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The first time Effie throws her legs over his lap, she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Which is to say, she’s asleep.
It’s late, around the fourth night into the 58th Hunger Games, and both of District Twelve’s tributes are already dead. Quick deaths at least, Haymitch thinks, not like the girl from the year before, the one who starved right in front of them as Sponsors looked the other way.
He’s sipping from a glass, mostly melted ice by now, eyes trained on the screen. From time to time, his gaze shifts to Effie, who’s asleep on the couch beside him, her head resting on the armrest in what looks like the least comfortable position imaginable.
He can’t help but snort. He had told her she should go to bed, told her there was no point in watching anymore, but she’d insisted on staying, stifling yawns and saying she wanted to see how the boy from Eleven would do. Haymitch hadn’t argued - he figured it had less to do with the tribute and more to do with making sure he didn’t try to throw himself off a window.
Not that he minded. He likes to pretend he doesn’t mind being alone, but the truth is that the sleepless nights feel a little less brutal with her around.
Effie’s breathing softens against the armrest, her pink wig fanned out like a messy halo.
Haymitch lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, wondering how she can sleep like that, with sequins pressing into her neck and heels still on her feet, but still, he reaches for the throw draped across the back of the couch and carefully pulls it up to her shoulder.
He’s just settled back into the couch when Effie shifts in her sleep, humming softly as she curls deeper beneath the blanket, drawing her legs up from the floor and onto the couch.
Which would be fine, except he’s still sitting there.
Her legs land squarely in his lap, completely unbothered, still fast asleep, while he sits there, stunned and very aware of the four-inch golden heels currently digginto into his thigh.
Haymitch freezes.
Her dress is short tonight, so her legs are bare, pale against the fabric of his trousers, smooth and soft-looking in a way that makes his brain try to shut itself down.
They’re nice legs. He can admit that.
It’s probably best if he doesn’t let his thoughts go much further, because he’s always been a legs guy, and this entire situation is rapidly spiraling into what could’ve easily been the opening scene of an old, deeply inappropriate fantasy.
He takes a deep breath, grounding himself, trying very hard to not let his fingers twitch where they’re resting beside her. His brain is yelling at him - don’t touch, don’t look, don’t even think - and he obeys, mostly because she would probably kill him if he tried.
Except, the next breath he draws makes her stir again, shifting just enough that her ankle ends up pressing squarely against his crotch.
That’s bad.
That’s very bad.
He closes his eyes for a beat, weighing his options, and comes to the conclusion that desperate times call for desperate, slightly embarrassing measures.
He fakes a cough - loud, and definitely too exaggerated to sound real - and it works. Effie jerks awake, blinking blearily at the screen.
“Did something happen?” she asks around a yawn, pushing herself upright without seeming to realize where her legs had been just moments ago.
Haymitch doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay on the screen.
“No,” he says, clearing his throat, “and nothing probably will. I was just about to head to bed.”
Effie nods, swaying a little as she gets to her feet, her heels making soft taps on the floor as she stumbles toward the bedrooms.
“Goodnight, Haymitch,” she mumbles, still half-asleep.
He waits until she’s out of sight before finally standing, just to make sure she doesn’t catch him fixing his pants.
━━━━━━━━━★
The second time, it’s after a party. Which is to say - Effie is drunk.
Now, a drunk Effie is a rare sight. Haymitch figures she likes being in control a little too much to let alcohol blur her edges and fog up the calculated edge of her mind. But it’s her birthday, and apparently that counts as a valid exception.
Haymitch had promised himself he’d only come to the Capitol when there was no way around it, only for the Games, but then Effie Trinket had threatened to come out and drag him there herself, hatbox in one hand and fury in the other, and he figured it was less exhausting to just show up.
The party hadn’t been fun - Capitol parties never are - but Effie had somehow managed to invite Chaff, the liquor had been real, and her smile when she saw him walk in had been enough to make the trip feel not entirely like a mistake.
