Prompt: I know this is a very random prompt (and I understand if you don't write it), but I would love to read a story about Effie's hair. I would love it if it was one that matched with important parts of her life e.g. being compared to her sister when she was young, dying her hair for the first time, getting her first wig, Haymitch seeing her hair, it being cut off in prison and growing back in MJ etc.
This is a very long one, more Effie centric but there is hayffie in there of course.
Since it is so long, there won't be a prompt tomorrow but I will be reblogging the vampire au (chapter 463) on my tumblr because… the requested sequel is coming on Wednesday ;)
Dye, Wig And Style
1.
Lyssa's hair is perfect.
Even at eight, Effie can see that very clearly.
She watches from her sister's doorway as their mother lovingly brushes Lyssandra's hair. The hairbrush never gets stuck in the lovely straight blond strands like it does with Effie's. From there, it looks glossy and soft, something you would like to run your fingers through… It looks a bit like liquid gold and it is so pretty.
Lyssa is a very pretty girl as a rule, though, everyone agrees on that and nobody agrees more than Effie. She loves her sister, worships the ground she walks on, even if, at eleven, Lyssa tends to consider a mere baby. Even when she's jealous of the high heels she's not yet allowed – having to make do with baby heels, as Lyssa dubbed her shoes – she can recognize her sister's superiority. It is so very obvious that it's not that difficult to admit.
She wraps her silk dressing gown tighter around her, shivering a little in the big cold corridor. She wants to go in, she wants to jump on the bed – or rather sit properly and fold her hands on her lap like a lady ought to – and marvel at the beauty of her mother's dress, she wants to join in the hushed whispers about the boy Lyssa likes, she wants to tease her sister about the blush on her cheeks…
She knows she wouldn't be welcomed and that she would only be intruding.
Mother will only have time for Lyssa tonight because their parents are going out to one of those glamorous parties Effie dreams of attending. Elindra's dress is a deep crimson, there is a bustier embroidered with tiny sparkling gems – that she thinks are rubies – and a puffy voluminous skirt that spirals around her mother's thighs but never moves, kept in place by metallic wires Effie marveled at in the shop. Geometric forms are the latest fashion – or so her sister claims.
"Euphemia, what are you doing here?" Elindra's voice suddenly asks. "Wandering the corridors in your night clothes. Truly. You should know better."
There is nothing hush hush about it and the tone doesn't bide well for her.
"I forgot my book downstairs, Mother." she explains innocently, waving the aforementioned book for her to see.
Elindra sneers a little. "Books. I do not understand why you choose to waste your time like this. It is magazines you should read. You do so need to learn about current celebrities' affairs. You almost embarrassed me with your lack of knowledge at your latest pageant."
"My apologies, Mother." she mumbles.
"Do not mutter, Euphemia. It does not become a lady." Elindra huffs. "Now. Where is the nanny? Why do we pay that woman, I wonder… Ah, Tadius. Very good. Be a dear and make sure your daughter goes to bed."
Effie whirls around with a bright smile. Her father got caught walking out of his room and looks startled by the task that is required of him.
"Don't we have a nanny for that?" he frowns. "We pay her enough."
"It might be time to find a new one." Elindra concedes.
Effie and Lyssa exchange a disappointed glance because they like they current one – but nannies and governesses have been waltzing in and out of their lives every few months since they were born and they are used to it.
"Very well." Tadius sighs, outstretching his hand with hesitation. "Come along, Effie."
She beams as she takes it and she lets her father steer her back to her room. It is a very rare treat when their father tucks them in. He seems embarrassed and not quite sure what to do. She's a bit disappointed when he leaves her at her door with a stern reminder that she shouldn't wander around wearing night clothes because it is improper, but she feels filled with a warm fuzzy feeling when he pecks the top of her head and bids her goodnight.
She's tempted to hug him but controls the spontaneous idiotic gesture before it can get her in trouble.
The Trinkets don't hug.
They very politely shake hands or exchange air kisses.
