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i.
“Don’t you think drinking at this time is unwise, Mr. Abernathy?”
Haymitch’s shoulders tensed at the tinny, Capitol accent filtering through his regrettably sober haze. He’d wolfed down an enormous lunch on the train that afternoon, courtesy of forgetting to eat the entire day before, and it was taking more alcohol than usual to break through his high tolerance. His head wasn’t even swimming yet.
A shame considering the girl standing next to him.
To be fair, girl was a grossly inaccurate term. While she was plainly younger than he by at least five years, she was still every inch a grown woman. But her overly bubbly—and frankly grating—personality lent itself to a naivete that might be endearing to most people. Too bad he was a right cynical son of a bitch. And while his alcohol tolerance might be high, his tolerance for ignorance was abysmally low. And this Capitol girl was the epitome of ignorant every time she opened that damn mouth of hers.
That plump mouth was stained a putrid green that afternoon, and it was pursed in disapproval as Haymitch glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He granted her a cursory once-over to confirm that the rest of her garish outfit was every bit as ugly as that lipstick.
It was.
Another shame. She’d be mighty pretty if she ditched the Capitol garb.
“I know you’re new, sweetheart,” he drawled, “but trust me. It’d be unwiser if I went into that Opening Ceremony without a little something to take the edge off.” He knocked back a gulp. “And Mr. Abernathy died twenty years ago down in the mines of District Twelve. You’re talkin’ to Haymitch.”
“More unwise.”
Haymitch blinked at the girl, wondering how her slender neck could hold up such a bulbous wig, especially as she shook it from side to side in further disapproval.
“More unwise,” she repeated. “Unwiser is grammatically incorrect.”
Who the fuck cared? he thought and reached for the stopper on the decanter to pour himself another drink.
The girl placed her delicate, pale hand atop his to refute his efforts. “I must insist, Mr. Abernathy. I was given explicit instructions for this year’s Games. Aeneus Gaul did inform you they were doing a tenth anniversary special for the Second Quarter Quell, yes?”
“I don’t give a fuck what kinda instructions that piece of shit gave you, sweetheart,” he said with a glare. To her credit, she didn’t even flinch. Whatever training she’d received was damn good.
She did have the audacity to tsk her tongue at him, however. “That kind of language is unbecoming of a Victor such as yourself. I do hope you’ll be better for your exclusive interview with Caesar Flickerman.”
“And I do hope you remove that hand of yours before I start thinkin’ you’re coming onto me, princess.” A wicked grin slowly spread across his face at her blush as she retracted her hand like she’d been burned. “Now, I didn’t say I’d turn down the advance. But last I heard, a Capitol gal had to be offered a drink before she’d consider climbing into—”
“Let’s please keep this professional, Mr. Abernathy,” she interrupted in a clipped voice. “I was specially chosen to be your escort this year because I was the best in my class, and I will not have my reputation tarnished by—”
“Fucking your Victor?”
The pink in her cheeks deepened to furious scarlet. “I don’t like how you speak to me.”
“I don’t like you at all. But I’ll tell you what, princess.”
“Ms. Trinket. Whether you like me or not, please give me the respect of using my honorific.”
“Last I checked, princess is an honorific.”
Trinket squinted at him. “Not when you’re being derogatory.”
Haymitch shrugged. “Got me there. But here’s the breaks, sweetheart. You ain’t gonna come between me and my drinks, yeah? Keep out of my business, I’ll keep out of your hair.” He eyed her wig warily. “Or whatever is under that fuckin’ thing.”
Her eyes flashed, and damn, Haymitch hadn’t found someone’s irritation so amusing in years. Good thing, too, because she irritated him just as much, and like hell he was going to let that go unanswered.
“That is extremely personal,” she hissed. “It is terribly rude to ask a Capitol citizen what their hair looks like!”
“I didn’t ask. And I don’t care.” Haymitch poured himself another drink and, while he was at it, poured a second glass as well. He jerked his head towards it. “Do yourself a favor and drink that. And then do us both a favor and leave me the fuck alone for the rest of these Games, Trinket.”
ii.
Haymitch knew he made Effie Trinket’s life hell ever since she started on as escort during the Sixtieth Annual Hunger Games. At first it had just been fun to get a rise out of her, but there were moments when she genuinely made him so angry that his blurry vision turned red. She was the fucking queen of saying insensitive shit. For fuck’s sake, one time she’d brought the normally composed Cecelia to tears after she’d returned to the viewing headquarters from an emergency trip to the doctor!
“Miscarriage,” she said in an incredibly small voice. “That’s common for first pregnancies.”
“Sorry to hear that, Silly,” Chaff replied and brought her in for a quick hug. Haymitch grunted his agreement and clapped a friendly hand to her shoulder.
