Hello :) when you have time could you please do a hayffie fic during the games (maybe pre-books) where Effie talks to haymitch about why she wanted to be famous? This is very much from one of the lines from your most recent fic I think it's something like haymitch knew about her helpless thirst for fame and glory? I'm sort of imagining like late night in depth chats but idk ;) x

Chats In The Dead Of Night

The soft splashing of liquor hitting the glass was the only noise in the penthouse. Haymitch loved those moments best. Be it in the Capitol or in Twelve, there was a peaceful quality to silence around three in the morning when you were well on your way to being wasted : the ghosts were gone, the night was dead and the memories were too hazy to be a problem. With alcohol for company, life seemed almost livable.

Of course, Haymitch mused, it was no wonder the elevator chime destroyed the peace. It was written in stone that he couldn't have a moment of serenity.

He listened to the tell-tale clicking of heels as Effie wandered in the penthouse, guessing from the quiet noises that she was shedding her coat and dispatching her purse, gloves and whatever accessories she was troubling herself with this year. He was a bit surprised when he heard her coming to the living-room instead of heading to her room, it only grew when she didn't bother to turn the lights on, navigating around the couch in the darkness by instinct only. He watched her puffy dress make a beeline for the liquor without even realizing he was there.

"Didn't have enough at your party?" he asked, his voice rough from too much shouting earlier.

She startled badly, turning around with a hand on her heart and an accusing glint in her eyes – he couldn't quite see her in the dark but he just knew there was an accusing glint in her eyes, it was there more often than not lately.

"I don't drink at parties." she replied, pouring herself a drink with shaking hands. "As you are well aware."

"Yeah." he snorted. "Stupid."

"Are you calm now?" she asked in a matter-of-fact sort of voice.

It was the tone one would have used with a child after a particularly bad tantrum. It should have irked him but the liquor was working its magic, he wasn't drunk drunk yet but he certainly wasn't sober anymore.

"Are you?" he retorted. It was lame but he was too tired to find a witty comeback.

You didn't find a comeback in the dead of night. Those moments weren't made for fighting like they usually did.

"Not particularly." she sighed. "I don't like it, you know. You said I enjoy it earlier but I really don't."

His memory of the fight was fuzzy. The tributes had been killed, they had argued, he had said things, she had said things… It had ended in much the same way it always did : with him storming out. He had only crept out of his room when he had heard her leave for a party or another.

How she could party when two kids she had taken care of for days just died was anyone's guess.

He must have asked that question out loud because she bristled and took a sip of her glass.

"They would ask questions. One of us needs to do it and we both know it won't be you." she snapped.

He frowned, accepting the truth of that statement and rejecting it all at once. "So I should say thanks?" he chuckled bitterly.

She drew out another sigh and kicked off her shoes. "Could we not argue right now? I'm too tired to argue. Could we be friends for a while?"

He shrugged, watching her as she walked closer to the couch. He was slumped on his back, there was no room left for her to sit but there were armchairs. He was surprised when she sat on the floor, in front of the couch. Her fingers ran over the newly carpeted floor a few times – the carpet dated from that year but he just knew it wouldn't be there the next year, it was too much work to clean vomit stains out of it.

"Chaff sends his best wishes." she said out of the blue.

He doubted his friend had formulated it quite like that. Eleven was still in the Games or he would have been here, getting wasted with him.

"Was it a good party?" he asked, unable to think of any other question. She seemed to be waiting for something but he didn't know exactly what.

She sipped from her glass for a few seconds. He could glimpse the light pink liquid in the city lights spilling from the bay windows, she was fond of that cocktail. It did nothing for him.

"I smiled and laughed and accepted their regrets that we didn't have better tributes." she offered at last. "I tried to make contacts for next year but I always do and it never sticks."

"Seems like you had a blast." he snorted.

"A blast, yes." she repeated flatly.

Her glass was empty. He didn't resist when she snatched the bottle from his fingers and brought it to her own lips. He watched as she gulped down one, two, three mouthfuls without coming up for a breath. At the fifth one, he pried the bottle away.

"Careful, sweetheart." he chided her. "That's not lemonade."

She let her head fall back against the couch, it also fell back on his stomach but Haymitch didn't comment. He studied her face in the darkness, her closed eyes, the fake eyelashes that covered her cheekbones like two overgrown spiders… There were gems glued to her right temple in the vague shape of a flower. Ridiculous.

"I feel sick." she whispered.

"That's what happens when you're a lightweight who drinks the strong stuff." he stated.

"No…" she denied, her shoulders slouching in an uncharacteristic way. She turned her head so she could look at him, pressing her cheek to his stomach. "I feel sick."

Sick of watching helpless children dying, sick of the Games, he figured.

It had taken her longer than he thought it would.

"Welcome to the human race." he shrugged.

"Sarcasm is not helping." she breathed out with irritation.