Once the door is closed and she's alone again, she tosses her book on the bed and wanders to the dresser in the corner of her room. She sits down to grab the hairbrush. There has been no miracle when she looks in the mirror though. Her hair still looks wild and impossibly curly, a bit reddish where the light directly touches it, not at all liquid gold but more like dark honey… Ugly.
It is no wonder their mother likes taking care of Lyssa's better, really.
With a soft sigh, she places the brush at the top of her head and runs it down very slowly.
"One." she whispers. She counts out loud as she runs the hairbrush down.
A hundred brushes each night.
Elindra promises it is the only way to have glossy shiny hair.
Effie wants glossy shiny hair.
She wants to be pretty like her sister.
2.
Effie watches the hairdresser's reaction in the mirror like a hawk.
The woman doesn't betray anything. She smiles and happily chats and Effie has been answering in kind since their mother has left her and Lyssandra at the salon. Everyone had oohed and aaahed at Lyssandra's purple hair. Everyone also agreed that Effie badly needed a dye job too, once she had taken her wig off – which is why she's here in the first place, because Elindra finally caved and authorized her to dye her hair instead of just wearing wigs.
She's nine and she knows this will change her life.
She will finally be pretty like her sister.
Elindra warned her there would be no walking around with her hair in its natural unruly state, even if it doesn't look its usual plain color. If she wants to be allowed to forego wigs, she will need to take care of it. It means straightening it every day and making sure it looks healthy.
Effie doesn't really mind wigs. She loves them, even. It's funnier to be able to change color and style every day. But Lyssa proudly wears her hair natural and Effie wants to be like her so she begged and begged…
"Here." the hairdresser says, done assessing what needs to be done with her. She presents her with a card on which there are several shades of purple. "You can choose the one you would like."
She glances at her sister, a few chairs away, who is laughing with her own hairdresser as she gets her hair trimmed. There's another woman doing her nails at the same time and Effie looks down at her own hands, at the impractical fake nails that she keeps damaging – to Elindra's utter annoyance. She so desperately wants to look like Lyssa…
But even with the same shade of purple, she knows she will only suffer in the comparison, so she takes the card and studies it very attentively and then turns the page back and smiles when she spots something she likes. She points at the small square. "This one."
"It's pink, Miss." the woman winces. "Your mother said purple."
"She won't mind." she lies.
"Still…" the hairdresser insists. "Purple is really the latest rage… Everyone has purple hair…"
"Precisely." Effie grins, flicking her soon-to-be pink strands away from her face. "I do not follow trends. I launch them."
She makes her claim haughtily, as if there is every ounce of truth to it. For a moment, she allows herself to believe it. It's a game after all, just a game, and in that game she's famous. She's… An actress. Or maybe a model. An escort, why not?
She doesn't want purple. Purple will only make people remark how well it suits Lyssandra and how sad it is it doesn't become her as much.
"Miss…" the woman hesitates.
"Please, Olivia." Effie cuts her off in the same polite but dismissive tone her mother often uses. "Dye my hair pink."
She flashes her a charming grin – or what she hopes is a charming grin – and the hairdresser caves.
It takes a long time for the whole thing to be done but when she sees her reflection in the mirror, Effie gapes. For a few seconds. Time enough to remember ladies do not gape like common girls.
But she's beautiful.
Straight hair that falls to her shoulders, the strands a vibrant bubblegum pink that makes her heart soar with how bright it looks.
"Mother said purple." Lyssa comments when she joins her, done with her own beauty treatment.
"Pink looks better." she claims.
Her sister runs her fingers in her hair with a small smile. "It does look good but you will get in so much trouble…"
She juts her chin in the air and refuses to admit she might be getting a tad nervous. "But it looks pretty."
"Yes, but purple is fashionable, not pink." Lyssa sighs. "Mother won't like it."
"Pink is a kind of purple." she argues, getting really agitated now but trying hard to hide it. "And if I am pretty, won't she be happy?"
Lyssa pouts but eventually runs her fingers through her hair again. "You are always pretty, Effie."
"Mother does not think so." she laments, looking at their reflection.
Lyssa is still a lot more beautiful with her bright blue eyes and her fake feather eyelashes Effie isn't yet allowed. She looks grown up. She's twelve but every head turns in her wake.