She’s maybe the only one who still smiles at him like that, like he’s not a broken toy. That alone counts for something.
She’d looked stunning too - wrapped in a dress covered in mother-of-pearl and green stones, with a butterfly carved into the back like it belonged there.
Best part was, because Effie knew what Victors could handle, that she’d reserved a quieter corner of the venue, far from the chaos. He and Chaff had stayed there most of the night, drinking, talking, watching the rest of the Capitol spin in circles.
Now, the room is thinning out. Chaff’s already gone, and Haymitch is still planted on the couch, staring out at the last stragglers, waiting for the right moment to say goodbye.
He’s contemplating the energy it’ll take to stand and navigate that jungle when Effie appears, stumbling in like she’s forgotten how her feet work, heels clicking against the tile.
There are butterflies on those too, he notices.
“Haymitch!” she says, delighted, like she’s just won something.
“There I am,” he replies, reaching a hand toward her to make sure she doesn’t fall over.
She takes it with a delighted smile and drops onto the couch beside him, her entire body flopping sideways until she’s leaning into him - and without hesitation, swings her legs across his lap, her shoes dangling between his knees like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Haymitch freezes. Again.
His eyes catch on the stretch of bare skin in his lap. This is familiar. This is dangerous.
Effie doesn’t seem to notice the internal meltdown occurring six inches beneath her, because she’s busy sighing dramatically and curling into his side, cheek pressed against his shoulder, one hand curled around his arm.
“My feet are killing me,” she mutters.
This is, without question, the most physical contact they’ve ever had, and Haymitch can feel every inch of it - her warmth against his side, the weight of her legs across his lap, the soft exhale of her breath through his shirt.
“Yeah, that happens when you wear… those,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the butterfly heels.
Effie hums against his shoulder, slapping his chest lightly. “They’re pretty though, aren’t they?” she asks, twisting forward to look at them.
The movement shifts her entire body, and suddenly she’s not just next to him - she’s practically in his lap, legs between his, hand braced on his other thigh, dress slipping just enough to reveal the soft line of her back. Instinctively, Haymitch places a hand there, steadying her, palm pressed flush against bare skin.
He knows he should say something, but she’s right there - legs across him, hand on him, bright and soft and flushed - and for a second he forgets what language even is.
Still, he manages a weak nod. “Y–yeah.”
She doesn’t seem to notice his voice cracking. Instead, she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a sudden, full-bodied hug that knocks the breath straight out of him. Her chest presses to his, and he’s acutely aware that the hand on her back is now pulling her closer.
He’s doing that. Not great.
“Thank you for coming,” Effie whispers against his ear, and Haymitch has to fight the full-body shiver that tries to follow, “I really appreciate it.”
He knows she’s going to let go in a second, and that he’ll have to leave and go crash in some hotel room alone but for now - just for a moment - he lets himself be selfish.
He tightens his grip, just slightly. “Of course, Effie,” he says quietly, eyes closed. “Of course.”
━━━━━━━━━★
The third time it happens, Effie is awake. And sober. Which means Haymitch has no idea how to explain it.
It’s early morning in the penthouse, grey light slipping through the curtains, and their tributes are already gone off to Training. He wanders into the living room in search of coffee or at least a distraction, and finds Effie on the couch, still in her pajamas.
Effie Trinket - who’s never let a soul see her without her perfectly curated outfit - is in pajamas. Granted, they’re silk, striped red and white with little gold details on the cuffs, but still. It’s jarring enough to make Haymitch pause.
It can only mean she’s been awake for hours, probably spiraling through sponsor lists, composing messages, doing everything short of storming into a sponsor’s lounge to demand they care. She’s still at it now, hunched over her tablet, brows drawn together in focus, scribbling something on the screen.
Haymitch wonders if she even knows what time it is - or if she saw the kids pass on their way to training at all.
