Author's note: Math lessons are obvious timespaces to upload another chapter. I don't think this is particularly good, but it's kinda crucial for the story line and there's a sweet little thing in the end. I hope you are all doing well. I'm still pretty tired, so this hasn't been proofread as many times as some of the other chapters (I proofread several times, because my English skills are so bad).
This story may be seen as triggering to people dealing or having dealt with self injury, suicide or depression. Rated M for descriptive violence and very dark themes.
"Are you serious?" Haymitch looked at Plutarch with surprise. Their whispering conversation in the corner of a crowded café had brought a lot of new info with it.
"Don't tell Trinket," Plutarch warned him.
"Why would I?" he said. Officially he couldn't care less about Effie Trinket.
"Mitch, it's not hard to see how much better she got after you arrived here," the game maker told him with an overbearing look.
"When does this start?" Haymitch ignored his remark, but still a warm sensation of satisfaction spread in his stomach.
"It has already started," Plutarch said slowly and looked around the room, "I'd have told you sooner, but there are no safe ways to contact a district anymore,"
"And Cinna and Portia?" Haymitch asked.
"Portia doesn't want to be involved, but she's agreed to keep everything silent. Cinna is in,"
Haymitch nodded. A rebellion. District 13. It was all very interesting, there was just one thing: Where would the Capitol citizens be in all this? He thought mainly of Effie. Somehow even him, who detested this place, couldn't justify taking everything away from these people who didn't know any better.
"I'm in, Plutarch, but on one condition,"
"Anything,"
"Trinket goes with us to 13, even against her will," He noticed a line form between the older mans brows, but he nodded after taking a sip of his drink.
"You really care about her," he stated "I never thought you'd be that kind of guy, Mitch,"
"Shut up," Haymitch said and tried to hide his blush.
"We're meeting at this location at 5 tomorrow. Be there, don't be followed and discard of this paper when you've read it," Plutarch said and handed him a tiny crumbled ball of paper in a fake handshake. Then he left.
He wasn't keen on leaving Effie alone, but he felt he had to be there to take part in this. Figuring out an excuse had never been his strong point, so he didn't. He just left. The address showed to be an apartment on the cheaper side of the Capitol. Haymitch went in without knocking. Plutarch and a few others he didn't know by name, mentors from 4 and 11 was sitting on stools in a circle in the otherwise empty apartment.
"Haymitch," Plutarch said as a greeting.
"So this is where the party is?" Haymitch said and took an empty chair to sit down.
"Yeah, it doesn't look like much, but we're not being watched here," one of the others said, Haymitch faintly recognized him as one of the lesser game makers, who'd worked under Seneca. He had a big scar over his eye, undoubtedly leaving his left eyes useless.
"We're still waiting for a few people," another one said. Haymitch felt funny sitting here, like it was some sort of secret society. A club for only the invited. He thought of Portia, how she didn't want to get into it and he understood. He figured Effie would do it, but only because she wasn't good at declining things. There was little to no small talk in the group, though most of them knew each other. Haymitch would probably have known them too, if he hadn't spent the last 25 years drinking his brains out – especially during the trips to the Capitol. Hell, he was even buzzing right now, thirsting for a drink to fill the silence.
The last person arrived looking rushed and apologized for being late. When she'd sat down Plutarch took the word.
"We have word from 13. President Alma Coin," he started talking softly, like he was scared of surveillance, though this was probably the safest place.
"Some of you will soon be going into the arena and I want to tell you right away that I can't tell all of you what to expect. I've chosen a few of the tributes and I will inform you accordingly. Coin wants the 12s, Everdeen set a real example and while the Capitol is still eating up their love, it couldn't be any better," He continued talking. Some of the others intervened and asked questions, but Haymitch kept quiet. It was interesting, but to him most of the plans these … rebels had sounded like pipe dreams. It seemed impossible to do knock over the Capitol. Ruining the Games, even with a head game maker, seemed even more impossible. Snow would kill all of them if he had to and he didn't even have to try very hard. Snow had the serious upper hand in this and he could just use their deaths to show the rest of the districts – and the Capitol – what would happen if anyone ever pulled anything like that again. But then he thought about it. He had next to nothing to lose. Why not?