"Of course, she does." her sister soothes her.
She wishes time would freeze or that their mother would forget them but, unfortunately, ten minutes later Elindra waltzes back in the saloon with her arms full of shopping bags. She stops dead in her tracks when she spots her youngest daughter.
It is a disaster.
She makes such a scene Effie doesn't know where to hide.
The hairdresser gets a earful and Effie knows she is next on the list but that it will probably wait until they are back in the car on the way home. A part of her is still overjoyed when the salon's owner, who hastily came out of her office, says that they can't die her hair purple now, that it would damage it, that they need to wait a few weeks…
At least she gets to keep her pink hair.
Olivia doesn't get to keep her job, on the other hand.
Effie is devastated and mortified because it was her tantrum that put the woman in trouble. However, no matter how many times she tries to explain, nobody will listen to her.
She's crying when Elindra drags her daughters out of the shop but an icy glare from her mother convinces her to swallow back the sobs – and to do it fast. Lyssa slips her hand in hers and she clings to her sister's fingers like to a lifeline. She feels sorry for the kind woman she has accidentally gotten fired, she feels sorry for herself…
The second the car's door closes behind them and the driver starts the car, Elindra launches into a rant about how Effie always has to be an embarrassment and about how she should just take example on Lyssandra.
"I think pink suits Effie." Lyssa manages to cut in when her mother takes a breath.
"That is because you are too sweet on your sister." Elindra snaps. "And do not get involved in conversations that do not concern you, Lyssa, dear."
Properly chided, Lyssandra remains silent for the rest of the drive. But she often squeezes Effie's hand in support and for that she is grateful.
Later on, once she escaped the madness and she is back in the safety of her room, she studies her reflection in the mirror and decides pink is her favorite color.
3.
Effie storms to her room, sweaty and disgusting from her third round of the day on a treadmill. It doesn't matter how many hours of exercising she squeezes in an afternoon though or if she sticks to steamed vegetables and soup: she doesn't get any less chubby.
Puberty sucks.
Being thirteen sucks.
Being thirteen and chubby when your sixteen year old sister is a successful model sucks even more.
Effie goes straight to the shower, having long performed the art of not getting a glimpse of herself in the mirror while in the bathroom. She hates her reflection. She hates the disappointment in her mother's eyes every time she glances at her.
She is supposed to go to one of Lyssa's fashion shows tonight. A treat if there ever was one because ever since she put on weight, her mother hardly takes her anywhere. Elindra's embarrassed because her friends giggle behind her back about her curvy daughter.
Effie likes fashion though and she loves fashion shows so she's determined to look her best. She puts her dress on first, a lovely white and silver piece that manages to hide any small pouch on her not-flat-enough stomach. Then she composes herself a cheerful face with make-up. She's getting very good at this: inventing herself masks with eyeshadows and lipsticks…
The last thing to do is put on her blue wig but, naturally, that is when she starts wasting time. Her hair won't stay in its bun and the wig looks crooked, forcing her to start over and over again. She gets so frustrated she seriously wonders if she shouldn't just take her mother's advice and shave it all. What is even the point of having hair since she will never ever allow anyone to see it?
The thought is fleeting though.
She tears the hair tie off and runs her fingers through the strands, making a face at the reddish hues. She hates it. But not enough to get rid of it.
She thinks she is too vain for that.
Better ugly hair than no hair at all.
4.
Her whole body is hurting.
She's been going from fashion shows to photoshoots and back to the catwalk for days on end. She has been crazily busy lately and, although she is happy with the attention and the fame that comes with it, she cannot help but be tired.
She waits for the steam to clear from the mirror after she steps out of Stelan's shower, eager to start her morning. There will be more photoshoots that day. Faun Harwyn's latest collection is coming out and she is its face, his star model…
At only seventeen.
The last couple of months have been crazy but she thinks she did pretty well for herself.
She has a job, fame, money that she will be able to get her hands on in a few months when she would turn eighteen, and an older boyfriend who is rumored to be the next great photographer. Even her mother is impressed.
