When her phone starts to ring from its resting place on the coffee table, high pitched chirping threatening to pull her away from the heated kisses she's sharing with Haymitch, Effie tries her very best to ignore it.
It's not likely to be work; her boss had been very insistent that he didn't want to see her in the office until Monday morning after the hellishly long week she'd put in, and she's on strict instructions to stay away from anything concerning audits or meetings. It's probably a sales call of some sort, of no importance whatsoever, and so Effie pushes the ringing to the back of her mind and tries to concentrate on the feel of Haymitch's chapped lips against hers.
The ringing stops, voicemail obviously kicking in, and Effie lets her tongue dart out quickly to lick across the seam of Haymitch's lips, his mouth opening and tongue stroking across hers as his chest brushes slightly against the tips of her still exposed breasts.
The ringing starts up again and Effie reluctantly breaks away from the kiss, looking up at Haymitch apologetically. He rises up onto his knees fully, wincing at the change in position as Effie pushes herself upright, hands coming up to right the cups of her bra so that she's covered once more. Her hand drops down to rest on her stomach and she grimaces slightly at the stickiness she encounters there.
"Do you have any tissues?" she asks, swinging her legs around so that she's sitting straight on the sofa, her other hand coming up in an attempt to tame the unruly mess of her hair as she smiles shyly at Haymitch. He nods, tucking himself back into his pants but not bothering to redo his fly as he gets up and makes his way into the kitchen.
Leaning forward carefully to retrieve her phone from the table, Effie stifles a groan as she catches sight of the name flashing on the display. A conversation with her mother is the last thing she wants or needs right now, but she knows that if she doesn't answer the phone, or worse, rejects the call, she'll never hear the end of it.
The towel that suddenly lands in her lap jolts her from her thoughts, and she looks up to see Haymitch strolling towards her, a grin on his face as he watches her clean herself up as best she can, the room suddenly quiet as the ringing of her phone ceases momentarily.
"It's my mother, and she's bound to call straight back so I should probably go. But I'll see you soon? That is-I mean if you want to, of course," she stutters, reaching to retrieve her sweater from where it's crumpled on the floor and pulling it on over her head.
"Sure," he says, eyes never straying from her as she rises to her feet slowly, both of her hands coming up to smooth down her tangled hair as best as she can without the aid of a mirror. She's not sure what to say; it's not often that she finds herself in this sort of situation, and so she's at a loss when it comes to what would be appropriate. Not that letting your upstairs neighbour get you off on his sofa before returning the favour could be described as 'appropriate' in the slightest.
The phone starts up again, saving Effie from worrying further, and she tries to sound as confident as possible when she chirps, "Well, bye then!" but the second the words leave her mouth she knows she's failed; she sounds nervous, flustered, and she turns quickly to leave not wanting to embarrass herself any more than she already has.
Not that she's sure that would be possible.
.
It's over an hour later when Effie is finally able to hang up the phone, her head pounding and her mouth dry after a whole conversation spent trying to defend herself in the face of her mother. The conversation always goes the same way; small talk to begin with, pleasantries exchanged, followed by a full scale attack on her home, and her job, and her love life. Or lack thereof.
Her mother seems to have an uncanny knack of picking up on Effie's vulnerable spots and using them to tear her to shreds under the guise of caring, and Effie bites her lip to try and quell the rising tide of tears that always seem to accompany these conversations. She will not cry. She will not cry when her day had been going perfectly well up until an hour ago.
At that, Effie's thoughts turn to Haymitch and the way she'd left things between them earlier. She very briefly considers going back up there and explaining herself, but she dismisses that thought quickly, reasoning that it'll just make things even more awkward than they already potentially are.
Besides, she thinks, looking down at her crumpled clothes and wrinkling her nose in distaste as she twirls a lock of crumpled hair around her finger absentmindedly. She's going to need to shower again before she even contemplates doing anything else with her day.
.
