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“Do you ever think about Maysilee?” he asked.
Effie's lipstick dropped from her fingers and clattered to the table.
The question had surprised them both.
It wasn’t an unusual day. The Games hadn’t started yet, the tributes were at training, and they had spent the afternoon in her bedroom, lounging in the warm spill of sunlight across her quilt, eating the little cakes she always brought them from a tiny Capitol patisserie tucked away on some side street only she seemed to know. The cakes were delicate-flaky pastry shells filled with rich caramel cream, topped with spun sugar that shimmered like glass and melted instantly on the tongue. Effie assured him they were made by one of the best chefs in the Capitol. They were a delicacy, a sweet so indulgent it felt like it belonged in a fairy tale, and Haymitch thought he could probably eat a hundred of them and never get bored.
There were times, when he wasn’t in the Capitol, that he craved them. Not just the cakes, but everything they came with. Effie had offered to send them to him, boxed up with care and wrapped in one of her pastel ribbons. They might not have arrived as fresh, she admitted, but she was confident they’d still taste lovely. He always declined, though. It wouldn’t be the same. It was never about the flavor. It was about the ritual. The soft hush of her room, the sunlight on the bedspread, the quiet between them. That’s what he missed.
It had started when they were young. They were still young by most people’s standards, but they were practically babies then. Back when they didn’t know anything, but thought they knew everything. Haymitch wasn’t even sure if it had been the same kind of cake back then. Effie would know. She always remembered things like that. But they both pretended it was the same, like the ritual had always been this precise, this sacred.
It was never on a day when he’d been drinking. Somehow, she always knew. He didn’t understand how she picked the perfect days, but she did. Every time. Could she read his mood that well? Yeah. She could. Just like he could read hers.
It wasn’t as though they lacked food the rest of the time, or access to it. It wasn’t as if they never went into her room on other days. But the days she brought the cakes always felt illicit. Like something just for them, something no one else could touch or take away.
The tributes had all the dessert they could want, and whatever else the Capitol could provide. Effie had seen to that. It was her way of settling the guilt over a number of things. Haymitch knew Effie couldn’t control the things she truly wanted, so she went above and beyond with the things she could.
On the days she brought the cakes back to the penthouse, they’d start by sitting on her bed, the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains and casting warm patterns across the room. She always insisted on a delicate pastry fork, but they ate straight from the shared box, savoring the flaky crumbs that scattered between them. They’d bring in a couple of bottles of fizzy juice, bubbly and sweet, the kind that tickled their noses, and just settle into the moment together, shutting the rest of the world away. Sometimes they began in silence, the quiet only broken by the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. Other times, light conversation drifted between them, but nothing ever felt rushed or forced, just effortless and unhurried.
It was their afternoon. Just for them. Not merely the thirty minutes it took to eat the cake. It wasn’t really about the pastry at all. It never had been.
Some afternoons, she would try on new outfits for him, fishing for his opinion. He’d joke about them, criticizing a dress for looking like a bird had exploded or claiming another looked like it was made from garbage bags. She’d scold his fashion sense and fire back witty comebacks to every comment. That was how it always went, and Haymitch knew exactly what to expect each time. It was part of the dance they shared. Like the cakes, it was a ruse, a way to cover up something deeper beneath the surface.
It was never really about him looking at the clothes, or her genuinely wanting an opinion on some fleeting fashion that would be forgotten in a few months. It was all about him looking at her. Effie wanted Haymitch to see her.
She never went into the ensuite bathroom when changing to show him each outfit. The first time she started undressing right there, while he sat on the bed, it caught him off guard. Her confidence, the vulnerability of the moment. But it didn’t anymore, not for a long time. Now, it felt familiar, a quiet intimacy between them that needed no words.
There she would be, slowly stripping off the dress, letting the silky fabric slide down her body and pool softly at her feet. It always revealed the most exquisite lingerie: stockings edged with delicate lace that teased the skin, tiny satin bows securing the garters just right, sheer panels of mesh and playful peep holes that hinted at what lay beneath. Over it all, she might wear a satin bodice that clung like a second skin, a corset with tight, intricate lacing that sculpted every curve, or a bra that lifted and shaped her breasts with irresistible allure. The sight held him captive, every movement charged with an intimate invitation only he could read.
He never knew what color would be revealed beneath the fabric: sometimes a soft baby pink, other times a deep emerald green. It always caught him by surprise. Once, she wore something sheer all the way through, daring and vulnerable. She always kept him guessing. She knew her body, knew exactly what it did to him, but it wasn’t one-sided. He loved watching her, and she loved having him watch.