The bathroom door suddenly opens and Effie startles, her eyes growing wide. Stelan makes a face, still looking a bit sleepy, as he rubs his orange dyed hair.
"Sorry, babe. I thought you were gone already." he mumbles, pressing a kiss on her shoulder.
"Stelan…" she protests, embarrassed to be caught looking like this. She doesn't mind being naked. She is very confident in her body nowadays. She worked really hard to chisel it to what it is now and she looks perfect, if she said so herself. But the bare face and the plain hair? She looks for something to hide behind but comes up empty handed…
"Don't worry." he chuckles. "I've seen plenty of models during prepping. I know you all look like crap under all that powder – we all do really, that's what make-up is for."
He brushes her wet hair aside to press another kiss on her shoulder and leaves her the bathroom. There is no malice to his words and she knows he's right. Only District people and Avoxes would walk around looking plain. Beauty needs to be nurtured.
She has always known she doesn't look good without artifices.
So why do the words hurt so much?
5.
"Come on…" Haymitch insists, an amused note in his voice.
She bats his hand away and turns to her other side, showing her his back. "No."
The Sixty-ninth Hunger Games are dragging in length and they have been fooling around for days, bored out of their minds and absolutely done with the Capitol's thirst for blood, waiting for a victor that would allow them to put this season behind them. They are a well-oiled machine now, on a professional level as well as on a more… intimate one. Wasting time in bed – or against a wall – isn't the worst way to wait for the end of the Games as far as she's concerned.
Besides, staying locked up in the penthouse also allows them to avoid the hungry crowd for a little while. Effie loves the fame, she does, but… There are times when the fame is harder to bear than others.
"I've already seen every inch of you, sweetheart…" he scoffs, nuzzling her nape with his nose, unwilling to take no for an answer. "I've seen you without make-up…"
"Only because you are a rude man who does not understand the concept of knocking before entering a room." she retorts. "And it is different anyway."
"Why?" he pouts, snatching another pin from her pink wig. She's too slow to bat his fingers away, this time.
"Because I say so." she snaps. "You are allowed to take my bra off but not my wig."
The clasp of her bra immediately comes loose in answer and she takes the offending piece of lingerie off. It's the last thing she had on her anyway because they never got around to removing it. It is a bit ridiculous to be naked only from the waist down in the arms of an equally naked man.
And she's more comfortable like this anyway.
She doesn't ask or wonder why he hasn't left her bed yet. She supposes he's aiming for another round as soon as he will be ready for it – hence why he is teasing her instead of storming out. The wig is an old and familiar argument between them. He often requests that she takes it off and she always refuses, even if he argues that she looks ridiculous with her wigs and make-up and puffy clothes… She knows she looks even worse without them. And if he finds her ugly when she looks at her best, she doesn't want to know what he will think of her at her worst.
"What are you afraid of?" he taunts, trying to snatch another pin. She grabs his wrist and brings his arm back around her before he can do much damage. "Are you actually bald under that? 'Cause I've been joking about it all this time but… That's it, sweetheart? You're bald?"
It started as a joke but she can feel him getting more and more serious.
"I am not bald." she denies. "Do not be preposterous."
He tightens his grip on her waist, tugs her closer to his chest. She feels him shrug. "It's okay if you are. Won't lie… It's probably not that sexy but… It's fine. You can show me… Won't make fun of you for that…"
"For heaven's sake, Haymitch, I am not bald!" she snaps, not at all assuaged by the hand that distractedly runs up and down her front. She huffs and puffs and huffs again. "Very well. Since you wants this so much… Let me book an appointment at the salon. I haven't dyed my hair in years, it is very plain. And it will need straightening too… Once I am somehow fit to be seen without a wig…"
"I don't need any of that shit." he grumbles. "Hell, I don't want any of that shit. I want to see you. I want to see what you look like when you're not busy playing at being a parrot."
"I am ugly." she replies. The words pass her lips before she can think them through. It is not like her to flaunt her flaws or her weaknesses and she immediately brushes it aside with a dismissive hand. "Everyone is ugly in their natural state, Haymitch. Grooming is…"
"Am I ugly to you, Trinket?" he sneers.
