Promp : if you can be bothered to write more into it then i would love to read something where haymitch addresses effie's sleeping pill almost-addiction during the games? maybe even in a fight when she brings up his alcohol addiction or something?

White Lie

The thing was, contrary to popular belief, Haymitch did like his sleep. Falling asleep was never easy, not having nightmares was a miracle, and actually getting some rest took much more work than it ought, but occasionally, he managed all three and in those instances, he hated being woken up in the middle of the night by banging, crashing noises and the loud sound of the TV.

It took him a few seconds after he opened his eyes to realize he was in his room in the penthouse. It took longer to convince himself to release the handle of his knife. Whatever was going on in the living-room, it didn't sound as if anyone was getting murdered, more like his escort had decided to throw an impromptu party at three A.M.

He swung his legs out of bed and wandered in the dark corridors without bothering to put pants or a dressing-gown on. If he crashed her party wearing nothing else than his boxers, it would be her fault and no one else's.

He soon realized there was no party going on though – except if you counted one person obviously trying her hardest to be crazy as a party. His escort was dashing from one end of the room to the other, moving baubles and vases and paintings around. The TV was on a music channel and there was a clutter of empty mugs, glasses and papers tossed on the coffee table.

The most shocking thing was probably her lack of fashionable outfit. She was clearly in her pajamas – tight red shorts that barely covered anything and a loose matching red top that wasn't doing a good job at hiding her assets either – her hair was pinned up on top of her head in a messy bun that looked like thick honey in the artificial neon lights and she was wearing no make-up.

"What the fuck are you doing, Trinket?" he spat, if only to prevent himself from gaping. Gaping at his escort because she didn't look like a clown but like an actual human being – a very sexy, very attractive human being – wouldn't do.

Far from being disturbed, Trinket turned to him with a maniac smile on her face. "Oh, good! You're up! Do be a dear and help me move the couch."

Haymitch blinked and then ran a hand over his face. "It's three fucking A.M., Trinket."

"And you are up so I fail to see the reasoning." she declared, trying to push the couch on her own and absolutely failing. "This room needs redecorating. It has been the same forever. Don't you think the couch would be better near the window? I do. Come on, help me, Haymitch. You can see I'm not strong enough to do this by myself. And honestly, couldn't you put some pants on?"

"Says the girl flashing me right now." he snorted, gesturing to her chest but averting his eyes. The top was loose and when she bent in two to try to move the couch, everything she had to offer was on display. She was lucky he was actually mostly sober and had some decency left in him – he might not be a gentleman but he wasn't a pervert either.

"Oh." she gasped, flattening her top to her chest and straightening up, her cheeks flushing red. "My apologies."

He rolled his eyes and flopped down on the couch, effectively putting a stop to her attempts at redecorating.

"What is this about?" he yawned, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. Silence at last, he mused with pleasure.

"Cover your mouth when you yawn, Haymitch." she chided him. "No one wants to see your tonsils." She started bustling around the room again, moving this thing and that, straightening something, adjusting something else... "I have no idea what you mean." she added.

He was dizzy just looking at her.

Now, Effie Trinket was always a hurricane of colors and liveliness but rarely to that extent. Effie was always focused, her whole energy aimed at a specific goal, she was never as... scattered as she was in that moment. Never mind the fact that Haymitch was still waiting for her to freak out over the fact he had seen her without make-up, wigs or actual clothes.

She wasn't drunk, he knew that for a fact. He had seen her tipsy plenty of times and that wasn't tipsy Effie. Drunk Effie was something he had seen more rarely but a drunk Effie was clingy and melancholic and she hardly ever let it go that far.

She wasn't in her normal state either so that left only so many options...

"Are you high?" he asked outright.

"Of course not!" she huffed, sparing him a glare over her shoulder. "How preposterous of you!" Her interest in him was limited though and she soon went back to studying a painting of geometrical shapes – hideous according to him but it was art according to her – with her hands on her hips. "Do you think this would be better in the hall?"

"Are you even allowed to touch those things?" he snorted. "Don't they have a interior designer or something?"

"If they do, he is bad at his job." she declared. "I think it would be better in the hall."

And just like that she started trying to lift the painting from the wall. It was too big and too heavy but he didn't get up to help, he looked at the papers scattered on the coffee table instead. It took him a second to realize what they were. Sketches.

"Since when do you design clothes?" he asked, picking up a few sheets. They were mostly all the same, feminine figure with eccentric dresses, splotches of blinding colors everywhere. The lines were precise though and it looked good enough to his untrained eyes. "You're aiming at becoming our new stylist, sweetheart?"

It couldn't be any worse than those they were shackled with that year.

"Oh, it's just a hobby." she waved the question away but gave up on attempting to move the painting to snatch the sketches from his hands. "There are not very good."

"Looks good to me." he shrugged. "Fucking ridiculous clothes, yeah, but everything's ridiculous in your city."

