hayffie prompt: Haymitch has to wear glasses and he hates it because he feels old, Effie teases him at first but then realizes that it kind of turns her on

Of Glasses And Tomcats

"Would you just put on the glasses?"

Effie let out an irritated sigh, shaking her head at the man sitting on the couch. She didn't bother turning around though, knowing whatever argument she would use would fall into deaf ears. She kept checking herself in the penthouse living-room mirror, glancing at his reflection from time to time.

"I don't need glasses." Haymitch grumbled, taking a sip from his glass. He wasn't drunk yet. It was too early in the Games for him to be completely wasted all the time, he was gradually working his way there and Effie was doing her best to stop him. Sometimes it felt as if the years simply repeated themselves. She watched him squint some more at the notes in his hand. She wasn't overly surprised when he threw her a glare. "Your handwriting sucks, sweetheart."

"Language." she snapped. "You never had any problems with my handwriting before. You know what the problem is. The doctor told you."

She had been wary of his frequent headaches. He had complained non-stop from the second he had put a foot on the train to that same morning when she had finally dragged him down to the Center Clinic. She was very used to his liquor binges and subsequent hangovers and in almost ten years he had never whined as much or begged so many times for aspirin pills. The doctor who examined him had concluded the problem was with his sight and in a matter of an hour, Haymitch had brand new glasses in his possession.

"What do you care what I do or not?" he grumbled, bringing the paper closer to his face. "What did you write there? Peter? Pleter? Preter? You really need to learn how to write…"

"Like you have room to talk." she huffed. "Do you even know how to form proper letters? A child would write more neatly than you." Haymitch's handwriting was truly terrible. So much so that she had taken to fill all the paperwork herself – not that he would have bothered to do it otherwise. "And it is Fleter for your information. Cathelyn Fleter. She's eighty, rich and sweet on you. Try not to antagonize her, we could use her sponsorship."

She went back to checking her own reflection, making sure the purple wig was still styled and that it wasn't crooked.

Haymitch was muttering under his breath – obscenities about her or a string of curses about sponsors, she wasn't sure – and for a while she was simply content to correct her make-up. The party taking place that evening would be huge which meant potentially rich people they could rally to Twelve's cause. Her attitude was very optimistic, as she had been told more than once by various people of her acquaintance, but she still hoped one day they would secure a win.

At the third grunt of pain, she let out another aggravated sigh and left the mirror to grab the small rectangular box Haymitch had carelessly thrown on the coffee table earlier that day. She took out the glasses and handed them to him pointedly.

He didn't even look up. "No."

"Haymitch, your behavior is ridiculous." she hissed.

"Says the clown." he replied without missing a beat.

"Haymitch." she growled.

"Haymitch." he repeated in a bad imitation of her voice. "I said no, sweetheart. You know who wear glasses? Old victors. I'm not there yet."

She rolled her eyes.

Truth be told, very few people in the Capitol ever wore glasses – aside for sunglasses, of course, but those were more fashionable accessories – there were a lot of medical treatment one could undergo to correct one's sight, not to mention contacts.

She didn't bother suggesting that last option. It required too much work for Haymitch.

"The doctor said corrective surgery would…" she tried but he shot her down at once.

"No one is coming near my eyes with a scalpel." he interrupted with a gruff.

"Actually, I think they use a laser." she offered helpfully.

Why did she even bother?

"Even worse." he spat. "No."

She took a deep breath, counted to three to keep her temper under control and then dangled the glasses under his nose. "Then you are out of options. Since when do you even care what you look like? For goodness' sake, you would go out wearing your dressing gown if I let you!"

Perhaps he finally realized how stupid his behavior was because he did take the glasses from her fingers.

"I don't care what I look like." he said defensively. "But I'm not old."

That last sentence was delivered almost petulantly.

"Well, you are almost forty." she teased. "Most people would consider that old…"

"You're not exactly young either." he snorted.

"Perhaps but my sight is still on point." she replied, refusing to take the bait. "Now, it is only you and me here. I think your secret is safe. Put those glasses on."

"No." He glared at the offending object in his hand like it had personally wronged him.

"Then I will inform Chaff. I think he will find the whole story really amusing and we all know how much you enjoy being mocked…" she threatened.

"You wouldn't." He was eyeing her with plain distrust now.

"Oh, on the contrary." she grinned. "I would."

His lips were pressed tight together in annoyance although she could glimpse some amusement in his eyes. He finally surrendered and placed the glasses on his nose. They were black and quite ordinary – he wouldn't accept any of the fancy kind – but added to the button down blue shirt she had chosen for him and the pressed pants…

Effie complimented herself on her fashion choices were he was concerned. Even though he always refused to wear the clothes the way they were meant to – the pants went with another shirt entirely and the shirt itself went with a tie he had discarded in the trash when her back was turned – he still looked somehow… good.

"They're not magical. You still look ridiculous." he chuckled. "I think I liked you better blurred."

She barely heard the taunting, too focused on the glasses. It suited him. It did make him look slightly older but not in a bad way. It made him look… brainy. She had never known she was attracted to the brainy kind until that very moment.

She brushed the dirty strands out of his face – she had argued that if his hair weren't constantly in his eyes he would see better but he had scoffed at her attempts to take him to a hairdresser. Her mouth, for some reason, felt parched. She licked her lips and knew it was a mistake at once when his eyes darted to them.

His smirk was slow and almost predatory. "You like what you see, sweetheart?"

It wasn't really a question.

She cleared her throat and looked away, pretending to fuss over the papers he had spread all around the couch and the coffee table. It would take hours to organize them again. She wasn't expecting his hands on her waist. She straightened at once, fighting with herself not to lean in the comforting warmth of his chest.

"Don't worry, Princess…" he chuckled in her ear. "I will keep your secret kink to myself." He pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. She really should have protested at the familiarity and the boldness of the move but his lips were gone before she could form a coherent thought. "Your dirty secret is safe with me." he whispered before letting go of her hips and strolling away from her with a confident strut. He looked like a tomcat.

It was all very ridiculous.

Not to mention inappropriate.

It was unfortunate she had a thing for tomcats.