A/N: In writing the next two sections, I've happened upon a pairing I have yet to see in the archives…Cinna and Haymitch?
It's not the story I'm telling here, and canon indicates that Haymitch, at least, is attracted to women, but the chemistry feels like it could be...interesting. Two smart, passionate men who care a little too deeply for the people they love…start out deeply distrustful of one another, but are ultimately united by a common hatred of the Capitol...
So if anyone's looking for a plot bunny, I'm just throwing it out there. Use and enjoy. :-)
As always, standard disclaimers about intellectual property and reserved rights apply.
Blurred Memories, part three
By JellybeanThief
Numbers 47 and 48 had just closed their bedroom doors behind them when Effie turned on Haymitch.
"And just where were you today?" she hissed, stabbing a finger at his chest. "For the first time in years you actually have two tributes with potential. With abilities. With manners! And you just disappear!"
She was trying to sound threatening, but the only thing frightening about the moment was Haymitch's realization that all those years, the alcohol really had been a modifier on the experience that was Effie Tourniquet.
Staying sober enough to mollify 48 was going to be a real problem.
"I was fine, sweetheart," he said coolly, knowing that she hated the sobriquet as much as every other woman he used it on. "I saw our little flaming tributes just fine." He nodded to the two stylists, sitting across from him at the dinner table. "Thank you coal miner thing was old when they dressed me as one."
The two inclined their heads, accepting the praise, but clearly having reservations about the lone victor from District 12."
"They. Were. A. Triumph!" Effie exclaimed. "Cinna and Portia worked miracles in the City Circle, and you weren't there to capitalize on their success!" She turned to the two stylists herself. "But, I'm sure with the amazing talent you displayed tonight, you're sure to have your pick of districts next year!"
The female stylist - Portia? - smiled faintly this time, but the man raised one eyebrow.
"We had our pick this year, Effie," he said mildly.
Haymitch had to chuckle at that a little - at the fact that the young man had one-upped the escort, and at the look on Effie's face as she realized that even some first-year stylists were offered their choice of districts, while, five years in, she was still assigned to a district she loathed.
"Well," she finally offered, lamely, "next year you might want to choose a district where your skills will have more use - I can't secure deals with sponsors, and the only person who can was off giving a barstool a reason to exist!"
And suddenly, all eyes in the room were back on Haymitch. Since the kids were gone, and it would piss off Effie, he poured himself a drink.
"I was meeting with some of the other mentors," he said calmly. "Discussing strategy."
"And what would that strategy be, Haymitch?" The question came from Cinna.
"Stay alive." He smirked at them as he downed his drink and topped it up again.
"Stay alive," Effie repeated flatly. "Stay alive? That's all you've come up with? Haymitch Abernathy, you are the worst. Just the absolute worst."
"It could use some work, as strategies go," Cinna admitted, "but it beats telling them to run straight into the bloodbath, right?" As he said that, the stylist looked directly at the mentor, and Haymitch felt his stomach drop. Cinna knew.
Putting tributes in the path of death was, obviously, not against the rules - the only legal repercussions of something like that came if it were revealed that a mentor was making illegal side bets on his tributes' lifespans, and therefore profiteering from insider trading. But if the gamesboard learned of Haymitch's strategy and couldn't find evidence of such behavior, it would actually be worse - because it would imply that perhaps Haymitch didn't take his role in the Games seriously, or enjoy it with the appropriate gusto. That would attract the government's attention - a "favor" Haymitch had successfully been avoiding for nearly two decades, now.
"Well," he said, trying to cover any reaction that the other man had might have noticed, "it's sure a fair sight better than 'hold hands and hope for the best.'"
Cinna raised an eyebrow at him across the table.
"Oh, I liked that they held hands," Effie chirped. "They looked so much more approachable than the others. Like they were having fun up there. And that's so important. I mean, none of the tributes seem to appreciate how much is being done for them in the week leading up to the Games. They're exposed to so many opportunities that they just wouldn't have had if they'd stayed home. And I think it's very important that they show the appropriate appreciation for it. Our tributes were the only ones seeming to have a good time, and I'm sure it made a difference to the sponsors."
Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia stared at the pink woman. She looked back at them. "Well, it's true!" She gestured at Cinna and Portia. "You don't know - you haven't seen the Districts! They don't have any of this! Running water...or proper food...or beautiful clothes, or...or...prep teams and stylists!"
"Yes, yes," said Haymitch, suddenly furious. "The districts are complete backwaters. I can't imagine who would choose to stay home with their families, friends and everything they've ever known rather than experience the finest of the Capitol for three or four amazing days before becoming part of the spectacle themselves, Effie."
