love poems never make sense to me
Haymitch/Effie. 680 words.
Summary: The first thing Effie Trinket ever says to him is, "It's a pity; you used to be so handsome, you know."
Originally posted here.
The first thing Effie Trinket ever says to him, looking Haymitch up and down with such sympathy in her eyes like she's about to inform him he has a fatal disease, is, "It's a pity; you used to be so handsome, you know."
The funniest part is she means that as genuine as Capitol folk can mean anything. The tactlessness evades her entirely.
So Haymitch looks her up and down too, takes in the fluffy mint green hair and powder-white skin, lips painted in a perfect pink heart and dress releasing little clouds of glitter every time she moves. And, slurring his words, he says, "Yeah, you too, sweetheart."
---
The first time is while the kids are in the arena. Haymitch is the most sober he's been since fuck knows, and he's even been letting Cinna give him nice jackets so he can talk up sponsors. That's what makes it so embarrassing, that he's practically respectable and almost in his right mind when he fucks Effie Trinket.
The announcement about two winners has just been made and while Haymitch doesn't buy it for a second, Effie has sunk into celebration. Her drinks match her outfits, of course, pink and orange and aqua blue. She gets so tipsy her wig lists to the side. Haymitch is so tempted to knock it right off her head, so curious about what's beneath it.
She never leans too close to him, but she's loose and confessional now, her accent phasing in and out as she talks. "I remember your Games, you know, Haymitch ¬– they were just so exciting! I knew right then I had to get involved, though I had no talent for gamemaking, or styling either, except for myself!" She laughs pleasantly, gloved hand positioning itself coquettishly on her chest. The very tips of each finger of the glove are missing so her glittering copper nails can peek out – an ode to the girl on fire.
Everything has started to look glassy and sleek, which is the best spot for Haymitch to be, drinks-wise. He leans in himself, holding up a hand to prevent knocking into her elaborate hair. "How old were you, then?" he asks. He realizes he's never thought of Effie in terms of being older or younger or the same age as him; Capitol people seem ageless after a while, anyway. She could've been eighty for all he knew, preserved with treatments.
"Oh, a flighty, silly young thing," Effie says, waving a hand, ever ladylike and therefore reluctant to reveal her true age. "Probably a little younger than you."
Of course younger.
They fuck in a stall in the bathroom to Haymitch's great surprise, considering Effie's views on etiquette. It's kind of embarrassing-hot, half of one, six dozen of the other. Her makeup smears across his cheek and neck, white face powder and fluorescent pink blush. She clutches his shoulder tight with one hand and keeps her hair on her head with the other, and eventually Haymitch has to cover her mouth because she keeps making little exclamations like oh dear and oh my on every other thrust.
---
"What is that?" Effie asks dully. Seeming self-contained, she sits on a couch in the lobby of a home that once belonged to President Snow.
Haymitch is less contained, more disheveled, and isn't that funny; he's not the one who's been held in a cell somewhere for months. "What do you goddamn think it is?" he says, shaking the wig at her again. Unsteadily, he shifts his weight and tries not to weave around too much. "You gotta get the little girl all ready – all gotta look the part, huh?"
It's the sign more obvious than her empty gaze: the missing hair. It makes her seem smaller, less exuberant. She accepts the wig from him, shiny gold like it had been before the last Games, and brushes it off with expert little gestures. She sets it on her head, tugs it to lie correctly. "Alright," she says, not thank you, not anything, just that.
"Alright," Haymitch says, and salutes her.
Haymitch/Effie. 680 words.
Summary: The first thing Effie Trinket ever says to him is, "It's a pity; you used to be so handsome, you know."
Originally posted here.
The first thing Effie Trinket ever says to him, looking Haymitch up and down with such sympathy in her eyes like she's about to inform him he has a fatal disease, is, "It's a pity; you used to be so handsome, you know."
The funniest part is she means that as genuine as Capitol folk can mean anything. The tactlessness evades her entirely.
So Haymitch looks her up and down too, takes in the fluffy mint green hair and powder-white skin, lips painted in a perfect pink heart and dress releasing little clouds of glitter every time she moves. And, slurring his words, he says, "Yeah, you too, sweetheart."
---
The first time is while the kids are in the arena. Haymitch is the most sober he's been since fuck knows, and he's even been letting Cinna give him nice jackets so he can talk up sponsors. That's what makes it so embarrassing, that he's practically respectable and almost in his right mind when he fucks Effie Trinket.
The announcement about two winners has just been made and while Haymitch doesn't buy it for a second, Effie has sunk into celebration. Her drinks match her outfits, of course, pink and orange and aqua blue. She gets so tipsy her wig lists to the side. Haymitch is so tempted to knock it right off her head, so curious about what's beneath it.
She never leans too close to him, but she's loose and confessional now, her accent phasing in and out as she talks. "I remember your Games, you know, Haymitch ¬– they were just so exciting! I knew right then I had to get involved, though I had no talent for gamemaking, or styling either, except for myself!" She laughs pleasantly, gloved hand positioning itself coquettishly on her chest. The very tips of each finger of the glove are missing so her glittering copper nails can peek out – an ode to the girl on fire.
Everything has started to look glassy and sleek, which is the best spot for Haymitch to be, drinks-wise. He leans in himself, holding up a hand to prevent knocking into her elaborate hair. "How old were you, then?" he asks. He realizes he's never thought of Effie in terms of being older or younger or the same age as him; Capitol people seem ageless after a while, anyway. She could've been eighty for all he knew, preserved with treatments.
"Oh, a flighty, silly young thing," Effie says, waving a hand, ever ladylike and therefore reluctant to reveal her true age. "Probably a little younger than you."
Of course younger.
They fuck in a stall in the bathroom to Haymitch's great surprise, considering Effie's views on etiquette. It's kind of embarrassing-hot, half of one, six dozen of the other. Her makeup smears across his cheek and neck, white face powder and fluorescent pink blush. She clutches his shoulder tight with one hand and keeps her hair on her head with the other, and eventually Haymitch has to cover her mouth because she keeps making little exclamations like oh dear and oh my on every other thrust.
---
"What is that?" Effie asks dully. Seeming self-contained, she sits on a couch in the lobby of a home that once belonged to President Snow.
Haymitch is less contained, more disheveled, and isn't that funny; he's not the one who's been held in a cell somewhere for months. "What do you goddamn think it is?" he says, shaking the wig at her again. Unsteadily, he shifts his weight and tries not to weave around too much. "You gotta get the little girl all ready – all gotta look the part, huh?"
It's the sign more obvious than her empty gaze: the missing hair. It makes her seem smaller, less exuberant. She accepts the wig from him, shiny gold like it had been before the last Games, and brushes it off with expert little gestures. She sets it on her head, tugs it to lie correctly. "Alright," she says, not thank you, not anything, just that.
"Alright," Haymitch says, and salutes her.