"Of course not!" she protests. "It is not what I meant…"
"You see me getting… groomed every day?" he challenges bitterly. "I'm pretty much natural all the time, sweetheart. You never seemed to mind. Or what… You just wanted a taste of the exotic caveman? Should have made you pay for it like everybody else. Would have made some money out of it, at least."
He tries to take his arm away from her but she holds fast to is.
"It isn't like that." she breathes out. "You know it isn't like that." She rolls around and cups his cheek. He won't meet her gaze but he isn't really trying to bolt away from the bed either, she will take what she can get. "I do not think you are ugly. You are handsome and you know it." She brushes her thumb against his lips until he finally meets her eyes again. He doesn't look pleased, he has that particular expression that usually means he will go on a binge soon. "It was a poor choice of words." she admits quietly. "I just meant… It is different from the Districts, here. You know this…"
"But I'm from a District." he scowls. "And I ain't one of your Capitol playboys. I just want to see you, what's wrong with that?"
Plenty is wrong with that because it's flirting with a line they have always been careful not to cross. Mentor and escort fucking each other is one thing. Haymitch and Effie having sex, on the other hand…
"I am ugly." she repeats. She feels ashamed but she doesn't want to vex him again. He will forgive her any offense in time – or he will grow too desperate for a quickie to care long – but… She doesn't want to hurt him. The Capitol hurts him enough as it is.
"Bullshit." he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "And cut the crap. You're the most arrogant person I know. The insecure woman act… It's not you."
"I am certainly not insecure." She wrinkles her nose in distaste at the notion. "I am one of the most beautiful women in Panem, thank you very much." She licks her lips and looks away. "When I wear the proper make-up and…"
He grabs her chin and gently forces her to look at him again.
"You're actually serious." he snorts in disbelief. "You think you need that crap."
"I do need it." she argues. "And mind your language, won't you."
"Tell you what…" he frowns. "When did I ever lie to you, sweetheart? If you need it, I'll tell you. If you don't…"
"I am not actually keen on being told I look… plain." she hisses. "Why must you…"
"Trust me a little." he cuts her off. "You've seen every bad thing about me. You've seen me puke, you've seen me freak out 'cause of bad dreams, you've seen me wasted out of my mind… Pretty sure you've seen me cry a time or two when I was too wasted to care…"
"It is different." she sighs.
"How?" he scoffs.
"Because nobody is requesting you to be perfect all the time, Haymitch." she growls. "I come with an expiration date. You do realize this, I hope? I am paid to be beautiful, to be a fantasy… Fantasies are not supposed to be any less than perfect. Fantasies…"
"You ain't a fucking fantasy. You're flesh and blood." he spits out. "I don't want you to be perfect. Fuck, Effie, you're so far from perfect it's ridiculous."
She pouts, a bit hurt by that assessment but also strangely pleased by what he is trying to say.
"Everyone wants perfect in the city." she whispers.
"I'm not from this city." he reminds her. "I hate this fucking city."
"Seriously, Haymitch, language." she rebukes, studying him with rapt attention. "I suppose… I suppose if you want to see this badly… But be warned I am not playing coy. It is really not pretty."
She sighs, sits up, and starts unpinning her wig. He sits up too and his fingers are back in her synthetic hair, making a mess rather than helping. He seems eager to have it off though and she's reminded of children unwrapping presents. It is strangely endearing.
Eventually the wig loosens and he tosses it aside to attack the bun she keeps her hair in. She lets him do that by himself. She stares at the wall as he frees her curls and she braces herself for the comment she knows is coming.
Haymitch doesn't lie.
Not to her and never to make her feel better.
She feels her hair tumble on her shoulders, feels his fingers tentatively running through the strands…
"It's reddish…" he murmurs, almost in awe.
"Certainly not." she huffs. "It is the light. I am blond. There might be reddish hues in there but I am blond. Strawberry blond if you must be specific."
He's not listening to her, she can tell. He's too busy burying his hands in the wild mane of curls, crumpled by a whole day under a wig.
"It's curly." he remarks. "Didn't expect curly."
He coils a strand around his finger and watches it bounce back in place.