“Oh, Cecelia,” Effie cut in, completely unwanted in the conversation from Haymitch’s point of view, and grabbed the Eight girl’s hands. “This is devastating news for all of us. I just know that little one would have grown to be a notable Victor, just like its mother.”
Everyone gaped at her, horrified. Even Haymitch was rendered speechless. But of course Effie was fucking oblivious and had no idea why Cecelia had literally shoved her before running out of the room in tears.
That was the first legitimate screaming match he and the princess had gotten into. To the point where Head Gamemaker Aeneus Gaul was called in for disciplinary action. For the both of them. After that, the more intense fights were kept to the penthouse.
Like the one they were in now.
It had devolved to the point where Haymitch didn’t know what they were screaming about anymore. He just knew he sure as hell wasn’t going to lose a fucking argument to some high-strung bitch draped in a dress made of dyed pig skin—an homage to the winner from District Ten the year prior.
Haymitch successfully brought Effie to the point where she was so livid with him that she was trying not to burst into frustrated tears. Haymitch’s eyes briefly fixated on her heaving chest before snapping to her throat as it bobbed with each gulp of air, the evidence of how desperate she was to keep her composure.
Part of him felt bad when he made her cry. He wasn’t a complete monster, and honestly, neither was she. She was just so damn insensitive and clueless and willfully ignorant, and he could not tolerate ignorance. So he swallowed his guilt like she was swallowing oxygen. Violently and desperately.
“Go ahead and cry,” he sneered. “Won’t do you no good, and you know…hey, Eff, calm the fuck down.”
For once, his order to calm down wasn’t made with malice, but genuine—albeit halfhearted—concern. Effie was breathing too fast, and now that Haymitch focused on her face, her eyes were morphing from anger to fear.
“I ca—” she gasped. “I can’t breathe.” She gripped his arms, her nails digging into his thin shirt with her panic. “Haymitch, I can’t—I can’t brea—”
Haymitch hadn’t spent the last thirteen years around traumatized Victors without picking up the signs of a panic attack. They were all too common amongst their little club, and the rare sessions they were afforded with Capitol-sanctioned psychiatrists allotted them the skillsets needed to ward off the attacks. Both when they experienced them, and when their fellow Victors experienced them.
Haymitch’s vision focused as adrenaline cut through his tipsy haze. He firmly sat Effie on one of the dining chairs. He dragged another around so he was sitting in front of her, close enough that their knees were touching. He brought one of her hands to his chest, and without his bidding, her free hand found his other and gripped it hard enough to make him wince.
“Focus on me, Effie,” he commanded, making sure to keep his voice stern but not unkind. “I don’t want you lookin’ anywhere but my eyes, alright? Now breathe exactly as I do.”
It took some time, but eventually Haymitch was able to get Effie’s breathing down. He had her focus on her five senses, and it wasn’t until Haymitch asked her to name something she could touch that he realized he’d begun stroking the knuckles of her free hand at some point during the cooldown. He decided to ignore how soft her skin felt under the pads of his thumb. But, damn, all that Capitol money must grant her access to the best lotions and potions available because it felt like he was caressing a dove’s feather.
Uncomfortable, Haymitch extricated himself, confident that Effie was sufficiently calm enough for him to move about the space without her fainting in front of him. He snagged a glass from the bar cart, and the sound of Effie’s subtle scoff had his confidence in her composure growing. But contrary to her assumptions, he wasn’t aiming to fill the glass with his favorite brandy. He brought the glass to the kitchen faucet, filled it from the tap, then plunked it on the dining table beside her with an unceremonious thunk to the black marble.
“Thank you,” she said meekly, hesitantly, before picking up the crystal and taking a delicate sip of the water.
Haymitch shrugged. “Don’t mention it. You get those often?”
Effie shook her head. “Never. I’ve been having acute chest pains for a long time, but my physician told me there was nothing of note in my examinations. Just prescribed me some anxiety pills, but I don’t like to take them.”
“Why not?”
Effie eyed him warily. “Respectfully, Haymitch, that’s rather personal. I have my reasons.”
That surprised Haymitch just enough to let it drop. Normally Effie was an open book around him, around everyone. It was a good thing she was such a loyal Capitol citizen, otherwise she’d be in danger of letting the President and his entire fucking cabinet know exactly how to hurt her.
Still, his cynicism lent itself to pragmatism when he was sober enough. “Well, if you get any more of those attacks, you might want to consider taking them pills, sweetheart. How long has this been going on?”
Effie caved in on herself. “Oh, I shouldn’t say,” she whispered and flicked her eyes toward the ceiling.
Huh. So the little lady was aware that their conversations weren’t always the most private. Had she said something that landed her in hot water? He couldn’t imagine it. Maybe she’d heard the rumors about District Six’s escort. Effie was a fan of gossip, and he could see her sniffing out that kind of information, the busybody that she was.