The daily suicide watch annoyed Haymitch greatly. He didn't want people to come here. Not people he didn't know. The doctor was the same every day and he was unpleasant and rude to both Effie and everybody else in the apartment. Haymitch suspected it was probably because Effie had lost most of her good reputation after the way too public hospitalization and the accusations of cheating by mingling with Seneca Crane. There was no prestige in being her doctor anymore, therefore no reason to be nice.
One day when the doctor was there, Effie had done it. The doctor basically ran the same check ups as Haymitch would do, but not in the same careful way. Watching it was awkward and intimidating, when he'd just stop her walking towards him and pull up her sleeves, check her blood for drugs and all other tests she was forced to take. Haymitch knew she'd cut more places than the doctor checked, but since she looked so uncomfortable he never told anyone. One fresh cut was on her left wrist. It looked like she never really got around to finishing. The doctor gave her more pills, but overall seemed not to care.
"I'll go flush these…" she said as soon as he'd left.
"You don't take them?" Haymitch asked, not really surprised.
"I've never needed them before, have I?" Effie turned on the waste disposer at the sink and he heard her throw the pills in there. He never protested. He figured she knew how to handle herself mostly and he couldn't really see himself fighting with her. He was so tired. The rebellion was taking form, but it wore him out.
"I guess you haven't," he said and looked at the TV. Everything went as expected in the arena. Mags dying had sent Effie to tears, but no one ever thought she'd live.
"I hate him, he makes me feel like …"
"I know, Effs. I'm sorry, could you…" He wanted to ask her to shut up. He didn't want to listen to her anymore. He wanted this to be over, so the constant fear and readiness in him could go back to stale calmness. It was like an arena out here. Of course this wasn't her fault: she knew nothing of the rebellion, as Plutarch wished. Soon it'd be very clear. She'd be angry with him for not telling her anything.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you alright?" she asked sounding a bit offended, her Capitol accent shining through with the tone of voice.
"Just tired, could you get me something?" he asked and looked at her. There was a red line on her left sleeve where the doctor had irritated the wound and probably just left her to bandage it herself. If Haymitch didn't help her cover the wounds with fresh, clean gaze they'd never be changed – Effie couldn't even touch them herself before they turned to raised white scars.
She put down a drink in front of him a few minutes later. He recognized it as cognac, a good one.
"You're lying to me, Abernathy," she said with no emotion in her voice.
"There are many types of lies, Trinket,"
"It's okay if you don't want me, Haymitch, I don't mind, well… I do mind, but …" She trailed off and looked at the screen, seemingly to avoid looking at him. It took him a while. Maybe a bit too long.
"I do want you," he said. He sounded like a douchebag. He was a douchebag for not telling her at least bit of the truth. It had to wait to 13.
"I don't consider myself greedy or anything, but you've been so… Absent,"
Was she seriously talking about sex? Talking about their relationship? Did this relationship even exist?
"I know," Haymitch said.
"What is wrong?"
"Would you believe me, if I said I wasn't allowed to tell you?"
He heard her neck crack as she turned to him too fast.
"That's just cliché,"
"Sorry, can't do any better,"
She shook her head and went for the door to her bedroom. He didn't even think about her condition, so he let her. He was just relieved. Her finding out anything would be catastrophic and if she started begging, crying or both he'd give up eventually. He knew himself enough to know that.
He'd already turned his focus back to the screen when he heard the three little words before she closed her door. He didn't fully understand them at first, because his brain hadn't had to deal with them for a very long time. Said so often in all the romantic movies, often yelled out during intense situations. Yeah, he knew what the words meant, but he wouldn't know how to cope with them being said to him in such a way. He turned around and looked at her door.
"I love you too, Effs," he whispered well knowing she couldn't hear him. Suddenly realizing what she was probably doing. He felt his chest tighten. Why did he ruin everything like this? Without his consent his fist tightened around the fragile glass and broke it. He was never supposed to fall in love with Effie Trinket, because no matter how much of a rebellion was going on it was a lost cause. He swore at the pain coming from his hand, where the glass had cut him. Blood and cuts. It wasn't the usual things to remind you of someone you care about, but no matter what he tried all he could think about was her. He wiped his hand on his shirt and wished his drink wasn't spilled all over the floor, for he could really use it right now.