The Christmas tree lights twinkle in the corner of the room, and Effie drains the last of her green tea, the closing credits of the schmaltzy Christmas movie she's been watching for the last two hours playing in the background. A hot chocolate would have been a more fitting accompaniment to the evening, cinnamon and marshmallows and whipped cream, but she's got a good two weeks of parties with food and drinks ahead of her, and she needs to start saving her calories now if she's going to face Christmas dinner with her mother at the end of those two weeks.
If she doesn't look at her absolute best, or if she shows even the slightest bit of interest or enthusiasm in her food, she knows that she will be met with a barbed comment about how she's clearly been enjoying the excesses of the festive season.
She's already got her outfit for the day picked out, has planned it meticulously down to the final detail. Fitted and slimming black trousers paired with a beautiful cream coloured cashmere sweater. It's expensive looking enough that her mother will be impressed by the quality, and the cut and shape is loose enough to disguise any hint of the slight bulge of her belly while still flattering her figure.
Effie's not fooling herself into thinking that she's going to have a lovely Christmas Day. She loves Christmas, loves the season, but has never been a fan of the day itself, much prefers the build up. So she's looking forward to the parties, and the office Secret Santa, and even the gift wrapping, but she'll be glad when she's finally able to escape from her parents' house after their formal dinner and come home to a large glass of wine. At least she'll only be expected to show her face there for a few hours; hopefully she can still get some enjoyment out of Christmas Day once she's left.
Her thoughts drift to Haymitch once more, and she wonders what his plans for Christmas Day are. She's never seen or heard any visitors to his home on the day; come to think of it, she can't really remember ever seeing or hearing any visitors. The thought almost has her heading straight upstairs and knocking on his door, and it's foolish but she thinks she probably would, if she hadn't heard him leaving a couple of hours ago.
She's not sure where he's gone; she shouldn't care really, but she hasn't been able to stop thinking of him since she closed his front door behind her. She's been going over her last words before leaving, and she's just about convinced herself that maybe she hasn't ruined things entirely between the two of them. She's not sure what exactly there is between the two of them, but there's something, and she just wishes there was a way to speak with him now, to gage his reaction.
The email notification on her phone pings, and it only takes a few seconds before Effie's rapidly putting the pieces together, formulating a plan, and it's so simple, so straightforward and why didn't she think of this sooner? She has his number stored in her phone; had punched it in after his little drunken episode the night of her office Christmas party so that she could call and check on him the next day to make sure he hadn't drowned in a pool of his own vomit. She'd never needed to use it in the end, because she'd heard him heading out a little before noon the next day.
Before she can talk herself out of it Effie's reaching for her phone and scrolling through her contacts list until she finds his name. She opens a blank text template and then stops, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she tries to think of what she wants to say. She doesn't want to scare him off, doesn't want to sound too needy, although she thinks that on a subconscious level, Haymitch wants to be needed. Needs to be needed.
In the end she settles for I had a lovely time, sending the message before she can talk herself out of it and then feeling immediately ridiculous when she realises that he has no way of knowing who the message is from. He probably doesn't even know that she's got his number. She sends another message immediately afterwards, this one reading It's Effie, by the way, Effie Trinket, throwing her phone down onto the sofa with a groan as soon as she's hit the send button.
Fifteen minutes pass by with no reply; fifteen minutes with only the noise of the television for company, and Effie's pacing now, berating herself for being so foolish as to think that there could actually be something there. For thinking that something good could have been on her doorstep this entire time. She's on the brink of pouring herself a glass of wine; it's around six pm now, and the sun has long since set, so it's not too early she reasons to herself, and then her phone buzzes to life with a notification and Effie stops pacing.
She snatches her phone up from the couch, spying his name on the display and taking a deep breath as she opens the text. She's not sure what she's expecting; certainly not a declaration of feelings or anything as romantic as that, but his a lovely time? has her frowning. She can't work out if he's mocking her or just her choice of words, and she can feel her brow furrowing as she types her response, fingers flying over the keyboard like lightning.