“Knowing how long will help me if I have to tell someone why you passed out in front of me. Y’know, before they assume I knocked you out.”
“Oh, Haymitch!” she exclaimed, clutching her glass of water in horror. “Surely they know you’d never hurt me like that!”
Haymitch sniffed. “Wouldn’t be the first time a Victor was falsely accused of harming their escort. But good to hear that you know I wouldn’t touch ya.”
Effie gave him a look, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re trying to tease me.” He only shrugged again, and she sighed. “I’ve always been nervous as a child, but those typically resulted in stomach aches or sleepless nights. It got better as I grew older. These symptoms started around three years ago.”
Haymitch nodded at her pointed look, understanding the words she left out. It all started after she became an escort. He wondered if it was because of him, which made him feel like dog shit. “Is it my fault?” he murmured.
At that, Effie grinned around her sip of water. “Well, you certainly don’t help,” she confessed when she swallowed, her grin still in place. “But rest assured, you’re only a small part. Best not to think too highly of yourself, Mr. Abernathy.”
“I haven’t thought highly of myself in thirteen years, princess.”
Genuine sadness washed over Effie. She looked away and swirled her manicured finger around the rim of her glass. “I know I’ve said some nasty things to you the last few years, Haymitch. Unprofessional and mean things. But I hope one day you come to genuinely believe that you have some good qualities. Admirable, even.”
Haymitch smirked. “How painful was that for you to admit?”
“Quite.”
Haymitch chuckled and took the half-empty glass from her to place on the kitchen counter.
“I do mean it, though, Haymitch,” she said in a soft voice. “You hate me, but you still took the time to help me when I thought I was dying. That’s admirable.”
Haymitch shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I don’t hate you, Effie. I just don’t like you.”
Effie smiled sadly. “No. You hate me. But I don’t need you to like me in order to do my job. Although it would make it easier.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say here, sweetheart.”
“I’m not sure either. I suppose it’s my way of saying that we understand each other, in a sense.”
Haymitch was positive he didn’t understand a lick about this Capitol broad, nor did he want to.
“And it’s to let you know that I’ve put in a request to transfer to another District.”
That brought him up short. “And they approved it? It ain’t been five years.”
Her smile turned from sad to wry. “It hasn’t, but everyone agreed that I’ve done the equivalent to five years of work with you.”
He couldn’t deny that. And even if she hadn’t, she was the most competent escort of the lot. He’d admit that, and so would every other Victor on hand, regardless of whether or not they liked her. About half of them did, half of them didn’t. And truthfully, he didn’t want her to go, which surprised him. She couldn’t watch her fucking mouth, but for the most part, she was good with the kids. Better than he was, sober or plastered.
“Anything I can do to convince you to stay?”
Effie jumped and looked like she was about ready to die of shock. “You want me to stay?”
“I don’t like change.”
Disappointment clouded her expression. “Of course.”
Feeling defensive, Haymitch snagged a bottle from the bar cart at random. “Look, do whatever you want, princess. But if your transfer is approved, I recommend talkin’ with the Games shrink or another Victor on how to work through those panic attacks. Especially if you sign with One or Two. They always got cameras on ‘em. Won’t do you no good to keel over first day of your transfer.”
He left her there without giving her a chance to respond. He’d been sober for long enough. And the Tributes would be coming back from receiving their training scores any minute. He didn’t feel like confronting what were sure to be two more failures in his portfolio without the help of liquor.
And maybe he didn’t want to think about Effie leaving.
Maybe.
iii.
Effie glared and jabbed his side with her elbow. “Please get off me, Haymitch,” she hissed. “I’m in the middle of a riveting chat with Gaius.”
Yeah, yeah, he knew that. And he knew that Effie was not chatting up Gaius Goldenbaum—or Goldenbum as Chaff liked to call him—simply to convince him to sponsor District Twelve next year. He’d seen her ogle the bastard on more than one occasion and overheard her gabbing and raving to Octavia, one of the new young things on their prep team, about how he’d been flirting with the escort in the Square that morning.
He doubted Effie knew the reason Chaff called him Goldenbum. Mainly because the guy was an asshole. Also because the whole reason the fucker was a Sponsor was because he liked his Victors young and male. So whatever flirting Effie thought she was getting from Gaius was just a pastime for the sick fuck until the newest Victor turned fifteen next year.
Gaius had been leering at Finnick Odair all night whenever Effie wasn’t paying attention. And Eff hadn’t had to facilitate a private meeting between a Victor and a Sponsor considering all Haymitch’s private Sponsors dried up when he found out he could use his impending alcoholism as a suit of armor. She might not know about the private meetings at all, now that Haymitch thought about it.