Effie clears her throat and keeps her eyes on the wall. "I told you I needed to straighten it…"
"Don't you fucking dare." he almost snarls, petting her hair almost protectively. "So beautiful… It's the make-up all over again… How do they make you think you need all that crap? You're so much better like this… So much better…"
Her heart is racing in her chest but she refuses to believe him just like that. She refuses to… "Please, do not mock me. You can just say it is…"
"If you say ugly one more time, I'm gonna fucking flip, sweetheart." he grumbles, using his grip on her hair to pull her into a kiss. "Fucking beautiful." he mumbles between two pecks. "Fucking shame to hide it."
It takes her a while to accept he isn't actually playing a prank on her or pretending so he wouldn't hurt her feelings – when has Haymitch ever worried about her feelings anyway? She only starts to believe him because he seems very eager to have her again all of a sudden and because he spends the whole time petting her hair. He is still playing with it afterwards, once she is unusually allowed to cuddle against his side.
"Don't dye it. Don't straighten it." he requests.
"You like me ugly." she accuses. "I should have known."
"Who said it was ugly?" he snarls, apparently offended on behalf of her wild curly plain hair.
"Everyone?" she snorts. "It is so common and unoriginal… Nobody likes that around here."
"Then, they're blind." he declares. "'Cause you're fucking beautiful. Just like this. All that shit… That shit doesn't make you beautiful, it makes you like them."
She gets a thrill every time he calls her beautiful. Nobody has ever looked at her plain face or her plain hair and called her beautiful. All people usually see are the flaws that nothing hides.
"Being like them is what allows us to survive." she whispers, low enough that it won't carry much further. Just in case.
"Just another mask then." he taunts. "Masks are all well and good, sweetheart… But don't forget who you are underneath."
She presses a kiss to his heart.
It's an answer and a promise.
6.
He tugs the wig off her head because she is too exhausted to do it herself.
The Quell's Reaping took too much out of her, the knowledge that the train is rushing to the Capitol where a certain death awaits the children doesn't help. The fact that she has been forced to call Haymitch's name…
She kept up her cheery persona for the children but she cannot do that with Haymitch.
So she lets him undress her like a doll and slip her nightgown over her head. She lets him wash away the make-up from her face because it gives him something to do, an excuse not to think about what is going on, what almost happened and what is going to happen as a consequence. And she lets him take pin after pin off her wig, her unfocused eyes staring straight ahead.
" Now, that's fucking stupid, Effie." he spits out when the braid tumbles loose from the wig.
It is neat and she loves how it looks on her. It makes her look… fiercer, not as powerless as she feels. It makes her braver.
"It is just a braid." she whispers.
But they both know it's a lie.
It is a Katniss braid.
It is a statement.
Just like the golden tokens.
She stands with Katniss. She stands with her victors.
She might be wearing a Capitol mask but she knows who she is underneath.
7.
She looks at the wall with a blank stare when they cuff her to the chair.
She doesn't move, doesn't try to flee when they brutally cut her hair and then shave it.
Her cheek is still stinging from an earlier blow. She thinks the bone might be broken. She thinks she will never make it out of here.
I don't know anything, she keeps repeating like a mantra, like a shield. The words don't protect her. Nothing can protect her now.
She doesn't know if she really wants to be protected anyway.
Regardless of if he meant to or not, Haymitch left her behind to die and that thought hurts more than their punches and their cruel gibes.
She's stubborn about not letting them see how much she's hurting. From the feeling of betrayal. From the torture – that she knows to be tame still, she knows it will get worse, she knows… From anything.
She sees the blond strands falling to the floor in the corner of her eye but she doesn't react. She keeps a neutral face, a blank stare, she pretends she doesn't see. Eyes bright, chin up… The smile, she cannot quite muster. Chin up, though. Always.
Effie Trinket has her pride and they won't break her so easily.
They won't.
She remains collected even as they push her and call her names, even as they tell her she was nothing but Haymitch's fuck toy, a District whore, and that no decent man will ever want to touch something as ugly as her ever again. Haymitch's bitch, they call her.
She doesn't protest the title.
Her stoicism annoys them and it makes them more aggressive.