The escort's face was covered with a layer of thick paint, but Haymitch would have bet anything that underneath it she was pink enough to match her dress. "There's no need to be condescending," she said. "Yes, there's a tragic aspect to all of this, but that can't be helped. This is their service to their community, to the families and friends you claim they love so much. The least they can do is put a good face on it - after all, any one of them could be the next victor!" She gestured at Haymitch triumphantly - "like you!"
"Yes, I'm sure every kid in District 12 dreams of being the next Haymitch Abernathy," he drawled. The alcohol was finally starting to kick in, to blur the edges of Effie's accent, her wig, all her sharp pointy pieces. If he felt like it, he could probably skate along like this for hours, nursing a drink and seeming to be functional while the world faded to a soft cocoon, but he didn't want to. Not now. He finished the drink he was holding, and headed back to the bar to refill once again.
"Haymitch, stop." The words, harsh and forceful, were Cinna's. "Effie, you too." Haymitch turned around to find the stylist staring the escort down. "This isn't helping our tributes. And we really don't have time to be concerned with anything else right now." Effie nodded once, and she composed herself as Cinna's gaze shifted to Haymitch. "Put. Your glass. Down," he ordered, and handed the other man a glass of water. "If you must drink something, if it's a habit that not being able to do so will distract you from the work at hand, drink this. You've consumed enough booze in the past 20 minutes to be comfortably inebriated for the rest of the evening, but we can't have you slipping into incoherence. You're the only person in this room who knows these kids personally, and the only person here to have experienced an Arena firsthand. We need you."
"And what if I say no dice?"
"I'll tie you to your chair until you sober up. And only then will we start our strategy meeting, and only once we're done will I untie you."
Haymitch eyed the other man.
"We have all night, Haymitch."
He was small and slim, but Haymitch didn't think he was bluffing, and it was clear that he younger man could take him easily.
"Fine," Haymitch said shortly. "I'll sit."
"Good," said Cinna. "Thank you." Both men took their seats, and Cinna looked around at the table. "Now, we have a lot of work ahead of us, but the three things we need to decide right now are: how to organize their training so that they get the most benefit from the three days, how we want them to appear to the Gamemakers, and how we plan to appeal to the sponsors."
"Well," Effie offered, "I've been telling people that if you squeeze coal enough, if you put it under enough pressure, do you know what happens? It turns into pearls! And those are our tributes. Pearls." she exclaimed. Haymitch rolled his eyes.
"I think you mean diamonds," Portia offered quietly.
"Diamonds can't turn into pearls," Effie said disdainfully. "And besides, what would be the point? That would make no sense at all!"
"No-coal. Turns to diamonds."
"Actually, it's graphite that turns into diamonds. But Portia's at least got the lore right," said Haymitch. He grinned and reached for his glass, frowning as he realized both that it was filled with water and that Cinna had indeed been right - Haymitch did rely on the glass as a prop as much as for what had been inside it.
"So, what do we know about the two of them already?" This question came from Portia, who was just as self-possessed as her partner, but seemed more comfortable taking the back seat to his leading role.
"Katniss Everdeen is District 12's first volunteer!" This came from Effie, who seemed eager to provide a correct answer. Haymitch winced. He'd avoided it until now, but he had a feeling he'd finally learned the name of Number 47.
"So, she's certifiable," he responded. "Think we can sell that?" Effie scowled at Haymitch's response, and Haymitch noticed Cinna shake his head slowly in response.
"We'll reframe that as 'brave' and 'protective,'" he suggested quietly. "What else?"
Haymitch shrugged. "Everdeen, you say? Mom's the district herbalist."
"And her father?"
"Dead. A mining accident a few years back. Took out a few men."
"Oh, that's so tragic!" Effie exclaimed. "One family struck by two tragedies so close together."
Haymitch rolled his eyes. "At least it was fast," he countered, watching Cinna's gaze sharpen. "There are a lot of slower, harder ways to die in District 12." His words brought the brainstorming conversation to a sudden halt, and he grinned at their discomfiture as he swigged his water.
"Haymitch," Cinna asked, "what about Peeta? Peeta Mellark?"
"Oh," Haymitch said, chuckling to himself "you mean number 48? That's Pol Mellark's kid. The town baker. Good man. Pity he's got the wife he does, though. She's a shrew."
"What did you call him?"
"48," said Haymitch. "He'll be my 48th dead mentee, get it? I figure the girl will go first - she's too temperamental."
Haymitch had a feeling he was saying too much even as he was speaking, but the dead silence in the room when he stopped made him wish he could take the words back. He didn't dare take another protective gulp of his water in that dead, horrible silence, but he eyed the water glass, wishing more than ever that there were something stronger in it.
"Effie, Portia," said Cinna quietly, "Could we have the room, please?"