A foolish part of Haymitch hoped she didn’t. Because if she knew about Gaius and still found him worthy of her charm, then she was about to lose whatever respect Haymitch had slowly been developing for her.
“Riv’ting,” he slurred in her ear with a scoff and leaned more of his bodyweight against her, nearly causing her to topple off her chair. And him along with her. He certainly wasn’t as drunk as he was making himself appear, but he definitely wasn’t sober enough to stand or walk straight. “Just like how he finds the Odair kid riv’ting, right, Gaiiiiius?”
Effie’s brows wrinkled in confusion. “Well, certainly he would! Much of the money used for Finnick’s trident came directly from Gaius’ own pocket. And surely you must admit that the way Finnick had wielded the weapon was riveting, indeed.”
Yeah, she had no fucking clue. So Haymitch resolved to get her as far away from this asshole as possible. She could fuck whoever she wanted, so long as it wasn’t Gaius Goldenbum.
Gaius narrowed his eyes at Haymitch in challenge, as if the bastard could read his thoughts. “The Odair boy’s win was a spectacle to be sure. But, Ms. Trinket, nothing as spectacular as how you look this evening. That gown is truly riveting.”
Effie blushed and gave Gaius that stupid demure laugh that all Capitol broads giggled for their suitors. The one that sounded coy and shy yet was anything but. It pissed him off, and Haymitch wanted to get her far away from this table. So he nuzzled his nose into her neck and whispered, “Gotta agree with him there, prinshess.”
Effie gasped and slapped his arm. “Haymitch Abernathy! Where are your manners? Get off me this instant!”
He relented, but pouted and swayed in his seat when he jerked away. “I didn’t do nothin’!”
Effie’s eye twitched. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get me a drink? You clearly know where the bar is.”
Haymitch smiled cheekily, pleased as could be that she gave him the opening he’d been looking for. “But I’m a gentleman, swee’heart! Y’can have some of mi—oops.”
He purposefully poured the entire contents of his glass into her lap, wrenching yet another gasp out of that plump, purple mouth. She jumped from her seat and flapped her hands to rid herself of excess liquid as the dark red seeped into the soft fabric of her dress to leave a permanent stain. She glared at him with a look that could only be described as betrayed. Along with furious and humiliated and mutinous.
“Sssorry?” he offered, feeling a twinge of genuine contrition when tears filled her big, blue eyes. But he didn’t feel that bad because it got Gaius to leave in a disgusted huff.
Effie stared after him, dismayed and confused. She whirled her attention back to Haymitch. “How dare you!” she spat, loud enough for him to hear but quiet enough to deter any more attention than they already had. “Jealousy and wine does not suit you, Haymitch! And you ruined my gown!”
A surprised laugh ripped out of Haymitch of its own accord. Jealousy? What the fuck?
“I ain’t jealous of no one, Trinket,” he bit back, losing the majority of his affected slur. “Want me to prove it to you? Hey, Crane!”
Effie’s eyes widened at Haymitch’s shout. The stares that hadn’t seen Haymitch spilling his wine all over Effie snapped over to them. Seneca Crane, the current Junior Gamemaker who’d had a boner for his escort all fucking season, hurried over to pander to her every whim.
“Ms. Trinket,” he said in that quiet, self-assured voice of his. Haymitch disliked him on principle, but he could see how the man’s confidence and good looks would serve him well as he climbed the ranks to head child murderer in charge. “Is everything alright?”
“Help my escort, would ya, handsome?” Haymitch answered for her and gave Seneca a weak punch to the arm. “I got a little carried away, and now I need a refill.”
Seneca scowled at him in disgust, which almost set Haymitch’s teeth grinding. But Haymitch had a point to make and an escort to appease, so he left them to peacock around each other until one of the Capitol tabloids inevitably announced their blossoming relationship.
It would only be a matter of time. Effie had a type. It certainly didn’t look like a drunken Victor from the backwaters of District Twelve. So he didn’t know what the fuck her jealousy accusation was about.
Pft. Jealous. What a crock of shit.
iv.
“I just don’t understand why he hasn’t proposed!” Effie whined from the penthouse couch. Both their Tributes had died in the cornucopia, and the camera had just turned away from a rather brutal beheading of a boy from District Four. His head had ricocheted with the force and hit his District partner’s leg, smearing the beige fabric of her pants with blood. The girl screamed and ran in the opposite direction, her dark, wild curls flailing behind her as she sprinted toward the opposite end of the remote island arena.
But all that was secondary to Effie Trinket’s relationship problems with Seneca Crane.
