Prompt : please could you just fuck me up and write a fic where haymitch breaks Effie's heart by ending things with her before the rebellion because he secretly thinks it will be better/safer for her?

Breaking Hearts

He doesn't remember the last time he kissed her.

He remembers the last time they had sex, it was when the Victory Tour train has dashed through the short no man's land between Three and Two. There hasn't been a lot of time to spare on that Tour, not many nights they haven't spent reviewing speeches, worrying about the kids or eluding all the things they want to discuss but have spent too many years ignoring to simply address now.

There were moments though. Hands brushing as they passed each other by in the corridors, stolen kisses when they could get away with it, a tenderness that was new and refreshing and a little scary.

But he doesn't remember the last time he kissed her.

He thinks it was sometimes after their arrival in the Capitol, between two interviews. He thinks she's the one who initiated the kiss and he was too distracted to actually respond to it. It was a peck, nothing more than a peck.

And now she's looking at him, her eyes bright with relief at the prospect of finally escorting the kids back to Twelve, certain that the worst of it is over and that they can all move on safely to the next Games. It's their last night in the city and with only two nights to spare before they have to separate for months, he has known all along she would show up in his room.

He has known all along Plutarch and Cinna have a point and it's time to stop risking everything.

It's not like she means something, he has argued enough times to his friends and to himself, but she does mean something and they are right. The rebellion is too close. He can let himself be distracted. He can't put her at risk by sleeping with her anymore.

"I'm not in the mood." he lies.

It would be easy to give in one last time to this need inside of him. It would be easy to call it a last hurrah, push her on the bed and lose himself in her like there would be no tomorrow – there might be no tomorrow. He can't do that to her. He can't use her and push her away like she's nothing more than a fuck toy. Not anymore.

A crease of her eyebrows and she walks closer to where he is sitting at the edge of the mattress. She means to straddle him but he grabs her waist and pushes back, gently enough that she won't fall but firmly enough that she gets the message.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing's wrong." he shrugs, bending to unlace his shoes.

He needs the excuse to avert his eyes. He's going to hurt her and that's something he hasn't wanted to do in a long time. In the beginning... Yes, in the beginning they had used words as weapons. He has never actually hurt her during sex, always careful to stay on the right side of the line even when he was furious with her, but his mouth... Oh, his mouth could do more damages than his fists.

"Then why..." She hesitates and reaches for him.

He hates that she left her armor in her own room. He hates that she came to him without wig and make-up, wearing only a nightgown, her blond hair tumbling loose on her shoulders. He hates it because he knows she doesn't see herself as he sees her : gorgeous and beautiful. She only sees the flaws she feels the need to cover, she only sees the plainness she was taught is there, she only sees the small developing lines at the corners of her eyes and the dull color of honey in her hair. She likes vibrant colors, she wears them like a shield.

It has taken him years to convince her she doesn't need all that crap with him, that he prefers her natural to her designers dresses, blinding wigs and garish make-up. It has taken him endless nights of gruff whispers that she's beautiful for her to stop instinctively hiding away when her face is devoid of powder. It has taken too long to get her to a point she was comfortable being her own self around him – not the escort, not the perfect doll her mother raised to be, but Effie.

She's confident to the point of arrogance when she's dressed like a typical Capitol but she's vulnerable when she's completely bare and he hates that she chose the latter that night of all nights.

He avoids her touch, bats her hand away and forces a mocking smirk on his lips. "I think you grew too comfortable here, Trinket. This is nothing more than an arrangement. You're convenient when I want a fuck. I don't want a fuck tonight so get lost, go bother someone else if you're so desperate to scratch an itch."

He hears her sharp intake of breath but still doesn't look at her in the eyes.

In the end, that's what betrays him. He has never been shy of looking at her in the eyes when he delivered painful verbal blows before.

"No." she snaps. "No, something is going on. You are not acting like yourself. Is it the children? Do you..."

"Not everything has to do with the kids." he cuts her off, before licking his lips, wishing he could have a drink. "Look, sweetheart... You're clingy."

She freezes.

He can actually feel her whole body tensing from where he is sitting.

"I beg your pardon?" she asks. She's aiming for detached, he hears it, but it sounds nervous and defensive.

"Clingy." he repeats in a scoff. "Like this means something more than it is."

He gives a lazy wave to the space between them and then kicks off his shoes before standing up to grab his night clothes and put some more space between them. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, hoping she will get the dismissal and walk away.

"And what does it mean?" she hisses.

He turns his back on her under the pretense of slipping on the shirt he sleeps in at night, grateful not to have to see her face.

"It means I wanted to take you for a spin, Trinket. It means nothing more than an easy fuck." he snorts with enough cruelty that he hears her step back. "You got your thrill out of screwing a victor, I got my thrill out of fucking the escort. That's fine. That was fun. But that's over. You're not so young anymore, are you? Not so good either. Found better at home. Prettier. That housekeeper of mine? Now, she's good." Hazelle will probably bash his head with a broom if she ever finds out what he said but he forces himself to go on anyway. "She's so good I don't even mind when she goes on top."

That's always a point of tension. His inability to release control even to her, even after all this time. The trust, she feels isn't without bounds because every time she wrestles the control from him he winces – it isn't that he doesn't trust her, it's that even now, after all this time, he needs to be in charge at all times and that includes sex.

"You're a pig." she sneers.

He doesn't need to turn around to know there are tears in her eyes she will die before she lets him see.

He chuckles and it is bitter and nasty all at once. "I'm a man, sweetheart. Men grow bored."

"I see." she hisses. "Well, good luck to your housekeeper. I hope she knows what she's getting into. Don't think I will regret you. There are better lovers out there, lovers who don't leave you hanging two times out of three."

She doesn't raise her voice and she doesn't slam the door behind her – that would be unladylike – but it's even worse somehow.

Silence, he muses, can be deafening.

Break her heart, they advised.

They didn't realize breaking her heart means breaking his own.