A/N: Here's another one-shot for you. Effie keeps a diary. Haymitch reads it.
Those of you on Tumblr will have read this already. I haven't changed it, I promise, so if you've read it there, feel free to ignore this. I just like to post to both websites so no one misses out. Not everyone has Tumblr, and vice versa.
So, what does Haymitch do when he's bored and too-sober in the penthouse?
Things to do when I'm bored and sober in the penthouse…
There's only one room in this apartment that can give me the right amount of fun in this situation, and I go there on a strictly need-to basis. It belongs to one woman – one pink, annoying, prissy woman (but I guess she's pretty hot). Trinket. I smile mischievously as I approach her bedroom door. She's out – something about meeting up with her sister. I've met her sister a few times. She's a little more toned down than Trinket. I imagine she's pretty hot under all that make-up she wears. No match on my Trinks though. I'd say Effie most likely blossomed first, but they're both easy on the eyes. Their mother's hot too. I bet it runs in the family – the damn family I've met too many times for my liking, as if once isn't bad enough. But no, I wouldn't want her mother. Her mother's too old for my liking – I like my women a little younger than me – and her sister's married to some official with 3 kids. Not my type. No. If I had to pick one, it'd easily be Trinks.
Her door creaks slightly as I slowly push it open, stepping into the sickeningly girly room. It smells sweet – like her - like flowers and warmth and just her, but I don't dwell on it too much, as my eyes take in the light pink walls and the few-too-many vases of fancy flowers. I smirk as I waltz over to her bed, sitting down as if I own the place – the entire room is just so perfectly Trinks. It's predictable, really, in a kind of funny way. I allow my eyes to roam her room, looking for something fun to do. My eyes land on two picture frames on the bedside table. I lean closer, picking up the one nearest to me. I scowl – her and Crane. Damn Crane. I can't stand the guy – the way he looks at her like he wants to eat her up. Then again, I wouldn't be shocked if he has at some point. Fucked up Capitol people have no sense of love or devotion. They hook up with anyone who looks their way and move forward the next morning without even batting an eye. Makes me sick. What bothers me more is the thought of Effie taking part in that kinda behaviour. It's not my place, I know, but I've seen the normal side of her, and the thought that these freaks might taint her just sickens me. I have no proof that she either does or doesn't, but I guess if she were like the rest of them, she'd have given in to me a little easier. I'm still waiting for the day she gives in. I know she's into me, but she just won't cave. I tease her for a reason. It's not like I'd just use her for a one-time thing. I don't hook up with anyone anyway, not anymore, so I'm more than interested in it becoming a regular thing. As if Miss-Uptight-Manners-Trinket would ever go for that. I need to find what makes her snap.
I pick up the other photo and smile. It's her family – well, it's her with her mother and sister. It looks like they were quite young. I'd say Effie looks about 18. Her sister's a little younger. The strange thing is, they're natural – no make-up, no wigs, no stupid fashions. I like it. I notice how much Effie looks like her mother and can't help but smile a little. I gotta admit, she's extremely hot under all that Capitol crap. I see her every now and then around the penthouse when she can't be bothered anymore. I put down the picture gently, careful not to knock anything over, and stand up once more. I stroll to the middle of the room, looking for something to do. My eyes land on her vanity desk, spying the drawer with the small keyhole. Invading her privacy is always fun…
I grin as I approach the desk, giving the drawer a light tug. It's locked. Luckily for me, the Games and the hard lifestyle of District 12 have taught me a few more-than-valuable skills for this situation. I hunt around for a second on the desk, looking for something to use. I pull out a few sturdy looking hairpins from a small pot and lean down in front of the vanity. I unfold one and push it into the hole, manipulating the lock. I grin wider when I hear a satisfying click! I stand immediately, pulling open the drawer and raiding through its contents. I push aside papers and photographs – after checking each one, of course – and hunt through her belongings to find something good. She wouldn't keep it locked for no reason.
