Here's a prompt: a third party (maybe Plutarch) plans separate dates because Haymitch and Effie seem lonely, except they only think of each other during their dates so when they're home again, there's a bit of jealousy (because one date kisses either of them), which leads to a confession.

Blind Date

The Capitol streets were very much like he remembered them, shiny and new in some places where the bombs had hit but mostly flooded with people, full of lights even in the middle of the night and too noisy for his taste. He didn't know why precisely his feet had taken him to that particular building or why he had been standing outside, seemingly frozen into place, like a crazy stalker but he supposed he could take a wild guess and say he kind of missed Effie Trinket.

His evening hadn't gone according to plan but that wasn't a huge surprise. He should never have accepted Plutarch's offer in the first place. Blind dates weren't his thing. Scratch that, dates weren't his things. He couldn't remember having ever dated before. They didn't do things like that in Twelve when he was young and there wasn't much opportunities once he had become a victor. His longest relationship – if something that had mostly been based on sex and had never been labeled out loud deserved the term – was with Effie and they certainly had never dated. But when he had refused, Plutarch had implied something might be wrong with his sex drive and had also suggested he took some nice little pills and that had wounded his pride because everything was in perfect order on that front. Haymitch didn't have much left, but he did have his pride. The date, of course, had been a total disaster from start to finish and he had taken to wander the streets at random. Well… Not so randomly it appeared.

He was about to turn on his heels and head back to his hotel when her laugh made him pause. He would have recognized it anywhere, even in the middle of a crowd, she had always smiled a lot, often for show rather than from real amusement, but her laugh had always been genuine. His eyes found her easily enough, she was walking down the street, clinging to a man's arm, clad in a dark coat. She had red high heels on which he supposed meant she was wearing a red dress under the coat, her hair – real hair, no wig – was tied up in a complicated bun that left some strands loose, curls framed her face. Haymitch stepped back into the shadow.

They stopped at the door of her apartment's building and they faced each other, a bit nervously. Effie looked down and then up, she gave a small smile and then the guy touched her arm and leaned in for a kiss. It had been years since they had last been together and still, Haymitch's vein burned with a rage akin to jealousy. He wanted to tear off the hands the guy had placed on her waist and maybe rip off his head for good measure. Maybe beat him to a pulp too, just to teach him a lesson. Stupid, of course, Effie wasn't his any longer.

Yet, he couldn't help a tinge of relief when she put both of her hands on the guy's chest and pushed him away softly.

"One last drink?" the man offered, tilting his head with a hopeful smile.

He saw the hesitation flash on Effie's face and then the resolve. "I'm sorry, no." Her smile was apologetic. "It was a really good evening but…"

Haymitch didn't caught his answer but next, the guy kissed her cheek and sauntered down the five steps leading to her door and disappeared in the night. Haymitch didn't know what possessed him to do what he did next but he stepped out of the shadow, hands deep in pockets, as casually as someone who had been lurking outside someone else's apartment could get. "Can I have one last drink?"

She jumped, clearly startled, and turned to him with a hand on her chest to calm the racing of her heart. "Haymitch!" she exclaimed once she had spotted him. Her lips immediately took on a smile and he smiled back smugly, ascending the five steps with less agility than the guy had done. He didn't have time to say anything else before she was drawing him in her embrace. "What are you doing here?" she asked, holding him so tight he couldn't breathe properly. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

He closed his eyes and breathed her in, feeling like a drunk fool. She was wearing the same perfume she always did back then. He hated the flagrance and he loved at the same time because it was so Effie. She fitted so nicely in his arms, it was stupid.

"Last minute thing." he explained, propping his chin on her shoulder. It occurred to him that the hug was longer than friendliness required but he didn't particularly care and she didn't seem to mind. "Plutarch asked me to come for a thing with Paylor. It's not important."

"Only you would deem a meeting with the President unimportant." she chuckled, finally letting go of his neck. Her fingers lingered on his cheek. "I'm glad to see you."

