Prompt : Hi dear! I've got a prompt ^^ Could you write a story about Haymitch or Effie missing the other badly during the year, when there's no chance they can meet up (or probably even phone)? That would be wonderful :3 Thank you xx

Olfactory Memory

1.

The flagrance felt like a punch to the stomach.

He stared at the grocery bag, unable to understand how and why his kitchen suddenly seemed to be inhabited by Effie Trinket's spirit. He wasn't drunk enough to be hallucinating and he was quite certain she hadn't appeared in Twelve while he was doing the annoying – but necessary at that point because even he couldn't survive on a diet composed only of Ripper's best moonshine – grocery shopping. He would have known if a train from the Capitol had found its way to the station. Someone, probably the mayor, would have warned him if they had wanted him for interviews or something like that – not that anyone would want him for an interview, not at the rate he was drowning in his liquor.

He felt stupid when he called out her name anyway, a tiny spark of hope in his chest. It had been months since they had lost the seventieth Hunger Games and he wouldn't have minded seeing her that much. He wouldn't have minded wrapping his arms around her waist, he wouldn't have minded pressing his lips against her soft skin, he wouldn't have minded her running her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching his scalp, all the while complaining he needed a haircut and a shave and a shower and so many annoying things…

His voice echoed through the empty house. Stupid, he told himself, he had known it was empty. Nobody came in the house but him and his ghosts – he had enough of those to fill it to the brim. Effie didn't belong in that house, she would never belong there. She was too full of life to bury herself in that tomb with him.

Still, he wished…

But there was no point on dwelling on what ifs. She wasn't there and he wouldn't see her until the next Reaping and that was all there was to it.

He unloaded his grocery bags until his hand closed on a branch of dry lavender. The woman at the shop must have put it in there by mistake. He closed his eyes, brought it to his nose and breathed the smell in. Just like that, so easily it was almost ridiculous, he conjured his escort up. He could see her. She would stand there, one hand on her hip, the other waving in the air to better illustrate the topic of her rant, her eyes narrowed at him with irritation and her mouth pursed. She wouldn't be wearing that awful perfume she insisted on when they were out, but she would smell like the soft lavender shampoo she used. Her sheets and pillowcases always smelt like lavender.

He missed her.

He rejected the thought as soon as it came to him.

He missed the sex and that was it. He didn't miss her, of course not. He had no reason to.

He crumpled the branch of lavender and tossed it aside.

It didn't matter.

He could smell lavender all evening.

It left him aching for her.

2.

She hated whiskey.

Her father's poison of choice was scotch, her mother liked red wine and she, when she truly wanted something strong, leaned toward tequila or vodka.

Truthfully, in her youth, the mere sight of whiskey was enough to make her gag. She hated the bitter taste, she hated the smell, she even hated the color – so dull.

So why did she buy a bottle of malt on a whim? Why did she sat on her couch, late at night, and stared at the glass of whiskey she had just poured herself?

The smell, that was why.

It still tasted horrible to her but she didn't hate the smell all that much anymore – or, at least, not for the same reasons.

The smell helped her pretend, for a little while, that the ache in her chest wasn't so painful. She didn't miss Haymitch all the time, there was too much partying to do, too many distractions to be found to miss him every second of the day but, sometimes, it would hit her like a punch to the stomach out of nowhere. So, she pretended. Nothing reminded her of him more than the smell of whiskey.

She didn't even know why she missed him. What was there to miss? A bad temper, a few sassy or sarcastic remarks and his insufferable drunk behavior? The sex, as good as it was, didn't make up for all his flaws.

She didn't know why she missed him.

But, God helped her, she did.

So she breathed the whiskey in and pretended.

What else could she do?