My hands find something small and metallic. I pull it, confused, until it gives. In my hands is a small, round key-chain. It's from the Quell – a District 12 emblem key-chain with 50th Hunger Games written underneath in fancy writing. I flip it over; only to find a picture of me with my name written in the same writing as is used on the front. Looks like I've got a fan. I chuckle as I place it on the desk. Looks like I've gotten through to all the good stuff. Moving some more papers aside, I find some more goodies. I pull out a signed postcard of me. She must've been one of the lucky girls who got my autograph before I turned to alcohol. I must've only signed around 20 before I got angry and stormed away. Maybe I met her? But surely, she'd have been too young then? I guess her family is just filthy rich.
Raiding a little further in, I find some real fun. It's golden – a bright pink diary with the name Effie Trinket written in elegant script across the front.
"Well hello." I murmur to myself as I pull it from the drawer. I don't even bother closing the drawer, instead just sauntering back over to her bed again. I jump down, not caring about wrecking anything. It's not my bed anyway, and hers is much comfier than mine. Smells nice, too. I lay back on the bed, getting comfortable and putting my feet up. I flip open the diary to the first page. It's a message, clearly written by a moody teenager. I find it scary to imagine this woman any moodier than she is now, but she must've been like hell as a teenager. I think I'd take the Games again any day over having to deal with a teenage Effie Trinket.
Dear reader,
This diary is property of Euphemia "Effie" Trinket.
Please respect my privacy and DO NOT TOUCH!
Do not touch, do not look, and do NOT read.
If found, return to me immediately.
Thank you.
Effie xx.
I smirk at the message. If only she could see me now…
Chuckling, I turn to the first entry. It's an old one, from when she was a teenager. The 63rd Games… that would make her, what? 17? Yeah. Around that age. I read the entry, smiling to myself.
Dear diary,
I saw him! I saw Haymitch!
Wait, what!?
Father took me to the train station to watch them arrive. He's so handsome!
I find myself a little stunned, smirking down at the page.
I wish I were older. If he were my age, he'd want me. I just know it.
Over-confident Princess, aren't we?
He's so dark and mysterious and dangerous. He's so sexy! He's untamed. I like that. I like it a lot.
Oh do you? Hmm…
Seneca asked me out again, but I just can't! I don't like him. He's not the kind of man I want. He's just too groomed. He's such a goody two shoes.
I chuckle. I can imagine Crane like that as a teenager.
I know I had sex with him once, but it was a one-time thing!
My eyebrows shoot up. Trinket and Crane?
I just didn't want to be a virgin anymore. It's embarrassing. Everyone else is so experienced – so grown up! Seneca doesn't understand that I just used him. I feel bad, I suppose, but I made it clear when we did it that it was only for one reason. It's not my fault the moron took it the wrong way, is it?
I smirk at the thought of a teenage Effie Trinket stomping around and breaking hearts.
I want a man like Haymitch. Okay, so actually, I want Haymitch.
Oh do you?
He's so wild and unkempt – like, he's so feral! Dangerous! It's exciting. I know I shouldn't think of him this way, cause he's like, double my age or something,
I chuckle. Not quite, sweetheart.
But I seriously want him. Like, I've never felt so… lustful towards a man before. I think it's because he IS a man. I wonder what it'd be like to touch him… to have him touch me…
Hmm… I wonder.
But oh my! I mustn't think this way! Hehe. If mother or father ever found out… gosh!
Mm. Naughty girl, Trinket.
I must go, diary. Mother and father are dragging us out for dinner.
Farewell,
Effie xx.
I chuckle as I turn the page to the next entry. There's a considerable time gap, as if she never found time to write in it. One page simply says, "I got onto the Escort program!" and nothing else. Strange woman. I turn pages until one catches my interest.
73rd Hunger Games.
This year… I wonder what she thinks of me now. I grin as I begin to read the entry.
Dear diary,
The tributes went into the arena today. I'm worried about them, the poor darlings. They look so small and fragile. I know they're not going to make it and it breaks my heart. Haymitch thinks I'm a monster.
Oh… no I don't, sweetheart.