The message she types turns out to be longer than she anticipates, reading I am trying to tell you that I enjoyed spending time in your company and would be amenable to it happening again. Judging by your response, you clearly do not share this opinion. I apologise for misinterpreting your actions, and will endeavour not to bother you again, but she sends it anyway as she makes her way into the kitchen to pour that glass of wine.
Her phone buzzes to life five minutes later, and she can almost hear his laugh when she reads Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm amenable, thought that was pretty obvious, and Oh. Maybe she's overreacted just slightly. She's trying to think of something to say when her phone buzzes again, and she scoffs when she reads his The cramp in my wrist says I'm 'amenable', firing off a quick Must you be so crude? in response.
There's a lull for a few minutes, and she's taking a sip of Merlot when another text comes through, and when Effie reads it she almost chokes on her wine.
Thought you liked it? Last time I was crude it made you even wetter, is what he's written, and Effie can physically feel the heat that blooms across her cheeks. She's not accustomed to receiving texts like this; Seneca would never have sent her a text like this, but there's a hot lick of arousal in her belly, and she realises with a jolt that she likes this. She likes that he seems to have no filter, and that he's willing to say whatever's on his mind; it makes her feel bold, fills her with a confidence she hadn't thought she'd possessed.
She wants to tell him; wants to tell him all sorts of things, wants to ask him things too, but she can't quite bring herself to write the words. Instead she settles for No I suppose I wasn't complaining. You didn't seem to be either and she takes a gulp of wine as she sends the text.
Her phone pings almost immediately, his previous message still open on the screen and Effie's breath catches in her throat when she reads I wasn't complaining when your hand was wrapped around my cock, and oh dear Lord, she thinks, as she jolts with the realisation that Haymitch Abernathy is sexting her. He must be drunk.
She touches the screen below his message to bring up the keyboard and then stops, and she can't quite believe that she's actually considering this. That she's considering sending a dirty text to her upstairs neighbour who she hadn't had a civil conversation with until yesterday. Come to think of it, she still doesn't think they've actually had a civil conversation, but the fact that they've seen each other half naked has to count for something, surely?
She's still debating on what to write, if anything, when there's another buzz, and she can imagine the cocky grin that must have been on his face as he'd typed thinking about it? and she decides that two can play at that game.
By the time she's finished typing she's pretty sure her face must be as red as a tomato, and she feels almost drunk, and if things don't go to plan then she can always blame this on the alcohol later even though she's only had a glass and a half of wine. Her hands are shaking as she sends him a message that reads Actually, I was thinking about how thick you felt in my hand, and imagining how you would feel inside of me, and when she reads the message back she's shocked at herself, shocked at how direct she's being in her approach.
She's not so naive; she knows there's nothing particularly outrageous about her reply, not in comparison to what others might say anyway. But she's never felt able to voice her thoughts and desires in this way; never felt able to say what she wants without fear of being judged, of being thought of as unladylike.
With Haymitch though, Effie gets the distinct impression that he has no interest whatsoever in whether she acts like a 'lady' or not. He hadn't seemed appalled when she'd asked him to touch her, or when she'd asked him to pump his fingers faster inside of her; quite the opposite in fact. And for the life of her, Effie cannot remember the last time she actually felt confident enough, safe enough to ask for what she wanted. She can't remember the last time that getting what she wanted was as easy as asking, and it seems that somewhere down the line she'd just stopped asking altogether, instead taking what she was given and making it work.
The sound of her phone pulls Effie from her reverie, and she hadn't thought it possible but she feels the blush on her cheeks intensify when she reads Fuck. I'm thinking of how fucking good you'd taste. I bet you taste better than whisky.
There's the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips as she types her response It would be rude of me not to extend an invitation for you to visit, since you were such a gracious host last night. And again this morning and she bites down on her lip as she presses send, unable to stop the shiver of arousal that runs through her body at the thought of seeing him again.
Almost immediately after sending the text it suddenly hits Effie that, while she's been in Haymitch's home a few times now, he's never actually set foot through her front door. She'd spent a while cleaning the house earlier in the day, but that had just been cleaning to pass the time, with no clear plan or schedule. Now, there's the prospect of someone, of Haymitch coming into her home and possibly being there for a prolonged period of time, and maybe even being in her bedroom, and that requires another level of cleaning entirely.