"Glad enough to offer me a drink?" he challenged, putting his hands on her waist just like the guy had done. He didn't know where he was going with that, just that he didn't like strangers touching her that way.

"You and your drinks." She rolled her eyes with fondness. She still led him up to her flat and poured him a glass of whiskey. Why did she have whiskey in her cupboard given that she hated that particular liquor was anyone's guess but Haymitch thought he had a fair idea and he liked what his mind was coming up with.

"So, what were you up to tonight?" she asked. "It's late for a social visit."

He had been right, she was wearing red. Her dress was shiny and pulled tight around her waist by a large ribbon secured by a particularly impressive knot, it draped around her shoulders, showing just enough cleavage to tease the imagination and was swaying around her thighs each time she took a step. Overall, she looked like a giant gift you couldn't wait to unwrap. She always did look her best in red.

"I had a date." He leaned against her kitchen counter, letting his eyes wander around in curiosity. He had been at her place several times during their time as mentor and escort but that apartment had been destroyed during the Capitol bombings and he had found no reason to visit her at her new one. They exchanged a few phone calls, sometimes, but that was it. "Plutarch set us up."

A small frown grazed her face but then it was gone. "Oh, I see. How did it go?"

Her voice had gone frosty and he couldn't help but smirk. "Well, she went to the toilets mid-dinner and never showed up again, so…"

He hadn't made too many efforts to be honest. It had all been a mess from the start. The woman was surely a nice person but she had been too loud, too nervous, too eager to please… Too innocent.

Effie looked at him for a second and then bit her lower lip in what was a valiant attempt at not laughing. "You should have shaved." she said, her mouth quivering with the hilarity she was trying to rail in. "Women like clean-shaved men."

He instinctively rubbed a hand against the two days stubble covering his jaw. "You never did."

Her smile faded away. "Yes, well…" She turned her back to him and poured herself a glass of a light pink liquor. He could never remember the name but she loved it. "As you repeatedly told me over the years, I have poor tastes."

He took a sip of whiskey and watched with fascination as her dress swayed around her legs. "Does your boyfriend shave?"

She faced him and appraised him over the rim of her glass. He only smirked harder. That was a familiar game they were playing. That was what he wanted. Not a stranger that Plutarch had picked up God knows where but… a challenge, a teasing match.

"Would it bother you if he were?" She perched herself on a bar stool near the counter he was leaning against and crossed her legs with a careful slowness. Seductively would have been another term for it.

"Shaving?" he shrugged. "Not really. His loss, you love the stubble burn."

"My boyfriend." she clarified, unfazed by his innuendo.

"Why would it bother me, sweetheart? I told you I had a date myself." The old nickname made her smile.

"You told me you just got ditched in the middle of a date. I see a difference, here." She made the pink stuff twirl in her glass absent-mindedly. "Isn't Plutarch just the matchmaker, these days… It's the third blind date he sends me to this month."

"Is it, now?" he snorted. "What's his deal anyway?"

Sadness flashed on her face and she downed her glass in one-go. "He thinks I'm lonely."

"Are you?" he asked seriously, putting the whiskey down to take a step closer.

"Perhaps." She waved the matter away. "Your glass is only half-empty."

"You used to see it half-full." he observed.

She watched him come closer with a small grin. "I mean it literally. You haven't finished your glass."

"There are things I want more than whiskey right now, sweetheart." He invaded her personal space without a second thought but she didn't move away or try to put some distance back. She just looked up at him with the same calm he felt, as if the whole thing was an everyday thing.

"That's a sentence I never thought I would hear you say." She put a hand on his chest and smoothed the creaks of his jacket like she used to do back then.

"Things change." He toyed with the hem of the huge bow holding her dress together, tugging a bit just to check her reaction.

Her eyes never left his as she got up from the tool. "Not so much." And then she kissed him. As the kisses grew heated, everything fell back into place. It was the same dance they had always danced, everything was the same: the rhythm, the steps, the ways she sighed his name, the way he moaned hers… It felt like coming home.