prompt: Haymitch suddenly realizing that he´s in love with Effie, sometime before de 74th hunger games. Thank you! Your os are the best.
A Revelation In The Dead Of Night
Haymitch woke up with an odd feeling.
It took him a few seconds of slowly emerging from his slumber, his eyes still closed, to realize what the feeling was. Peaceful. He felt peaceful.
His body was heavy and the sheets were warm, the pillow under his head smelt like fresh flowers, and he couldn't, for the life of him, find the will to open his eyelids. He had forgotten how it felt not to wake up gasping for breath, disoriented and terrified by a nightmare. For the first time in a long time, he felt good. Rested.
He wanted to go back to sleep, to melt back into the inviting cocoon and drift off. His bladder had other ideas.
He opened his eyes with a small groan and it took him a moment to remember where he was. The colorful flashing nightlights from the city were spilling through the window, tossing dancing shadows on the wall… He hadn't been in her apartment often enough to be familiar with the layout in the dark but the second of tension at waking up in a foreign bedroom was chased away by the presence of the naked body next to him.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep in the first place.
It had happened before, of course, more and more often in the last couple of years if he was honest with himself, but he tended to avoid sleeping with someone if he could help it. He was wary of what he could do in the throes of a nightmare and he didn't want anyone to get hurt. Least of all her.
Effie had moved away from him during the night – he was pretty sure they had fallen asleep with her half on top of him – she was on her side now, almost on her stomach really, an arm and a leg bent in front of her, her other arm under her pillow… Her hair was spread on the pink pillowcase – everything was pink: the pillowcase, the sheets, the comforter… He had been torn between laughing and swearing there would be no fucking on pink sheets earlier when they had stumbled into her bedroom.
The sheets were bundled up over her ass. He watched the shadows dancing on her skin for a while, entranced by the sight of the changing lights on her spine. He wanted to follow those shadows with his fingers and mouth.
He remained on his side of the bed though.
He was having one of those moments of perfect clarity he could have done without because self-denial and ignorance were two very useful concepts.
What was he doing?
In her bed. In her apartment. In her life.
He never came to the Capitol during Victory Tours usually. There was an open invitation for all victors to attend – although for some of them, the really popular ones, it was more an order than an invitation – the city needed distraction while the newest victor made their way throughout the Districts. It entailed partaking in official events and what Effie called making useful contacts with sponsors for the following season – something, he hated. He never came to the city for the Tour. Never. Ever since they had let him know his presence in the Capitol in the dead of winter wasn't mandatory, he had made it clear he would stay in Twelve all year long.
So what was he doing there?
Why was he being paraded around as one of the residing victors while they all waited for the Seventy-third winner to reach the Capitol?
Why had he made himself traipse out of his house a few weeks earlier and ask Undersee to contact the Capitol and arrange for transport? A somehow awkward experience that could have been avoided if he hadn't torn his own phone off the wall in frustration years ago.
He hadn't been in the city for two days when the penthouse's phone had rung and Chaff, who was still in Eleven, had asked what was going on in a worried voice. Because obviously for him to come to the Capitol for Victory Tour must mean something was wrong, that he was being blackmailed or forced into something he didn't want. His feeble "Ran out of liquor" hadn't convinced his best friend. Haymitch hadn't insisted, no quite sure how to explain it wasn't the Capitol being fishy for once, it was him.
When Effie had asked why he had come, he had shrugged and muttered an unintelligible answer that she hadn't forced him to repeat. She had had a pleased spring to her steps ever since.
He wasn't sure what that meant.
Except he kind of did.
When people asked him what he was doing there, he lied. When he asked the question to himself, he pretended he didn't know.
Moments of clarity in the middle of the night sucked.
He had been missing her.
That was the answer to a lot of questions all rolled into one.
He had been missing her like crazy.
It wasn't normal, surely, he mused, as his eyes retraced the line of her spine a last time before he pulled the sheets up to cover her. They had been fucking each other for years. Eight years, give or take, by that point. He should have been tired of her and not…
He used to not care about her.
She used to be nothing but his annoying peppy escort.
