Prompt: could you write something where Haymitch meets Lyssa sometime during the games but doesn't really take notice 'cause he only got eyes for Effie or something like that?

To Chase The Memory Away

Haymitch pressed the rim of the glass against his jaw, thoughtfully making it roll against his lips instead of drinking from it.

He was distracted and he slouched even more on the couch he had commandeered for himself; his ankle was wedged on his opposite knee in a nonchalant pose his escort would probably have objected to. Nobody was paying him any attention and he liked it better that way. It was the classy sort of parties: the ones with waiters walking around with trays full of food or champagne, a string orchestra in the corner, people waltzing with almost perfect synchronicity in the middle of the ballroom and comfortable couches and armchairs scattered around the edge of the dance floor.

"Wouldn't mind a piece of that ass." Chaff commented next to him.

Haymitch hummed in agreement before he could stop himself.

His eyes hadn't left Trinket all night. Oh, he had tried to look away… He had tried. The flimsy little green dress she was wearing didn't make it easy. The skirt kept twirling every time she moved, temptingly showing off more of those endless legs… The shade of the dress made her eyes look ever so blue and even the puffy purple wig tied high on her head in a bun or the heavy make-up weren't quite enough to make her look unappealing.

He shouldn't have slept with her.

He had slept with escorts before. Hell, he had slept with most of them. It had been a long standing contest between him and Chaff to sleep with any new escort and drive them to quit. He had lost count of the number of women who had claimed the title of Twelve's escort since he had won the Quell. But Trinket… Trinket had been different from the start. She wouldn't be intimidated or cowed, she wouldn't be outwitted and she wouldn't be seduced.

Three years and he had been ready to vouch she was the person he hated most in Panem – after Snow, it went without saying. She pushed all his wrong buttons. She infuriated him. She was so shallow, so naïve, so irritatingly chirpy. He would have said stupid too a year or so earlier but he was starting to suspect that was an act. She was too witty to be stupid. She always parried with the right gibe, always kept up with his banter, always had to have the last word…

She was so…

Feisty.

He wasn't stupid either. He had known from the start the tension between them was a little more than just plain hatred. There was loathing between them. Anger too. A distinct lack of respect on both side. And just enough lust to make the whole mix explosive.

He had a bad habit of being unable to resist women with a temper.

He liked riling them on and watching them explode.

He had never actually intended to act on the chemistry between them. His body might be attracted to her but he still hated her.

He hadn't planned it.

But a week earlier they had been fighting badly. There had been screaming on both parts, ugly words and accusations tossed, names called… And then she had slapped him. She had caught him by surprise and he had been holding a bottle. Those were the only reasons she had managed to hit him at all. Anyone with common sense would have run away at the enraged look he had tossed her but not her, of course not. She had tried to slap him again.

He wasn't quite sure how they had gotten from there to her being pinned to the wall, his hand around her throat and his tongue in her mouth. He supposed it had been that or slamming the bottle of liquor on her skull – with any chance the wig would have cushioned the strike and avoided her a brain trauma.

She had shoved him away but the moment he had stepped away, she had pulled him back to her and from then on… Well, it had been over. They had gone over the edge.

It had been a frantic affair. His pants down his ankles, a feel coped over her clothes, her panties pushed aside... A few powerful thrusts, a few strokes…

They hadn't talked about it.

She had fled to her room and he had retreated to the living-room for a bottle that wasn't smashed on the floor.

And for a whole week he had been living in hell.

He wanted to bury himself in her again.

And it made him seething mad because he shouldn't want her that badly. The itch had been scratched. He should have been able to move on. He had fucked her like he had fucked countless others and he had never wanted a second round before.

But she was wearing those short dresses and sauntering around him and ignoring him and it was driving him mad.

He wanted to know what her breasts would feel like in his hands freed from bras and corsets.

He wondered what color and shape her nipples were.