He mocks me all the time. He think's I have no heart. I can tell he hates me.
Wrong again, Princess.
I don't understand what I did to make him hate me. Okay, yes I do. I'm a monster. I pick children from his home to die. I get it. It hurts so much. I just want him to like me.
My fingers gently trace the outline of what looks like a tear stain on the paper, thinking back to that day. We had argued, I had called her names, she had shouted at me, and then she had stormed into her room and slammed the door. She hadn't spoken to me for the rest of the day. The tributes are dead now, of course, but we're required to wait until the crowning of the Victor, so we're stuck here together.
It drains my energy, trying to please him. I have to do everything for everyone. He doesn't help. The stylists are useless as well. The whole team is just a shambles! I don't know what to do, and having him rip me apart daily is NOT helping. I think I might quit after this year. I have nothing to stay for. I can't get promoted until I do well, but I can't do well until I get promoted. I'm trapped. The only reason I accepted this District is to work with Haymitch.
Oh… shit. She took 12 just to work with me? I feel guilt wash over me. I haven't helped her at all.
He thinks I don't care, but he doesn't realize I come in here every night and cry.
And she doesn't realize I hear her.
I don't know. There's nothing to do. It's hard to work with him. He's so difficult. Even worse than that, he's still so attractive! He's vulgar, really, but I can't help but feel attracted to him. He's so sexy. You know how some men get better with age? I think he's one of those men. Despite the alcohol, he's well toned. His hygiene needs work, but that's easily done. When he does clean up, rarely, it's so… he's just so handsome. I want him. I always have, really. When he cleans up and wears nice things and what not… Oh my goodness. I don't want him to brush his hair though – not really – or shave. He looks sexy when he's… tousled. It's just the right amount of unkempt - just the right amount of rebellion. And his eyes! Oh gosh, his eyes. They're such shimmering silver. I could get lost in them. Whenever he looks at me I feel I shall melt, like the liquid silver of his eyes. His eyes have such power over me, and he has no idea. Goodness, if he knew I am lusting after him, he'd make my life hell. I'm glad he'll never know.
I laugh out loud at her words. She's right – I'm gonna make her life hell, but she's gonna enjoy it just as much as I am. But if she lusts after me, why does she play so hard to get!?
Sometimes, I feel the tension between us. It's undeniable! Amelia commented on it a few times after seeing us together. She always asks if anything is going on between us. I tell her there isn't, but she claims there should be, and she's not convinced. I do wish he'd just act on the tension though. I can tell he feels it! How could he not? I wish he'd just pull me to him and kiss me passionately like in the movies, and then carry me to my bedroom (because his is DISGUSTING!) and make love to me all night! I want to feel him. I want him to make me moan and scream and watch me writhe underneath him. I want his strong hands all over me. I want to make him cry out my name. I want him to cling to me as we climax together over and over again.
Whoa… Trinket…
But, of course, he is not a romantic. He doesn't even return my feelings. He wouldn't want a woman like me. He hates me.
Anyway, I must go. We're going to get some sponsors. Correction, I am going to get some sponsors. Haymitch is simply going for another drink.
Farewell,
Effie xx.
I remember the other day well. I had commented on her looking a little flustered when she left her room. She just blushed and ignored me. I guess I got her a little hot and bothered. This is fucking brilliant. My hot Escort is writing a smut-diary about me. I laugh and climb off the bed. I need a drink. I need to cool off. She's certainly got a vivid imagination.
I leave her room and make my way to the bar in the lounge, still holding the diary. I grab a bottle of my favorite whiskey and lay down on the sofa, my bottle in one hand and her diary in the other. With the hand that grips the bottle, I flick the pages, browsing through the other entries. There's only a few more, none of them any different from the one I've already read. Out of interest, I flick to the last page. Girls write on the covers, don't they? I'm shocked and amused when I see what she writes on her covers. Scrawled all over the page in her elegant handwriting are the words Mrs Effie Abernathy. I almost choke on my whiskey when I first see it, but manage to swallow the liquor down. My eyebrows shoot up as I survey the page. Effie Trinket dreams of being Mrs Effie Abernathy. I find myself chuckling. That's kinda cute. It looks like Effie is my number one fan.