He sighs and slumps onto the couch beside her, grabbing the remote without comment and switching the TV on.The voice of a Games reporter buzzes in the background, naming tribute stats and district rankings like it’s just sports.
They sit like that for a while, the silence broken only by the hum of the television and the occasional tap of Effie’s pen on glass. But after her third sigh in the span of ten minutes, Haymitch turns to her, one brow raised.
“What is it?”
She blinks up at him, startled out of her focus. He can see it in her eyes before she even says anything, all the frustration and pressure.
“I don’t know who to contact anymore,” she mumbles, eyes dropping back to the screen in her hands.
Haymitch exhales and reaches over, plucking the tablet from her hands despite her weak protests.
“Alright, stop it,” he mutters, tossing the device gently onto the table. “You need to calm down, Effie. We’ll figure it out tonight at the Gala, but this... whatever panic attack you’ve got brewing isn’t helping anyone.”
Effie looks more offended than anything, and Haymitch knows he could’ve phrased it better – but still, he hopes she understands he’s not being cruel. They’re barely holding it together as it is, and if Effie goes under, there’s no one else left to care.
“C’mon,” he says again, trying for a lighter tone. “Let’s find something else to watch, I can’t stand this stuff”
It takes a while to find a channel not talking about the Games, but eventually they land on an old kids’ show with ridiculous costumes and a very pink set. He’s reaching for the remote again when Effie grabs his arm with a sudden jolt of excitement.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, eyes lighting up. “I used to love this show!”
.
He glances at her from the corner of his eye. Her smile is wide, her eyes bright. She looks younger like this, and something about it punches a little too hard in Haymitch’s chest. They’re so young, both of them, really - too young to be doing this, coaching children to die like it’s normal.
“I loved the lead singer,” Effie is saying, laughing quietly to herself. “Proserpina was obsessed with the drummer. She dyed her hair green once, just for her.”
“Yeah?” he grins, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Let me guess - you had rainbow streaks like the singer.”
Effie rolls her eyes but laughs anyway. She shifts a little closer, bumping his shoulder, and starts telling him the entire plot of the episode like it’s the most important thing in the world.
And honestly, Haymitch lets her. It’s better than her spiraling over sponsors that aren’t going to show up.
Somewhere between an overly dramatic music video and a magical instrument that summons wind, she adjusts her position again, tucking her legs up and swinging them over his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Haymitch goes still.
This again.
It’s becoming a pattern, and not one his body seems prepared for. Her legs are across his thighs, her body soft and warm at his side, and she just keeps talking, like she doesn’t even notice what she’s done, checking that he’s listening. Haymitch doesn’t interrupt. He’s not sure he wants to.
She’s a steady, warm weight against him, and it feels strange, but good. The fact that she trusts him enough to settle like this - when everyone else still sees him as a killer - softens something in him.
He leans back, half-listening now, more focused on the way her voice carries through the quiet room. His fingers brush lightly against her ankle, catching on the silk of her pajamas. He waits for her to flinch, to shift away, but she doesn’t. She just laughs, pointing at the screen again.
It’s comfortable. And confusing. But mostly comfortable.
So he pushes a little further.
“You had all their songs on your phone, didn’t you?” he says, trying to keep his voice steady as he teases her. His arm shifts slightly, wrapping around the bend of her knees, drawing her just a little closer.
Effie freezes for half a second - just long enough to make him tense - but then she turns to him with a mischievous smile, pointing a perfectly manicured finger right in his face.
“And what if I did?”
Haymitch chuckles, shaking his head, the sound low in his throat. His heart is hammering like he just ran a mile, and he wonders if she can feel it through the space between them, if she knows what she’s doing to him just by being there.
Effie laughs along, giving him a light swat, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she shifts even closer, lets her head rest more comfortably against his shoulder, and keeps her legs where they are. They stay like that, watching the show - him half-focused on the screen, her quietly humming along to the theme song - until the distant ding of the elevator signals that their tributes are back from training.