The bottle of wine that she's been drinking is only half full, and so Effie starts by making sure that there's another bottle of red opened, leaving it to breathe on the kitchen counter. She's pretty sure that Haymitch would prefer something stronger, whisky if their previous encounter is anything to go by, but she's also pretty sure that he's not the type of man to pass up a drink, so wine will have to do.
She leaves the kitchen and makes her way into the bedroom, placing the half full glass of wine down on top of a coaster on her dressing table. She strips the bed, remaking it with a cream cotton and silk bedding set that's been freshly laundered, smoothing down the corners until it's impeccably neat and without a crease in sight. She's not even sure if he'll see her bedroom tonight, but she figures that it's best to be prepared, just in case.
Even though she's on reliable birth control, she checks her bedside table for condoms, sighing with relief when she finds two left in the box. She's never heard Haymitch bring anyone home and he doesn't seem the type to sleep around. Despite how much he drinks, she thinks to herself somewhat judgmentally. But prior planning prevents poor performance and she would like a good performance here tonight.
It's been a good half hour since she left the couch, so she heads into the living room, picking up her phone from the coffee table and checking her notifications. There's no reply to her message, but she tells herself that maybe he's in the middle of a conversation with someone and unable to respond straight away. She imagines he's at a bar of some sort, probably a dive, and she wrinkles her nose as she imagines the conversations that must go on in a place like that, before deciding that that's not really something she wants to think about right now.
It's only when she's cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, faucets and porcelain positively shining, that she starts to let herself worry. It's been over an hour since she sent that last text and she's heard nothing from him since, and she's trying not to pay any attention to the thoughts running through her mind telling her that he doesn't want her, that she'll never be quite good enough or pretty enough or funny enough, and she shakes her head in an effort to dispel the familiar voice that she can hear in her head.
.
It takes another half hour for Effie to admit defeat. It's clear that he's not going to call- that she's effectively been stood up by him- and the embarrassment is almost too much for her to bear. She can feel hot tendrils of shame creeping over her, mortification rising like a tide. He'd seemed interested, but it's also pretty likely that he'd had more than a few drinks at the time. Maybe his previous texts had been the alcohol talking; maybe he's sobered up enough to change his mind about her.
She opens up her phone and goes straight to her contacts list, debating whether or not she should delete his number now and put an end to this whole thing. Her finger hovers over his name for a full minute, but in the end she can't bring herself to do it; instead, she finds herself scrolling through the list until she's looking at Seneca's number. For a split second she thinks about texting him, before berating herself for even considering lowering herself just for a bit of male attention.
Besides; she's not even sure what she'd say.
She can't imagine Seneca being the type to send, or even appreciate receiving a suggestive text, and she certainly can't imagine him fantasising about tasting her. She can count on one hand the number of times he'd gone down on her over the course of their relationship, and he'd always been entirely too hesitant about the whole thing, lacking any enthusiasm.
It's surprising, really, that it hadn't given her more of a complex. The first time he'd used his mouth on her, he'd stood up afterwards and made his way into the en suite to brush his teeth, and Effie had thought she'd die from the shame of it all, convinced there must be something wrong with her. It was only after seeing how uncomfortable he was with her on top and a particularly memorable occasion when she'd instinctively leaned in to kiss him after going down on him and he'd physically recoiled, that she'd realised that Seneca's only issue was...well, Seneca.
Effie sighs and puts her phone on the coffee table out of reach. She's wasted enough time thinking about one man tonight; she won't waste a minute longer on another. She'll finish her glass of wine, possibly pour herself another, and then she'll go to sleep. She'll wake up in the morning and go about her day as normal, and she'll try her very best to forget all about her serious lapse in judgement. Yes. That's what she'll do. She almost manages to convince herself that it'll be easy.
She goes to bed with the sound of her mother's voice ringing in her ears.