She knows she should give them what they want, that it would end quicker if she did. She should cry and scream and beg for mercy. She will come to that soon enough, she suspects. But not yet.
Not when they just stole her hair
Not when they just stole her armor.
She only breaks down later. Once they throw her back in the cold little cell with Portia's battered body.
Then, she touches her bald hair and she cries.
8.
Effie wishes she still has a gift for not catching her reflection in a mirror when she steps in and out of the shower.
Haymitch's room at the presidential mansion is so lavish that it regularly throws her. She hasn't been here long. It took a long time for the hospital to release her – she understands it was mostly Haymitch and Plutarch's meddling, that the two men felt she was safer in her hospital room for the time being because the new rebel President was calling for blood – and she still feels a bit disconnected from reality.
It's difficult for her to admit she's not in her tiny cell anymore.
Her memories are sluggish. She doesn't know how long she was locked in there all alone. She doesn't know if she dreamed Haymitch scooping her up from her bed of filth and blocking her eyes from the painful light that blinded her. She doesn't know if this isn't a more elaborate hallucination or maybe drugs that the guards gave her for kicks out of boredom.
She only knows that the thing that looks back at her in the mirror isn't her.
It's a corpse that forgot to die.
Her every bone are jutting, as if eager to pierce the thin layer of flesh. There are dark bruises still that are taking forever to fade and accidental fresh ones because she cannot bump into anything without it leaving a mark anymore. There are scars, swollen and angry looking, her back is the worst and she's happy not to have to see it on a regular basis.
There was a brief period, a couple of years, when she had learned to love herself without make-up and wigs – mainly because Haymitch kept telling her just how beautiful she was, and she had started to believe him.
Now…
Now she has hollow cheeks and there are deep lines at the corners of her eyes. Now the blond peach fuzz on her head makes her want to throw something at the wall.
She wants to get angry – at Haymitch, maybe, because she needs someone to blame for all of this, she needs someone she can hate for what happened to her.
She doesn't have the energy for it – and she needs Haymitch too much right now, he's the only thing keeping her sane, the only one who is there for her, the only one who accepts her for who she is without condition.
She startles when someone knocks on the bathroom's door. Her heart hammers in her chest and her first reflex is to look for a potential way to escape – naked and still dripping wet, that doesn't matter at all.
"Sweetheart, you're in there?" Haymitch's familiar voice asks and she relaxes. He left before she woke up that morning, presumably to check on the children.
It's odd between the two of them but Effie doesn't have enough energy to care about that either. She usually falls asleep clinging to him, fighting against her exhaustion to stay awake, staring at the bright lamp on the nightstand because she never wants to be in the darkness again, and when the nightmares come – and they always come – she lets him hold her and whisper in her ear until she's sure this is the real world and not a dream.
They share his room and it's weird how not weird it is. They've known each other for a long time, they know how to make space for each other. Effie does it automatically, a bit wary that he will get tired of her and turn her away. He, on the other hand, seems worried about her suddenly starting to hate him.
He needs her, she thinks in her most lucid moments, as much as she needs him.
He pushes the door open before she can call for him to come in. He never waits for her permission anyway so she never bothers giving it. He gets nervous when he doesn't know where she is and he never leaves her alone for long, if he can he asks her to come with him. She thinks he's terrified sick of losing her again.
It makes her feel warm inside.
It's a nice change from feeling dead and empty.
He frowns when he sees her standing there and immediately snatches a towel from the rack where she insists he keeps them – because he has a bad habit of leaving them damp on the floor and it just won't do, it won't, and she doesn't mind that he laughs at her with unmistakable relief when she lectures him about it or that he claims she will be ranting about manners with the last breath in her body. She lets him rub her dry, not really minding the fact that she's naked even if they haven't been intimate since her rescue, and she helpfully lifts her arms when he wraps it around her chest to keep her modest.
"You're okay, yeah?" he asks quietly. "You're here."
It's half a statement and half a question. He wants to know if she's having a flashback, she figures.
"Yes." she answers, a bit laconic.
