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haymitch & effie


It's the night before the Quell, late eleven o'clock bordering twelve, and he can't sleep. Won't sleep. His whole body thrums with restless energy, unable to reconcile itself with the fact that he won't be the one entering the arena tomorrow. Katniss and Peeta will. And maybe that's even worse.

Get a grip. He's supposed to be a mentor, not a worried old wash-up. The kids will be fine.

But the feeling doesn't go away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He can feel the need for a drink clawing at the back of his throat, an itch just out of reach. But you could reach it, pipes up the drunk in his head. Go on. There's a bottle of whiskey downstairs, or a nice aged wine if you'd prefer it.

Go ahead.

No. No, shut up. Think about the other options. Coffee or tea. Juice. Now isn't the time-

You know you want it bad, says the drunk. How many days has it been, besides? Not even a day. Hours. Do it.

Before he knows it, he's gotten out of bed, shivering against the bitch-cold chill of the room, and begun walking downstairs into the kitchen. His eyesight, already poor by regular standards, is none the better for navigating the twelfth suite, and he curses as he kicks something round and smooth away. Groggily, he blinks. Fuck.

Effie's there. The scotch decanter from this evening, half-full when he left it, is down to its last dregs. Effie swings around on her stool and regards him placidly in the way a frog might regard a fly seconds before it catches it with its tongue and eats it. The thing he kicked away, he sees, is another bottle. The whole room reeks of alcohol, hard and sour.

Haymitch swallows.

"What are you doing here?" Effie asks, typically sharp Capitol accent with all its high affectations dulled by scotch. "You, sir-" She hiccups. "-are meant to be in bed. With the children. No. Hm." She pauses to think. "Go back to sleep."

Pointedly, he strolls across to the table where she's sitting, picks up the decanter, and drains what's left inside. A pleasant warmth spreads down his throat, through his body, reaching his fingertips and toes.

"Animal," slurs Effie. "Nothing more than a big... old... oaf."

"I think you've had enough," he remarks, no longer as thirsty as he was before. Fine, actually. Or almost fine. The heat's gathered in his belly, comfortable. "Get some rest."

Effie hisses. "Piss off. You aren't my handler, you... beast."

When he picks her up, she writhes in his arms with a ferocity that would put some of the toughest Seam alley cats to shame. "Fuck you," she mumbles. "Abernathy... Haymitch... I know, I know." But the fight leaves her quickly, and by the time he's gotten inside her room, she's snoring soundly. Imagine that.

Carefully, he sets her on her bed and drapes a comforter over her to keep the chill off. He hovers beside her, worried and unsure of what to do. Finally, he shakes his head and walks out, shutting the door behind him. Back at the table, he holds an empty glass, entertaining the thought of going into the wine cabinet and pouring himself another little bit, just a little, enough to tide him over until it's time. He doesn't do it. He doesn't have the drink, not even when the thirst returns, full fury.

Outside, the sun rises, roaring over Panem like an angry god.

Morning.