"No but it's a relief." he replied.

She closed her eyes again, her cheek still pressed against his stomach, and it occurred to him that he should push her away instead of continuing to drink as if it was an everyday occurrence. It was setting a dangerous precedent. Besides, if she fell asleep like that, she would end up with a massive crick in her neck.

Still, he watched her, studying her.

"Is it worth it?" he asked, curious. "The fame, the parties, the fans… You love those things. Is it worth it?"

She was thirsty for glory, he had understood that as soon as they met.

"Sometimes yes." she murmured with her eyes still closed. He wondered if it was because she was too ashamed to admit that. "When you're not here, when the Games are not… It's easy to forget."

"And the rest of the time?" he insisted. His hand wandered to her wig. It was an ugly thing, even uglier than usual, blue and purple, twisted in knots. The synthetic hair was stiff and sticky with hairspray, he tugged on it tentatively but she whacked his hand away without lifting an eyelid.

"The rest of the time, I feel sick." she confessed at last. "Was winning worth it?"

He should really have resented the question but it was three in the morning and he was too tired and too drunk to get angry.

"No." There was no hesitation in his voice, not even the tiniest second of reflection. It had been worth it in the first few days, when the Capitol had acclaimed him as a hero and he still thought he had people waiting for him in Twelve. But after that… No, not even for a second. "I feel sick all the time."

"That's because you drink too much." she commented. It was an attempt at a joke and a poor one at that.

"Might be." he humored her. "How did you even end up doing this job? Why not become the most famous architect of your generation instead of playing at being a fantasy?"

He had no doubt she would have aimed at being the most famous architect. It was Effie Trinket in a shell, she always had to be the best.

"How do you even know about the architecture?" she frowned, opening her eyes to stare at him with mistrust.

"You told me, Princess." He rolled his eyes. "I listen. Sometimes." She hummed dubiously but he was curious now so he nudged her gently. "So?"

"There is no great story." she said, straightening up again. He missed the soft weight of her head at once, it was a surprising thought. She didn't seem to realize his moment of confusion. "I was trying to prove a point."

"Which was?" he pressed.

She hesitated but then she simply stole his liquor away again to swallow a few more mouthfuls. He could see the alcohol had taken its toll on her body already. She was less uptight, her movements were sluggish…

"I wanted to prove I could be more famous than my mother was in her prime and more beautiful than my sister." she offered. "You will think it's shallow."

"'Cause it is." he declared.

"I love being loved." she confessed, her words were starting to slur. He would have to help her to her room before long he supposed as he watched her drink some more. "I love when people look at me with desire or envy… They all want to be me. To them, I am perfect."

"Perfect is overrated, sweetheart." he whispered.

"Perhaps." she admitted. "But when my mother looks at me all I see in her eyes is disappointment. I thought I would become Panem's most famous escort and proved her wrong but I ended up being Twelve's escort instead and we both know I will never get promoted because I'm the only one who can make you behave. I'm too good at my job and that made me a mockery. Mockery was the word she used in case you were wondering."

There was a long silence during which he snatched the liquor and drank some before she could finish it.

"Well…" he declared. "Your mother sounds like a bitch."

She laughed. It was carefree and a tinge bitter but a hundred percent more real than her usual peals of laughter. It wasn't so often she dropped the mask of fake smiles and laughs.

"And your story is pathetic." he went on, handing her the bottle back. "You're not mama's favorite, so what? You're better than that."

"Am I?" she huffed. "Because those children I reap…"

"Stop." he cut her off, his eyes darting to the ceiling. He didn't know if the penthouse was bugged – probably, yes – and he didn't know if someone was actively listening. "There are limits to what you can say, Princess. Even to me."

Her blue eyes were dulled by alcohol, she curled up against the side of the couch, facing him, and leaned her cheek against his side again. He brushed the tip of his fingers against her cheek, trying to guess her features underneath the make-up. She always looked faintly different with each new fashion trend, never the same. Sometimes it felt like watching someone through a glass, the image was slightly distorted, not enough to make it odd but enough to become unfamiliar.

"Haymitch?" she whispered.

He pried the neck of the bottle from her fingers and took a swing. "Yeah?"

"I feel sick for real now." It was almost a whimper and her arm was clutching her stomach. She glared at the bottle. "This thing is vile."

He sighed and put his alcohol down before carefully sitting up. The room spun but no more than he expected, not enough to truly be a problem. He waited for the dizziness to pass and then helped her to her own feet. Clearly, she was more intoxicated than he had thought because she could barely stand.

"You're a real pain in my ass, Princess." he told her, grabbing her more firmly around the waist before bending to catch her under the knees. "Let's get you to bed."

Proof that she was truly hammered she didn't protest the rough treatment or his language. She buried her face in his neck.

"Can we not be enemies anymore?" she asked. "Can we be friends sometimes?"

"Yeah." he granted at last. "Sometimes."