“I don’t understand why you’re talking to me about this at all,” Haymitch grumbled. Normally he’d be drunk as a skunk by now, but he’d gotten sicker than usual the night before. And while Haymitch didn’t have much will to live, he still had just enough remaining survival instincts to kick into overdrive and force him to stay sober enough to eat a damn meal.
His stomach would settle by the time night fell. Then he’d be back at it before the nightmares came.
Effie huffed. “Because Seneca likes you. I thought maybe he mentioned what he was waiting for.”
Haymitch laughed. “Since when does Seneca fucking Crane like me?”
“He’s always admired you. The way you navigated the Second Quarter Quell is what inspired him to become a Gamemaker, you know.”
Haymitch scowled at her. “That’s not the compliment either of you thinks it is.”
“Oh, Haymitch,” she tutted and turned her body to face him more fully. “If you’d been born under different circumstances, you’d be the most brilliant Gamemaker the Capitol has ever seen! Everyone knows it.”
Agitated and irritable, Haymitch angrily shoved his face in front of hers until their noses practically touched. “If I’d been born under different circumstances,” he growled, “I’d want them to be in a world that didn’t have the Games at all, sweetheart.”
Effie’s mouth parted with a soft gasp, and Haymitch forced himself to scoot away before his trousers decided he liked that sound a little too much.
“Look, I don’t like Crane at all, so his opinion of me doesn’t fucking matter. And even if he’s my biggest fan this side of District Twelve, he doesn’t seek me out to talk about his relationship with you. Frankly, I wish you’d follow his lead.”
Effie heaved a weary sigh. “I’m in need of guidance, Haymitch. Why would a man wait so long to propose? We’re both well into our careers, we share the same family values, our sex life is wonderful—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, princess!”
“Since when do you turn into a blushing schoolboy at the mention of sex?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“First, I’m not fucking blushing. Second, I don’t wanna think about my escort riding the new Head Gamemaker. Or anyone for that matter.”
Except maybe him. He’d been thinking about that an unusual and unfortunate amount for the last couple years.
“Besides,” he continued. “That kinda talk is unprofessional for you, ain’t it?”
Effie waved her hand. “You and I have been working together long enough to warrant some more frank and friendly manner of talk, don’t you think?”
“You think we’re friends?”
A look of hurt briefly washed over her. “I’ve always wanted us to be friendly, Haymitch. This isn’t news to you.”
Haymitch shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Fine, but that don’t mean I want to hear about you and Crane fucking, alright?”
Effie glared at him. “We make love, Haymitch, we don’t…fuck.”
“Fucking hell, princess,” Haymitch groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe that’s his problem!”
Effie’s jaw dropped, offended. “You think I don’t know how to make Seneca—?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Eff,” he interrupted before he could run away with fantasies about how she might make someone explode with pleasure. He cleared his throat. “Maybe his problem is he thinks you ain’t in love with him or somethin’.”
She stiffened. “Why would you say that?”
Haymitch threw up his hands. “Look, I don’t know, alright? If everything is as right as rain as you say, the only thing I can think of is that maybe he don’t think you love him enough to marry him. That’s usually why most people get married, and neither of you seem like the contractual type like the rest o’ yins in the Capitol.”
Effie didn’t respond. She simply jumped from her spot on the couch, grabbed her purse from the coffee table, and strode towards the elevator without another word. Haymitch gaped after her, wondering how he possibly offended her this time when she explicitly asked for his opinion.
Fuck his liver. Fuck his survival instincts. He was getting wasted now whether his stomach could handle it or not.
Damn, his mid-thirties were a bitch.
By the time Effie returned to the penthouse, the stars had winked into the sky, and Haymitch had swapped sitting on the couch with lying down. His arm flopped over the side, a near-empty bottle dangling from his fingertips. He attempted to count the stars winking in the ceiling tiles, but he kept having to start over because the stars kept shifting and swaying and forcing him to lose count.
A frown of concern infiltrated his retinas, and Haymitch went cross-eyed until his brain finally registered that it was Effie’s signature frown of disapproval marring his vision.
“Finally get back from proposin’, sweetheart?” he warbled out.
Effie’s frown deepened. “How much have you had?”
“Well, I’m still ‘wake. So not enough. Didja get the rock from Crane?”
Effie waved the back of her left hand in his face, and the city’s biggest diamond glittered on her ring finger underneath the fluorescent lights of the penthouse living room.
Haymitch scoffed and batted her away. “He shoulda gotten you a ruby. Rubies are your favorite.”
Effie’s forehead bunched in confusion. “How did you know that?”
“We friends, ain’t we? Isn’t that what you said? Don’t friends learn stuff like that ‘bout each other?” He grunted and tried to sit up, his stomach lurching dangerously in the process. He took a moment to breathe, and the cool sensation of Effie’s hand settled over his forehead. He involuntarily sighed and leaned forward into her touch.
