses him for the first time since this began.