She pursed her lips but he couldn't tell if it was in annoyance or in pleasure at the compliment. She gathered her papers and pencils, tidying up the mess she had made. He watched her for a few seconds, noticing there was still a raw and almost desperate energy to her movements.

"You're sure you're not high?" he frowned. "'Cause I've got to tell you, you're being weird."

"I don't touch drugs, as you very well know." she retorted harshly.

The unlike some other escorts went untold. Everyone needed something to take off the edge at some point, even escorts. They couldn't all remain blind to what was going on in front of their nose forever. Some managed it. Most didn't.

"I am just tired, I suppose." she admitted after a moment, once she had cleaned the coffee table. She sat on the couch next to him and immediately stood up again to walk to the bay windows.

"You don't look tired." he pointed out. "You look wired."

She wrapped her arms around her middle and pressed her forehead against the glass. "I've run out of sleeping pills. I can't sleep."

He hauled himself up with a sigh and walked to the liquor cart to pour himself something. "Just go to bed. It will come."

"No." she snapped. "You don't understand. I can't sleep without them." Her voice sounded frail, almost scared. "I've been fighting the urge to go down to the Games clinic and beg for some for two hours, I... I need sleeping pills."

"Oh." he said flatly, filling his glass to the brim. She wasn't looking at him, she was still staring out the window and after a second of hesitation, he poured her a glass too. Whiskey wasn't her thing but she would have to make do. "You're such a hypocrite." he snorted. "How many times did you call me out on my drinking and here you are... The junkie escort..."

"I'm not a junkie." she hissed, turning around to lean her back against the window and glare at him. "It's under control."

"Yeah, sure it is." he mocked, handing her the glass. The penthouse windows had a good view of the Capitol and the city never slept. There were always lights outside, people in the streets... He watched for a moment and then stared at his glass, careful to keep his voice detached. "If the medias get wind of this, you're going to get fired. Snow doesn't like junkie escorts."

It was always the same thing. As long as they could keep it under wrap it was fine but at the tiniest hint that the escorts were starting to question the Games... Being fired was the best case scenario here. Mentors were a different story. Mentors didn't have a choice but behaving for the cameras if they didn't want their friends and family to meet an untimely death.

"There is nothing to get wind of." she replied. "I didn't mean to let it go that far. I hadn't realized... I have it under control."

He studied her. She looked different without her make-up. Less fake, more... fragile. She looked older but that wasn't a bad thing. Softer too.

"So you're going cold turkey?" he snorted. "Bold choice, Trinket."

"There is no choice." she scowled. "I hadn't realized I had a problem. Now... Well, there aren't exactly a thousand solutions, are there?"

He took a sip of his whiskey, she had yet to touch hers. "I could go down and get you some."

"Would you?" she asked, clearly tempted by the offer. The hope fell off her face soon enough though. "No. It won't fix the problem. I need to learn to do without. Or at least to lessen the doses. I will admit I have been careless. I just... It was easier to pop a pill and go to sleep than toss and turn all night."

"You're preaching to the choir, here." he chuckled, toasting her with his already half-empty glass of whiskey. "You've got nightmares?"

He didn't know why he was asking. What did he care about her nightmares? She had chosen her job. It wasn't his fault she had developed a conscience along the way – well, maybe it was partly his fault, she had been so blind in the beginning he had been desperate to hurt her by showing her the truth.

"Is that so surprising?" she whispered, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the window with a soft thud. "I pick the names and then..." She waved the rest of that sentence away. "I know I have no rights to complain so there is no need for you to taunt me about it."

Another time, he would probably have taunted her. He wasn't drunk though and he wasn't especially bitter at that moment. He was sleepy and tired for more reasons than just exhaustion and he didn't want to fight that night.

"Come here." he sighed, placing the glass down at his feet before outstretching an arm. She stared at him as if he had grown a second head and he rolled his eyes. "Come on, Trinket, I won't offer twice."

Her first step was almost wary but they weren't standing so far apart and soon enough, she was wrapping her arms around his torso. He held her tight, cradling the back of her head in his hand, marveling at the softness of her hair. She was tensed at first but then she relaxed in a shuddering breath and buried her face in the crook of his neck. She leaned her whole weight on him and, in turn, he leaned against the window, closed his eyes and wondered how their strange friendship came to be.

He hated her most days, hated the act she managed to pull on every second of every day, hated the fact that if she was talented at lying to other people she also excelled at lying to herself, at convincing herself that everything was alright and she was happy... Clearly, she was losing her touch on that front.

But they were also allies, a team, not the one he would have chosen but a good one nonetheless when he bothered to actually work with her. They weren't so much enemies anymore.

And the Games eventually broke everyone anyway. It was just a matter of time.

"It will get better." she declared.

It was so symptomatic of the way they worked... Even now, when she was the one in need of comfort, she was the one providing the hope. It was her job, after all, keeping hopes up with her bubbly personality and she was awfully good at it as annoying as it was.

"Sure." he humored her without any conviction.

It was a white lie, something he rarely allowed himself.

That night was different though.

They both needed to believe it.