His face softens and he forces a small smile for her. He brushes his hand on her shoulder, up to her nape. It's new, this constant need of him to touch her. In complete contradiction with her sudden aversion to being touched.
He's the exception though.
He's always been the exception to a lot of things and it doesn't surprise her this is another example of it.
She relaxes when he squeezes her nape, the familiar gesture having long become a source of comfort. It used to be possessive. Then it became a proof of affection.
"I've got something for you." he says and he sounds a bit smug, very pleased with himself. She follows him to the bedroom part of the suite and she blinks at the heap of blinding fabrics on the bed, next to empty shopping bags. There are shoes too, she realizes, heels and flat boots. And wigs. When she doesn't move, he clears his throat awkwardly. "They've reopened shops on Main Street so…" He shrugs. "You can't go alone yet, it's not really safe for you, but… I thought it might cheer you up…"
It is certainly an improvement over the grey uniforms they gave her.
She isn't sure how she feels about colors. She's been locked in a grey cell for months, then in a white hospital room… In a sense, the grey is familiar.
And now colors…
She brushes her fingers against the fur of a blue dress' neckline…
"Thank you." she whispers. And she means it.
It's not the clothes that touches her as much as the fact he went to get them. Haymitch hates shopping maybe more than he hates fashion. But he went and bought all this for her and that… She turns around and plants a kiss on his lips. It's a chaste thing but his eyes soften so much that, for a minute, she thinks he might cry. She's a bit too aware he's been hanging by a thread lately, still fighting against his rampant alcoholism because she and the children need him when it would have been easier for him to drown in the next bottle. She doesn't think he will hold on long on that front but she appreciates the attempt nonetheless.
"Thank you." he replies with a shrug, almost sheepish, hands in his pockets.
Her eyes fall on a bubblegum pink wig and she picks it up automatically, turning it over in her hands.
"You hate wigs." she remarks. "Do you… Do you want me to wear them now?"
She cannot blame him. She looks awful. There is nothing remotely attractive to the peach fuzz on her head. Certainly not when he liked tangling his fingers in her hair so much.
"I want you to feel better." he grumbles. "You've always liked you wigs in public and you're not exactly thrilled about your new haircut so… I thought you'd want them."
She analyses his answer carefully before turning to him with a small frown. "But do you want me to wear them? I know I am not really pretty to look at and you have to look at me almost all the time. Do you…"
"Hey." he cuts her off firmly, taking the wig from her hands and tossing it back on the bed before cupping her cheek. "I don't care what you look like and I don't mind looking at you, let me tell you. I've spent months thinking I wouldn't get to look at you again. Sweetheart, I can spend the rest of my life doing nothing but that."
It's more of a declaration than she ever expected from him and she blinks, completely unprepared and taken aback.
"I look terrible." she argues for the sake of it.
"Kinda do, yeah." he snorts. "But you've been through hell, princess. Even you can't do that with style. It's fine, it'll get better." He presses a kiss against her forehead. "You're beautiful to me. You're always beautiful to me."
She takes a step forward and lets him wrap his arms around her, burying her face in his neck. I love you she mouths against his skin.
If he understands, he doesn't let on.
But his grip tightens.
9.
"If anyone knew I do that for you, my reputation would be done for." he grumbles but keeps on carefully running the hairbrush through her blond curls.
A grin bursts on her lips. She doesn't bother trying to hide the amusement in her voice. "You love it."
Her accusation prompts him to snort but she hears no denial.
And Effie loves those quiet nights. She was sitting cross-legged on their bed, brushing her hair, ready for the night, when he came out of the bathroom and sat behind her. She didn't ask him to take the brush out of her hand. He knows when it's cold the shoulder she injured during the war hurts her – and, she also thinks, he enjoys it because he worships her hair.
"You love it." he retorts.
And she does.
She thinks back to all those times she watched her mother brush Lyssa's hair and wished she would have done the same with hers… This is one hundred times better though. Not only because it is a proof of caring from Haymitch's part but because it's a secret they share, something intimate.
She leans back against his chest and he discards the hairbrush to wrap his arms around her and press a kiss against her glossy curls.
And, as far as she's concerned, it's perfect.