And through lunch, even as things return to normal and she’s back in full stylist mode, directing every move and comment, Haymitch finds he can’t quite get the smile off his face.
━━━━━━━━━★
The fourth time it happens, it’s simply to do his makeup.
Really, there are no other reasons why Effie ends up straddling his lap.
Like every year, their presence has been requested at the post-Games Gala - even if their tributes are long gone, killed brutally by the victor, a massive boy from District Two.
Neither of them had been in the mood to go, and Haymitch might’ve skipped it altogether - what else does he have to lose? - but that would mean serious consequences for Effie. And she doesn’t deserve that.
Which is how he finds himself sitting on the edge of Effie’s bed in the penthouse suite, hands in his lap, while she huffs in front of his face with a makeup brush in one hand and something that looks suspiciously like a beige crayon in the other.
“We have to cover up those eye bags, Haymitch,” she sighs, dabbing carefully beneath his eyes. “It looks like you haven’t slept in days.”
He hasn’t - but he’s not about to admit that. He figures she already knows, anyway.
The stuff she’s smearing on his face is sticky and smells vaguely like cheap paint, but the proximity to Effie makes it worth it. She’s close enough that he can count every freckle on her nose. He’d forgotten how blue her eyes really are – like forget-me-nots, he muses. He’s glad she doesn’t wear those weird contact lenses like half the city seems to.
The thought makes him bite back a laugh. Imagining his last memory before entering the Arena being someone with dragon eyes makes him want to choke.
“Don’t move,” Effie warns, pulling back slightly to inspect her work. He already misses the closeness.
She hums, satisfied, and then - there it is. Something flashing in her eyes. A spark of inspiration. Haymitch has seen it enough by now to recognize that whatever thought just entered her brain, he’s not going to like it.
“What is it now?” he manages, already bracing for impact.
Effie doesn’t answer right away. She turns to her beauty desk with a grin, rummaging through some glass jars, and when she turns back toward him, she’s holding what looks like a pencil in a dark shade of blue between her fingers.
Haymitch stares at it like it’s a loaded weapon.
“Would you, maybe, let me put some dark blue kajal on your eyes?” she asks sweetly, voice dipped in honey.
“Dark blue what?” he grunts, already dreading the answer.
“Kajal!” Effie repeats, walking toward him with a glint in her eyes. “It would go on your lower waterline. You know, below your eyes. Just like the white one I have on. See?”
She points to her own eyes, and now that he’s really looking, he can see a faint white line underneath. It looks… painful.
“And why,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair, “would you want to do that, exactly?”
She steps even closer, stopping right between his knees, peering down at him with the fond curiosity of someone studying a rare artifact. “Because,” she says simply, “you’d look really pretty with it.”
Haymitch’s heart lurches so hard it drowns out every other sound in the room.
Pretty. No one’s ever called him that before. Not handsome. Not tough. Pretty. And coming from her, it lands with the force of a punch.
“Can I?” Effie murmurs, her fingers grazing lightly along his cheek.
Haymitch has no idea what he’s doing - or saying if that matters - but Effie looks radiant above him, smelling like soap and white flowers. He nods before his brain catches up.
Her face lights up, all sunshine and satisfaction, and Haymitch feels like a moth burning up in porch light.
The next second, she’s bringing the pencil up to his face. “Look up, please,” she says, brows furrowed in concentration.
He does, reluctantly, and instantly regrets it.
The pencil touches his lower waterline, sharp and foreign. His eye jerks and waters instinctively. “Effie!” he groans, recoiling, “that hurts.”
She laughs, not even a little apologetic. “Stop being a baby, Haymitch. You got an axe to the stomach, I doubt this is worse.”
She’s right, of course. But still - no one has ever stabbed him in the eye before.
He must not look convinced because she lets out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to make him snort.
“Alright,” she concedes. “I’ll do it from a lower angle. It should hurt less. Just - ” she hesitates, biting her lip, “don’t freak out about what I’m about to do, okay?”