I'm still grinning when she comes through the door, seconds later, murmuring to herself about something. She glances at me briefly.
"Hello Haymitch." I watch her as she hurries around the room.
"Hey Mrs Abernathy." I grin at her and watch as she freezes, half way through hanging up her coat. She slowly turns her head to me, and her mouth opens to speak.
"W-" She freezes when her eyes land on the diary in my hand, gaping, mouth open and eyes wide with shock and horror. My grin widens. I've got her – like a deer in headlights. She turns her body to face me, slowly, and takes a few measured steps forward.
"What did you read?" She talks in a low, controlled voice. I smirk at her.
"Oh, just a few entries. A fairly recent one really captured my interest."
Her voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Which one?"
"Oh you know, just the one from the other day. When the tributes went into the arena."
She covers her now-red face with her hands and lets out a shriek of pure horror.
"Oh. My. God!" I laugh as I watch her writhe on the spot from embarrassment. Isn't this what she wanted? For me to watch her writhe?
I put my bottle on the table and stand up to cross the room, stopping in front of her.
"Never knew you were such a big fan, sweetheart."
She shakes her head frantically, still whining to herself behind her hands. I chuckle and gently pull her hands away from her face, watching her curiously. She squirms, uncomfortable under my gaze.
"Please stop looking at me!"
"But I thought you wanted me to watch you writhe?" Her eyes widen.
"Oh my God!" She covers her face again and screams a little into the palm of her hand. I guffaw.
"This is too good, sweetheart. If only I knew before."
"Oh!" She whines in despair. "How did you get it?"
"Lock-picked your desk." She looks at me, fury suddenly in her eyes.
"What!? How dare you!?"
"I'm glad I did it." I wave the diary and she tries to snatch it, but I hold it above her head.
"Please. Just give it to me."
"So forward, sweetheart."
"No!" She shrieks. I laugh. "How could you do this!?"
"I'll tell you what. How about I give my biggest fan a little apology kiss?"
"What? N-no."
"You want your diary back?"
"Well, yes, but…"
"Then let me kiss you, and you can have it back." I smirk as her mouth opens and closes like a fish. Effie Trinket lost for words. Never thought I'd see the day. I don't let her answer. I place both my hands, one still holding the diary, on either side of her head, gently cupping her cheek with my free hand. Her hands rise to grip my wrists, as if to pull them away, but she doesn't pull. She just holds my wrists, not moving and staring directly into my eyes. I remember what she said about my eyes, so I meet her gaze and watch as hers glaze over slightly. Wow. She wasn't kidding. She really does like my eyes. I lean forward slowly, not really sure what's going through my head. I'm not kissing her just because of some joke. There's a part of me that wants to kiss this woman – that's always wanted to kiss this woman.
I hear her breath hitch in her throat as I near her, her eyes fluttering closed. Softly, slowly, I press my lips against hers. She lets out a breathy sigh as our lips meet. I feel her hands tighten slightly around my wrists as I gently push her lips open with my tongue. She whimpers as I urge to work with me – caressing her tongue with mine. Eventually, she melts into the kiss, letting out a slight moan as her hands tighten their grip on my wrists even further. The kiss stirs something within me. I want this woman. The feeling shocks and scares me. I know it's too dangerous for her, and it'd be selfish for this to go any further. I lower my hand from the side of her head, sliding the diary into her hand, and after one last kiss, I pull away, panting for air. Her eyes remain closed. She's frozen; lips parted, eyes shut, hand still raised holding the diary, her other hand gripping my wrist – she's stunned. I caress her cheek lightly and she slowly opens her eyes.
"Effie. Thank you." I lean in to give her another soft kiss, before pulling away completely.
I walk across the room to grab my whiskey and stroll to my room, leaving her standing in the middle of the penthouse, frozen and stunned.
If I'm lucky, she'll come to me for more.
It's not selfish if it's her begging, is it?