He used to fuck her because she was hot and young and irritating and because it had been the best way of shutting her up, of bringing her down a peg or two… It used to be all about fucking the Capitol like always, screw her like they had screwed him…
Except he sometimes thought that he had fucked the Capitol out of her. Literally.
He had grown dependent on her. She was very, very good at her job and she was even better at keeping him in line. Talks about her being promoted had left him anxious, talks about fiancés and possible marriages had left him livid… They were a good team when he bothered to try and she was Twelve's best chance when he didn't.
Somewhere along the line she had grown up, opened her eyes and become a woman he could not only respect but call a friend.
He wasn't even sure that it had been when his problems had started.
She had always been too bright, too colorful… Too impossible. She was a storm. A hurricane. She was a force of nature and she had swept him up in her wake just like she did everyone. He had just been too blind to see it. He always called her arrogant but he was the arrogant one because he had thought he was special, he had thought he could resist the tornado.
Stupid.
Because his feet really weren't on the ground anymore. He was dangling eight stories high, tossed around by the hurricane…
And he had been missing her.
So badly.
He was silent when he climbed off the bed and carefully padded into the bathroom, pushing the door before struggling to find the switch. The light was harsh and it made him groan. The bathroom was all green and blue, giant dots of apple green on a cerulean blue background as if a giant paintbrush had left splatters on the walls.
He faced the toilet and took care of his business, letting his eyes aimlessly roam around. He hadn't been to her apartment a lot in the past. He had certainly never spent a night there. It felt like crossing a line somehow.
The penthouse was neutral ground.
The penthouse didn't belong to either of them, it was impersonal in a way. He had fucked her in his house a few times, when she had showed up early to make sure he would be presentable for the Reaping. However, that felt different too. Mostly because it had always been quickies and because she had always looked scared of staining her clothes or catching something – not that he could blame her, his house was a garbage dump. Maybe that was the point, he didn't consider his house to be his home, it was just a place he lived – existed – in.
Her apartment was as personal and intimate as it got. There was a huge bathtub in the corner, shaped like a large triangle, both sides lining the walls were crammed with bottles and other stuff. The mirrors over the two twin sinks were shaped like suns, they were nice pieces of craft if a little ridiculous. He was sure the cupboards under the sinks were full of more products and fluffy towels color-coded not to clash with the decors. There was a huge black and white framed picture of her on the wall facing the mirrors and he marveled at her narcissism before realizing that she couldn't have been much older than eighteen on the glossy paper and that it was there as a sort of golden standard for what she was supposed to look like.
He could glimpse more colorful products in the shower tucked in the opposite corner and he wondered how many of that crap she loaded, given that there was also a dressing table full of perfume bottles, make-up boxes and hair stuff in the bedroom.
There was also an open half-empty box of tampons abandoned on the side of the sink, as if it had been left there a few days earlier to be put away until next month and had been forgotten.
He was pretty sure no other man had laid eyes on her box of tampons in a really long time – if ever.
Yeah.
Being in her apartment really made it personal and he wasn't quite sure what it meant.
He wasn't quite sure what it meant that he had been able to think about little else but her lately either.
He had been sitting in his living-room when he had made the decision to come to the Capitol. He had been sitting there, staring at the same wall he always stared at, bored out of his mind, not even interested in the bottle he had been holding… He hadn't wanted the liquor. He had wanted her and no amount of using his imagination had helped. His hand hadn't been enough to quench that particular fire.
He had been certain he wouldn't have known peace until he had buried himself in her and waiting more than six months for that had seemed a torture he wouldn't be able to endure.
So he had made the trip to the Mayor's house despite his long respected oath to never purposefully put himself on Maysilee's sister's path.
And now, there he was.
Screwed in every possible way.
He washed his hands, staring at his reflection in the center of the sun-like mirror.
"The fuck you're doing?" he asked himself.
It needed to be said out loud, he figured, if only for posterity's sake.
Because whatever it was he was doing, it was stupid.
You didn't get attached. You didn't get involved.
That was the rule, a rule he had been strictly sticking to for twenty-three years. Anyone close to him would eventually get killed. And he would be left alone to pick up the pieces. He didn't have it in him to get his heart broken another time. He wouldn't survive it.