That alone sends alarm bells ringing in his brain. “Why would I freak out - ?”
Before he can finish the sentence, Effie sets her hands on his shoulders and climbs onto the bed, one knee settling on either side of his thighs.
Haymitch goes completely still.
She sits down gently on his lap, weight warm and grounding, and stares at him like he’s a feral animal about to bolt. He wants to bolt, but there’s nowhere to go.
His gaze drops but just past her shoulder, anywhere but her face or the part of her that’s now nestled right against his crotch. He gulps, throat dry, the knot there growing tighter by the second.
Effie’s body is soft and light, pressed close in ways his brain is currently refusing to compute. He fists the bedsheets beside him, white-knuckled, because if he moves even a centimeter, his hands will end up on the arch of her lower back. Or worse.
She tilts her head. “Haymitch? Are you okay?”
Sure – he wants to say - Totally okay. Except he’s had this exact scene play out in a dream, and in that version she wasn’t holding a kajal pencil.
“Y-yeah,” he chokes out. “Just do what you need to do.”
Effie nods and gets to work. She brings the pencil up again, and though it still stings, he barely notices. Her lap is far more distracting.
She finishes the first eye quickly, her face so close he can feel her breath on his cheek. He sneaks a glance at her - at the curve of her lips, pink and soft - and it sends a flush surging through his chest. Her mouth is right there. Close enough to kiss.
“Don’t look down,” Effie murmurs, amused.
Haymitch freezes. A quick glance at her tells him she knows exactly what he was looking at.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, ears burning.
“You can look once I’m done,” she smirks, tilting his chin gently upward with one finger.
God, this is torture.
He groans quietly, and heat flares in his groin - oh no. That’s it. His resolve snaps like dry twine. Full-body embarrassment blooms in his chest.
Effie, mercifully, finishes the other eye in seconds. She leans back, surveys her work with a pleased little nod, and then - praise the heavens - lifts herself off his lap.
But it’s too late. Haymitch is embarassingly, painfully hard.
He folds in on himself the moment she’s gone, but the breathy laugh that escapes her tells him she noticed. Of course she did.
“I’ll wait for you in the living room,” she says, already gathering her brushes and compacts, “in case you need to, you know… go to the bathroom.”
“Oh my god,” Haymitch groans, face in his hands. “Just go.”
The door clicks shut behind her, her laughter trailing behind her, and Haymitch knows with full certainty: it’s going to be a long, long night.
━━━━━━━━━★
The fifth time it happens, it’s at the end of the previously mentioned evening. And really, it’s a game of Truth or Dare to blame.
They’re back in the penthouse, the heady buzz of adrenaline still pulsing in their veins from the drinks and the sharp glow of the Capitol night. Haymitch can feel it lingering under his skin - this unspoken agreement that neither of them is quite ready for the night to end.
“Wanna play a game?” Effie asks, flopping onto the couch, her voice loose with leftover laughter.
Haymitch raises an eyebrow, the memory of her warm weight on his lap from earlier still burned into his brain. He doesn’t want to let the night – or her - go yet.
“What kind of game?” he mutters, already sliding down next to her.
“Truth or Dare,” she replies, too casually, a wicked little glint in her eyes that makes something coil tight in his stomach.
He knows – knows - this will lead to disaster. But he maybe he wants it to. His brain is already pushing toward a particular version of disaster, the kind that tastes like Effie’s lip gloss and smells like her skin.
He grins. “Hit me.”
She laughs, shifting upright and crawling over until she’s tucked right up beside him, her knees brushing his thigh. “Truth or dare?” she asks, voice dipped low with something between teasing and challenge. Her eyes catch the city lights, glittering like she’s made of something dazzling, and Haymitch forgets how to breathe for a second.
“Dare.”
That should be safer, right? A task instead of a confession.
“I dare you to…” she starts, dragging the words out like she’s savoring them, “play the next round while I’m sitting on your lap.”