“You’ll drink yourself to death one of these days,” she grumbled. “I’ll be attending your funeral before you’ll ever attend my wedding. I don’t much like that, Haymitch Abernathy.”
“You don’t like much anything I do, Eff Trinket,” he shot back and nuzzled into her palm until it was cradling his cheek. She always got affectionate when he was beyond plastered. Or maybe he was the affectionate one, he didn’t fucking know. He doubted he could remember how to be affectionate when he was sober anyway.
Effie hummed and caressed him with her thumb, the unforgiving metal of her engagement band biting into his cheekbone. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe that’s true.”
He closed his eyes, inhaling the tantalizing scent coming off her wrist. She always knew exactly how much perfume to spritz on her skin. He’d seen her put it on before they left in the mornings. Always a splash on her wrists, a dab behind each ear, and a little drop between her breasts. What he wouldn’t give to stick his nose right in between those perfect swells and inhale and lick to his heart’s content, just to see if the scent was just as sweet in the crevice of her sternum. He’d bet it was even sweeter.
Fucking hell, what had happened to him the last few years? When had Effie Trinket gone from being his worst nightmare to infiltrating his long-dormant fantasies?
Some friend she was. And now she was engaged. He wasn’t surprised in the least. When Effie got it in her mind that she wanted something, she stopped at nothing until she got it. He knew one day that might even include his sobriety, but he planned on being dead before that ever ended up a reality. And it’s not like she wanted him, so what did he owe her, really?
“Shall I get you a pillow?” she asked. “I won’t be able to carry you to your room tonight. The Avoxes have already retired for the evening.”
Had she really been gone that long? And had he gone almost an entire day again without eating? The thought disgusted him. He used to starve as a child because he didn’t have a choice. Now he was accidentally doing so because he forgot too often in his drunken, depressed haze. He had all the money and resources to food in the world, and he was willingly wasting away. It was a slap in the face to everyone in the Seam, to everyone in District Twelve.
“Can I get somethin’ t’ eat?” he asked sheepishly. Like a damn child.
“Oh!” came Effie’s shocked gasp. “Yes, of course. I can find you something. And maybe some water.”
“Sounds good, prinssssssss.”
“A very tall glass of water then.”
“Make it a double.”
Effie rolled her eyes, but there was an undertone of affection to it, so Haymitch didn’t chide her or tease her. He just mourned the absence of her hand against his face and flopped his head against the back of the dark grey leather couch. It was like the color of coal dust. Did the interior designer do it on purpose?
He didn’t fucking care.
Haymitch tapped a noncommittal rhythm against the neck of the bottle. There wasn’t much left, and part of him ached to guzzle it down. But for some asinine reason that was beyond him, the knowledge of Effie getting locked down as the future Mrs. Crane and the self-loathing at what he had become had him balking at the idea. Well balking and craving it even more in equal measure. The craving was slowly winning.
Just before he thought he might die if he didn’t finish the bubbly liquor jiggling and fizzing with each tap of his fingers, Effie set a bowl piled high with spiced rice, a mixture of beans, some kind of green mush, and something that smelled like eggs.
“You cook this?” he asked dubiously when his stomach both growled and roiled at the smell of food in front of him.
“Heavens, no! I’m a terrible cook. This is leftover from breakfast this morning.” She held out the glass of water to him, which he took. “I do hope you’re in your right mind enough to feed yourself. I’d rather not do it for you.”
He chugged the full glass in one go and smirked at her over the rim. “I think I can handle it, sweet cheeks.”
“If you ever call me that again, I will personally take that knife from under your pillow and ruin your favorite pair of pants with it.”
Haymitch scoffed. “That’s a weird way of saying you want access to my bed, sweetheart.”
Effie's cheeks flushed, and she waggled her finger at him like he was a child. “You can’t make those lewd comments to me anymore, Haymitch. I’m as good as a married woman.”
Right.
Feeling that overwhelming urge to empty the bottle again, Haymitch poured the remaining contents into his now empty water glass and shoved it under her nose. “Congratulations to the happy couple.”
Effie raised a brow and took the glass. It was a pitiful amount of drink, barely enough to fill half if it had been a proper flute. “You’ve been nursing champagne tonight?”
Haymitch shrugged. He dug into the food so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “Had a feeling it would be a night for celebratin’.”
“You’re…happy for me? Truly?”
Quite the contrary. He was downright melancholy, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to unpack why. Or the reserves to humiliate himself by telling her so.
“I’m over the fucking moon, sweetheart.”
v.
Haymitch tore down the halls of District Thirteen the second Fulvia Cardew told him Alma Coin had granted Effie Trinket tentative immunity. He hadn’t been allowed to see her since she’d been rescued from the Capitol with the rest of the prisoners. Truthfully, he’d almost fainted on the spot when Plutarch told him Effie was among the rescued. He’d been sure she’d be safe. And when he hadn’t seen her executed with the other stylists and escorts associated with the Rebels, his conviction had only grown.