He splashed some water on his face, hoping it would grant him some measure of clarity he had no hope of getting.
Dread and anxiety were making him slightly nauseous.
Effie Trinket was under his skin and he could deny it all he wanted, lie to her about it, to him, to the rest of the world… It wouldn't change the facts.
It was too dangerous.
He needed to end it.
For her sake.
And for his.
He stared at his reflection once more and nodded to himself.
Coming to the Capitol without a good reason? It was a dead giveaway and he was sure a Gamemaker or two would have picked up on it. He was becoming careless. A sexual affair, they wouldn't care about but if they had any suspicion that he had feelings for her…
He needed to end it.
Or, at least, to put some distance and perspective back.
It could never be anything but sex.
Desiring anything else was foolish.
She would move on eventually – soon probably because she had been his escort for eleven years now and escorts had a expiry date, she was already pushing it age-wise – and there would be no excuses then, no way to hide it or pretend it was just easier than looking for someone else.
And he didn't want the complication anyway. Effie was a pain. She wanted to be treated like a princess, she was a spoiled brat… He would never be able to give her what she expected out of a relationship. He wasn't even interested in trying.
This settled that, he told his reflection firmly.
He switched off the light and crept back in the bedroom, his eyes scanning the floor in the semi-obscurity for the clothes that had flown off earlier.
She had turned around in her sleep.
Her face was relaxed, peaceful. Just as peaceful as he had felt when he had woken up earlier… There was a small wet spot next to her mouth and it made him smirk because she would have denied drooling in her sleep to her dying breath… The sheets had slid down and barely covered her nipples. He could guess at the pink peaks and it sent a jolt of arousal down to his groin. Her arm was outstretched as if she had felt around for his body and then given up.
He wanted to pick up the underwear he finally spotted hanging from the side of her dressing table but he found himself walking back to the bed instead. It was like being in a dream. He knew it was stupid and reckless and a thousand things in between. He knew he would regret it eventually. And yet he still climbed back between the sheets, gently folding her arm back so he could get enough room.
She hummed and stretched like a cat before snuggling against him, her eyes still closed. "I thought you were gone."
"Needed to pee." he mumbled, brushing his hand down her side, pushing the sheets out of the way. He told himself that was the only reason he was staying. Because he wanted her.
"Something you do but do not talk about in polite society." she lectured with a small smile. His hand drifted between her legs and she helpfully hooked her knee over his hip to give him a better access. "What is it in my bathroom that got you in this sort of mood?"
"There's a nice picture of you." he snorted. "A guy pees, looks at it and gets ideas…"
"Does he?" she chuckled. Her fingers clenched on his chest when his slowly teased her. He wasn't sure how he wanted to play it yet. Fuck her hard or make her beg for it… He enjoyed both. He wanted to make the right choice. The one that didn't scream 'I may have freaked out about having feelings for you in your bathroom'. She moved her hand to his neck and playfully bit down on his shoulder. "What kind of ideas?"
"Kinky ones." he challenged, taking his hand from between her legs to grope her. "Like you on your stomach with your ass in the air…"
"My, my…" she teased. "I had no idea an old picture of me could inspire such improper thoughts."
"Maybe I'm gonna eat you out first." he mused. "Not sure yet."
"Should I go back to sleep while you decide?" she mocked.
"Won't stop me." he shrugged.
She laughed and finally opened her eyes to whack his arm. "Horrid man."
He kissed her.
It wasn't what she had been expecting, he could tell. Usually, there would be more banter leading up to that, the pretense of fighting because fighting was always what had gotten them in bed in the first place…Usually, the kiss would have been more brutal too, a shut up for fuck's sake rather than… whatever it was.
It was soft and sweet and so not them they both drew back a little confused.
"Haymitch?" she frowned, completely awake and a bit wary now.
"I hate you." he muttered quickly, awkwardly. "I fucking hate you."
Maybe if he said it often enough, he would start believing it again.
She remained frozen for a second and then swallowed hard. "Of course, you do."
Her voice was cheerful, just as forced as his was.
It didn't help.
It didn't help in the slightest.
They were fucked.
Completely fucked.