He chokes, actually chokes, which only makes her laugh harder.
“W-what?” he manages, blinking at her like she’s lost her mind.
“You picked dare,” Effie shrugs sweetly, batting her lashes like a cartoon villain. “So… should I?” She gestures toward his lap, all fake-innocent.
He groans, lets his head thunk back against the couch as Effie, entirely too pleased with herself, settles onto his lap again. Like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t slowly unmaking him.
She’s warm and solid and real above him, her weight grounding and dizzying all at once, the fabric of her dress sliding across his legs. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his body responds - what would be the point? She knows already.
Effie drums her fingers lightly on his shoulders. “Your turn, Haymitch.”
He looks up at her, and the slow smirk on her face is what finally snaps something in him. Fine. She wants to play? He can play.
“Truth or dare?” he asks, voice lower now, something rougher edging in. His eyes drag over her face, from the delicate shimmer on her cheeks to the curve of her mouth, and he lifts his hands to settle gently on her hips. The silk of her dress slips under his fingers.
Effie stiffens for a breath, before settling even lower on his lap with a tilt of her head and a glint in her eye that nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs.
“Truth.”
He hesitates. He can face a mutt, a trap, the Capitol’s worst nightmares—but this?
“If I kiss you right now… will you pull away?”
For a beat, she doesn’t move. Her fingers tighten where they’re curled against his shoulders, her expression caught between surprise and something softer. The air stills around them, even the outside sirens fading under the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears.
“No,” she says, barely above a whisper.
It’s all he needs.
He leans forward and kisses her, hands pulling her toward him like he couldn’t possibly stop himself even if he tried. Effie melts into him with a sound that shoots straight through his spine, her fingers tangling in his hair, slipping down his neck, his chest - she’s everywhere, dizzying and warm and his, and Haymitch isn’t sure when he stopped thinking.
She bites his lower lip and his mouth falls open beneath hers, and she tastes like strawberries and wine and every impossible thing he shouldn’t want this much.
She pulls back just long enough to smirk at him - cocky, flushed, glitter still clinging to the corners of her eyes - and then she shifts on his lap, grinding against him just enough to make his vision go white at the edges.
Her mouth finds his neck, kisses brushing his skin like fire.
“F-fuck, Effie,” he groans, breath catching as his hands grip her harder. “Do that again.”
She laughs against his mouth, kisses him again, slow and hungry. “Do what?” she murmurs, before she rolls her hips again. “You mean this?”
His head drops back as he curses low, kissing her again because the alternative is dying from the ache of her. He thrusts up, meeting her movement, and this time she gasps.
He grins, presses his mouth to the dip of her collarbone. “Stop being so mean,” he pants, half a laugh caught in his throat.
“Okay, okay, just—” Effie huffs, breathless and flushed and wrecked in the best way. “Do that again.”
He could laugh, if he weren’t already drowning in her. Didn’t he just say the same thing? But the thought burns out when she starts moving again, this time with a new kind of rhythm, one that says she’s chasing friction just as desperately as he is.
He gives her what she wants - bruising kisses, hands on her waist, hips moving to meet hers. She should always get what she wants.
It doesn’t take long. It’s messy and breathless, all impulse and need, months of repressed tension exploding all at once. She comes with a moan against his mouth, and Haymitch follows with a groan that gets swallowed in her kiss.
It should be embarrassing - he hasn’t come in his pants since he was thirteen - but there’s no space for shame, not when Effie is laughing softly against his shoulder.
“This might’ve been one of my favorite Truth or Dare games ever,” she says, pulling back with a grimace but not before dropping one last kiss on his lips.
“One of your favorites??” Haymitch stares at her, letting her pull him up from the couch by the hand.
She just smirks, walking backwards toward the bedroom corridor like she owns every part of him now. “Goodnight, Haymitch.”
He watches her disappear down the hall, dazed and aching.
God, he thinks, what have I gotten myself into?