More like his delusion because there was always the possibility she’d been the first to be executed. But he’d purposely told her to go home early before Katniss blew up the arena. Go see her mother, visit her sisters, do whatever the fuck she wanted so long as it got her far enough away from the penthouse.
He’d been whirlwind of rage and determination when Plutarch and Fulvia informed him that Alma planned on executing her anyway. He didn’t know what Plutarch said that finally convinced the woman to spare his escort, but the man was a manipulative bastard. He could get the concrete bunker to serenade him with a lullaby if he used the right words.
Haymitch still didn’t know if he liked the man. He supposed that’s why Plutarch was so damn good at his job as a double agent. And Haymitch could read people well enough to know that Plutarch didn’t trust Alma Coin any more than they trusted President Snow, so chances were, the man was laying his disguise extra thick.
Whatever, it meant that Effie was safe. And well enough to receive visitors.
“Mr. Abernathy,” Fulvia called, breathless from running after him. “You don’t even know where she is!”
Haymitch stopped in his tracks. She had a point, he’d just had an overwhelming need to move, dammit. “Where can I find her?”
Fulvia checked her clipboard. “Alma’s had her moved from the med bay to a room in the lowest level of the base. Please be advised that while she might not need to be hooked up to medical equipment any longer, she may still be unstable from her time in prison. Her body will be weaker, that’s confirmed. She was highly malnourished.”
The guilt was going to eat him alive. He ran a hand down his face. “Can you get me a coffee?” he asked.
Fulvia bit her lip. “I cannot. You know it’s a rare commodity afforded to—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not important enough in the ranks to warrant fucking caffeine.”
Fulvia gave him a shrewd once-over that he wasn’t sure he liked. Then she beckoned him with her first two fingers and strode past him. “Follow me, Mr. Abernathy.”
“We goin’ to Eff?”
“Not yet.”
Fulvia led them to the floor that housed Plutarch’s office. She gave his door an intricate pattern of knocks and raps before letting herself in. Must be some kind of code for the two whenever she wanted to announce her presence. Or maybe that she had company. It didn’t really matter if he were being honest.
“Haymitch,” Plutarch said with a wide smile. “You’ve heard about Ms. Trinket? I was going to see her myself, but I thought you might want privacy.”
“He’d like to bring her a cup of coffee, darling,” Fulvia said before Haymitch could respond.
He whipped his head to her. “How the fuck…?”
Fulvia offered a magnanimous smile. “I’ve only ever known you to drink coffee when you can spike it, Mr. Abernathy. I believe you likened it to coal dirt.”
Plutarch frowned. “While she’s been responding well to her nourishment regime, I doubt her stomach will be able to handle—”
“I just need to give her something,” Haymitch interrupted. “It’s the one thing I can think of that might bring her a modicum of comfort. She was obsessed with the stuff. I need her to know she’s safe here.”
Plutarch studied him then sighed. “There’s a kitchenette through that door. I haven’t had my one cup for the day. Take it to Euphemia. With my apologies.”
Haymitch nodded. He wasn’t the only one wracked with guilt then. If he remembered correctly, Plutarch had been Eff’s reference for the job as an escort in the first place. Was practically like family to her. The nastiest corners of Haymitch’s heart wanted to shift all the blame on Plutarch so he could alleviate his own guilt, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair. Effie’s imprisonment was just as much Haymitch’s fault as it was Plutarch’s. They’d share the blame together. And try to bribe their way back into her good graces with a cup of joe swirling with an ungodly amount of milk and a dash of sugar.
Haymitch accepted the military thermos from Fulvia and poured the dark liquid with all its fix-ins into its new metal cage. He tried to push away mental images of Effie sitting in a metal cage, emaciated and terrified and wholly undeserving of the torture. He wasn’t sure if she endured the same kind of torture as Johanna, or Peeta, or if they had conjured up a special brand of horror for her since she was one of their own kind.
Haymitch clattered the spoon to the counter and gripped the edge, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of sorrow and shame. Fuck, she was going to hate him. Part of him hoped she did. He hated himself.
Thermos in hand, he followed Fulvia down to the lowest depths of District Thirteen. He dragged his feet, feeling like he was marching toward his death. But he knew that wasn’t possible, because when had life ever been that fucking kind to him? Never, that’s when. He should have been dead ten times over, and here he was, twitching from withdrawal and terrified of what he was going to find on the opposite side of Effie Trinket’s bunker door.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Fulvia muttered. She gave that signature knock, and nodded to him when Effie meekly called her permission to enter. Then she walked away, presumably back to Plutarch.