He couldn't forget the feel of the silk stocking giving way to smooth skin, the garters rubbing against his inner forearm when he had lifted her up.

He knew how strong the grip of her legs around his waist could be and he couldn't stop imagining how it would feel if he laid her down instead of pinning her to a wall.

He just couldn't stop.

Or look away.

"Can't recall the name…" Chaff added, taking a sip of his whiskey, sounding a little thoughtful. "Doesn't sponsor often. You're going for it?"

It occurred to him, right then, that his friend hadn't been talking about his escort.

And why would he? He hated Trinket's guts even more than Haymitch did. It had been all fun and game until Trinket had threatened to cut Chaff's balls and make him eat them if he ever tried to fondle her again – in a more dignified and polite manner, of course. Haymitch had made it clear at the time Eleven's victor should keep his hands to himself because she had told him three times to stop and there were limits, Chaff hadn't liked the fact he had taken her side.

He realized – a bit too late probably, given that he had been watching her all night – that she was talking with another woman. He only gave that one a cursory glance.

Endless legs that might have put even Trinket's to shame, pretty face, graceful neck… Any other time, he might have seen the appeal. Right now he was too obsessed with Trinket's thighs. No way she was wearing tights under that dress. No stockings, no garters, just smooth creamy skin begging to be kissed and caressed…

Fuck, he was obsessed.

"Nah. All yours." he dismissed, remembering a second too late that Chaff was waiting for his answer.

It didn't take much more for Eleven's victor to spring to his feet and impatiently gesture for him to do the same when he just kept on sitting there.

Right.

Trinket wouldn't just kindly introduce another victor to a potential sponsor if he wasn't there to smooth things over.

He rolled his eyes, downed his glass and stood up too, following his friend to where the two women were talking not too far away from the orchestra. He buried his hands in his pockets as soon as he was within reach, afraid his treacherous fingers would actually try to touch.

"Hello, love." Chaff greeted Trinket with his most charming smile – although the smile was quickly turned to the other woman. On closer inspection, she wasn't just pretty, she was beautiful. Her features were delicate and unburned by the plastic surgeries most Capitol loved so much. Eleven's victor grabbed the woman's hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. "Who's your lovely friend?"

The woman looked a bit awkward and Trinket huffed in obvious annoyance. Haymitch winced a little. Too direct. The stranger was a classy one, that was plain to see, not the classless women they picked up in bars.

"You'll have to forgive him, sweetheart…" he smirked, trying to rescue his friend. "Beautiful women turn his head."

The woman's lips quirked in a secretly pleased smile.

Trinket, on the other hand, almost growled. "Perhaps we could finish this conversation another time, Lyssa? I am afraid I need to go back to work."

That was plain rude.

So rude it unsettled him for a moment.

He had never seen her act so curtly to a sponsor before and it made him frown.

"But you haven't introduced us yet, Trinket." Chaff cut in swiftly.

"She is married and uninterested." his escort snapped before the woman, Lyssa, could answer. Haymitch's frown deepened when he realized she was now glaring at him as if he was the one who had been hitting on a potential sponsor. Clearly sensing the storm, the sponsor politely excused herself and disappeared in the crowd, leaving Chaff to sulk and Haymitch to stare at his escort, confused beyond words. Trinket crossed her arms in front of her chest, accidentally drawing his eyes to her cleavage. "Find yourself another toy. She is out of bounds."

"You're not the boss of me." he sneered.

"I mean it." she hissed as a warning before turning on her high heels and storming away. And that damn dress swished around her legs, teasing at what was hiding underneath and… Fuck, how hot was that?

"I missed something?" Chaff frowned. "'Cause I feel like I have."

"Never mind." he muttered, shaking his head. "The woman's crazy. Let's find more booze."

"Booze and women." his friend amended. "I'm getting lucky tonight, I'm telling you."

He nodded.

Maybe that was what he needed.

A woman to chase the memory of Trinket's body away.