Prompt : :Your fics are wonderful. I only recently discovered this ship and I've been hooked I just have to rewatch the films. In the first movie when Haymitch made the "not yours" comment regarding Effie's dress, I noticed that his tie and it's accent actually match Effie's dress! They are partners even then. Can you make a story about that subtle sign of their partnership?

A New Partnership

Haymitch hated his new escort with unabashed passion.

He considered the crimson red of her dress with open loathing right as she made her own visual inspection of him – and he made an effort not to notice that red really suited her because that was neither here nor there.

"Care to tell me why we're wearing matching outfits like second grade schoolers?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Trinket was a challenge, that couldn't be disputed.

He had treated her like utter shit ever since Reaping Day and she had yet to flip. She replied to every one of his gibes with a random comment, always so cheerful he wasn't sure if she was mocking him or if she was just that dumb, she answered his loathing with a polished aristocratic attitude that left him seething, and, to his voluntarily crude behavior she opposed unflinching and unapologetic manners.

She refused to be cowed, standing her ground at every turn and staring straight at him when he raised his voice with open boredom as if he was simply a child throwing a tantrum that ought to be humored. And not content not to be like all those other escorts he had driven to quit one way or another by showing some actual backbone, she also had to differentiate herself by getting involved.

Escorts were usually little more than glorified baby-sitters for victors and tributes alike, when they weren't busy being eye candy – a walking, talking, charming advertisement board with sex appeal. They were happy to stick to minor roles regarding actual mentoring. They helped the tributes settle in, make them a thousand false promises, bullshitted the audience into giving the District money and more generally served as an assistant to the victor who talked to sponsors and closed deals.

Effie Trinket and her twenty-two years of life, of course, knew better than everyone else how things ought to work.

She had fired a hundred suggestions at him and he had ignored them all. The moment she had realized his idea of mentoring was staying as far away from the kids as he could possibly get, she had stopped trying to be considerate and had gone ahead of him and put her ideas into shape. Going as far as to threaten to cut his liquor supply if he didn't cooperate – all the while with a bright smile and a bubbly tone like she was commenting the weather.

She was a nightmare.

The worst was… She wasn't unreasonable.

When she had seen the state of his wardrobe on the day of the parade, he had honestly thought she was going to have a heart attack – and, to be fair, escorts were supposed to be in charge of that aspect of things but, since his previous escort had been a harpy that he had been only too happy to see move on to Eleven, he was still wearing clothes from two years earlier. He wasn't sure what had shocked her most: that the clothes had been out of fashion or that some of them had been so worn out they had holes in them. So naturally she had ordered him a complete new wardrobe as soon as she had gotten her hands on a stylist.

He hated Capitol fashion.

Some victors embraced the clothes. Haymitch most certainly didn't.

Usually, he selected a few safe enough items and wore them until they fell apart. He could always find a couple of shirts and some pants that didn't look too ridiculous.

Except it seemed Trinket had eyes everywhere and kept tabs on what he wore and when. After two days of him wearing the same pair of dark pants and sticking to plain white shirts, she had asked him what the problem was with what she had picked out for him.

He had fully expected her to shoot him down when he had started ranting about frills and pink – burgundy wasn't pink, according to her but hell if he could tell the difference. Instead she had dragged him back to his room and had forced him to show her what he liked and what he didn't like. By the same time the next day, his wardrobe had been full of clothes that were all too fancy for him but that he wouldn't have a stroke wearing.

He hadn't been convinced about the sleeveless thing he was supposed to wear over his shirt but under the suit's actual jacket – waistcoat, she had supplied. Until then, he had always wore casual outfits, even to parties or red carpets. She had laughed out loud at that remark and had told him in no uncertain terms that he was a twenty-seven year-old man and that twenty-seven year-old men should look the part. Suits it would be.

He liked the clothes.

That might have been the worst thing. Wearing suits had taken some getting used to but he actually liked it. Even the useless waistcoats that apparently made him look distinguished. Scruffy chic, she had declared, not quite satisfied but willing to compromise.

She wasn't unreasonable.

And he could see, even if he really didn't want to, that if he brought himself to reason with her…

But he didn't want an escort he would have to reason with. It was easier to ignore those silly dumb drones.

Except Trinket was making it hard to ignore her.

All the more so when she pulled stunts like that.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared at her. She remained unconcerned. She pressed the elevator calling button and stepped closer to him to adjust his tie – a tie that was the exact same shade as her dress. He tried to bat her hand away – because his knot was perfectly functional – but she not so accidentally grazed his throat with her sharp nails and he stood still, perfectly understanding the threat. Who needed blades when you had razor sharp manicured fingernails?

"We are wearing matching outfits to show everyone that we are a team." she hummed eventually, tightening the knot so badly he was certain she was trying to strangle him. She must have been satisfied with her handiwork because she stepped back, patting his chest once as if he was a nice dog. Her voice was so cheerful and high-pitched it was giving him a headache. "Now, try to remember not to make a spectacle of yourself. Every time you embarrass yourself in public, it is a sponsoring offer less for Twelve."

"Fuck off." he spat.

"Language." she rebuked, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "Truly, you ought to mind your manners. Particularly in the presence of a lady."

The elevator chimed and she stepped between the opening doors without even a glance back for him.

"Don't see a lady." he grumbled. "Only a bitch."

She took a deep breath and he was sure she would start shouting but, instead, she just smiled at him. It had a hard cutting edge to it but she didn't give him the pleasure of losing control and that… That was irritating him to no end.

He would find the right button eventually, he vowed it.

And he wouldn't stop pushing until she lost her composure.

He wanted to tear Effie Trinket apart.

Piece by piece.