Steeling himself, Haymitch pressed the button to open the door. It whooshed open with a high-pitched whine to reveal Effie sitting at the small table and chair allotted in every bunker. She looked like shit. Way too skinny, way too pale even for her, and way too lifeless for his taste.
He needed her buzzing around like a mosquito with a vengeance, talking a mile a minute, and nagging him about needing a shave. Or a haircut. Or a new shirt. Or to take a shower, for the love of all that is holy.
He needed to wink at her and invite her to take one with him so she could roll her eyes and swat his chest. He didn’t know if Effie ever figured out that he was serious half the time. The half that he was near unconsciousness, anyway.
He just needed her to do something other than stare at him without any expression flitting through her classically open, gorgeous, makeup-free face. Holy fuck, when was the last time he’d seen her without her face painted? Had he ever? He despised that the first time was in the bowels of a Rebel base after she’d been tortured within an inch of her life and nearly sent to the chopping block.
He was going straight to hell. He’d known this since he was sixteen, of course, but it had been a long time since he’d felt it so acutely in his bones.
“Haymitch.”
Her voice was matter-of-fact, weak, clipped in that gratingly thick accent of hers. Yet it sounded just as sharp as the jutting angles of her shoulder blades, the bones in her thin wrists. She wasn’t wearing her favorite bracelet, the gold one with the gigantic ruby surrounded by pearls. A gift from Seneca that she could never bring herself to throw away, even after they’d broken off their relationship shortly after Johanna’s win. Somebody had gotten rid of it for her, then. Her captors most likely.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Hey, Eff,” he croaked. He plopped the thermos onto the small, grey table in front of her. She barely looked at it as the metal clanked against the hard plastic. “Brought you some coffee. You look like you need it.”
You fucking asshole, he chastised himself.
Something flickered in her blue eyes, normally large to begin with, but now inhumanly so against the gauntness in her cheeks. Damn, how badly was she starved if she still looked like this after a month of a strict nourishment regime? Still, he saw that spark of emotion, and he latched onto it, not caring if it made her hate him for the rest of her natural-born life.
“You mad at me, sweetheart?” he asked and twisted the cap off the thermos. “While I can’t say I blame ya, I gotta say, I don’t think it’ll do you much good in the end.”
Effie’s nose twitched like it always did before it turned into a full-blown snarl just before she shrieked his ear off. The snarl didn’t come, but her eyes did narrow while she watched Haymitch pour the light brown coffee into the cap. They traced the path of the steam as it wafted into the damp air before settling on him again with utter contempt.
“This stuff is real expensive down here,” he informed her. “Can’t tell you what I had to do to snag this little bit. Probably will be the last you see for a good long while.”
Her lips thinned. That spark grew.
Haymitch nudged the cap toward her. “You can say thank you any time, princess.”
The spark blazed into an inferno. She picked up the half-full cap and tossed the contents in his face, the scalding liquid successfully burning his flesh in sharp, white-hot pain. He didn’t care. He dabbed it away while she roared and raved at him, calling him all sorts of unspeakable names, throwing words in his face that her Capitol decorum would never let her say under any other circumstances. He stood and wrapped her in his arms while she raged. Effie twisted in his grasp, her hands alternating between slapping him and pounding her fists against his chest. Finally her angry words dissolved into heart-wrenching sobs, and she fell against his chest, her tears mixing into the coffee stains on his regulation Thirteen uniform.
Haymitch smoothed his hand over her limp, blonde hair, wincing when he felt bald patches his eyes hadn’t noticed in the low light of the bunker. He swayed her from side to side, murmuring countless apologies that would never be enough to make up for how he failed her. She wailed that he left her, forgot her, and he did nothing to refute it because what could he say?
When Effie started to hiccup, Haymitch sat in the chair and curled her into his lap. She let him. And Haymitch resolved that some day he was going to prove to Effie just how sorry he was. He didn’t know how. Didn’t even know if it would be possible. But if he and Plutarch could convince Coin to keep her safe in the new regime, surely he could think of something to prove to her that he wasn’t such a colossal waste of space?
She fell asleep in his lap, her breaths wheezing in and out of her stuffy nostrils. Haymitch leaned his head back against the concrete wall. He briefly considered carrying Effie to her bunk, but it had been so long since he’d felt any human touch. The weight of Effie laying against his chest was more comforting than he wanted it to be. For one too many reasons that he didn’t feel like naming.
Haymitch closed his eyes. He’d confront it all later. He’d have a real confrontation with Effie later. Snow would be in custody soon enough, and once the mockingjay executed him, he could focus on how to fix things with Effie. If she’d let him.
Fuck, he thought as he stole a swig of coffee from the thermos. He really hoped she’d let him.