When she tried on clothes, sometimes she wore her hair down and natural, just like when they first met. It wasn’t dyed some wild color anymore, as it had been in those early days, and it wasn’t as long as it used to be. Instead, it fell like faded sunlight, soft and golden, brushing her shoulders, and he still liked it. A lot. The way it waved gently, never quite as perfect as the rest of her carefully crafted appearance.
Often, she’d wear a wig, something bold and audacious, more extravagant with each passing year. He didn’t mind it, despite his frequent teasing critiques. It was just another way she shielded herself, a mask so the world wouldn’t see the real her beneath. But it didn’t matter to him. He could see through every one of those façades, through all those wigs, right down to the truth of her natural hair underneath.
Just as he had seen beneath those bodices and knew what lay underneath.
Their relationship hadn’t changed; it had simply evolved with them, shaped by time and experience. There was no sudden moment when their eyes met and everything shifted; no single spark that illuminated something new. Instead, their bond grew like a slow, steady tide, unseen but undeniable, shaping them both in ways words could never capture.
When they met, Effie had always been drawn to him; he could see it, and she’d told him as such. It wasn’t something flashy or obvious, but to those paying attention, it was clear. She bent her own rules for him, stood by his side when no one else would, and spoke to him in a way that made him feel truly seen. And he saw her just as clearly. Her kindness, her goodness, the trustworthiness beneath it all. Despite everything, he listened to her. He trusted her.
There was never a single moment when it changed. No clear line from a bond to friendship, from friendship to lovers, to… whatever they were now. It wasn’t planned or declared with nervous words; their actions spoke for them instead. At least, that’s what they told themselves. It was easier to believe it that way.
It’s hard to imagine looking back to when they first met those young versions of themselves, like small acorns beside towering oak trees. He wasn’t that sixteen-year-old boy anymore, the one who held his girl as she died in his arms. That boy still lived inside him, forever loving her, but he belonged to a different time, a different life. There was a place in his heart where she would never fade, never die. The same went for that boy, too. The boy he once was.
That was when he was still an acorn, small, fragile, full of promise, not the twisted, winding tree he had become, its branches tangled with scars and memories grown from years of life and loss. He and Effie were no longer those wide-eyed, naive children, clutching clear, fragile plans before the Quarter Quell, during it, and in the days that followed.
It had been as clear as day in that boy’s mind. He would work in the mines, come home each evening to Lenore Dove and their children; that would be his life. Effie had her own solid plans too: to use her education to build a career, perhaps marry a wealthy socialite along the way, and bring respect to the Trinket name. He knew their plans had been fixed and fierce in their minds, but so achingly naive to believe that the world and its chaos would simply fall into place and let them live those dreams
Would Lenore Dove have ever been happy raising a gaggle of children? That small spark of rebellion in her, which was just an ember burning quietly in his mind at the time, was something he often explained away or made excuses for whenever she pushed against the boundaries she thought were breakable. He would dismiss those memories, forget the times she slipped into the woods and didn’t return for hours, and push aside how fiercely she spoke about leaving District 12, about tasting freedom like her ancestors before her. Could she have given all that wild yearning, that hunger for a life unchained, to settle into the one he had so carefully planned for them both?
Even before he’d stepped into the Games, if life had simply carried on as it was, would she have settled? Playing her music softly in the background, running the house, birthing their kids, wiping their noses? Would she have laid down the wild fire in her blood, the fierce freedom that pulsed through her veins, putting him and the children before the restless yearnings she knew so well?
If he had died in the Games, what would have become of her? Would she have moved on, or would that fierce voice inside her, the one that spoke without hesitation, without fear, have fallen silent? Would she have been too haunted by worry for her uncles, for her family to keep rebelling? She never wanted to cause them pain, but that stubborn streak of doing what’s right ran too deep in her veins. Would that fire have consumed her anyway? Probably.
He’d come to terms with it over the years, though forgiveness for what had happened never found him. Those two truths lived side by side in his mind. She was too unapologetically rebellious, too fiercely devoted to her beliefs to ever be silenced. It was something he loved about her, but looking back, it was also something he hadn’t fully seen or allowed himself to acknowledge at the time. He had blinkered it out.
What if that day with the gumdrops had never happened? Would everything else have melted away, leaving only the raw truth that they were alive, and together? Would she have set aside her own dreams to live his? Could she have looked him in the eye, knowing he sent two children to their deaths every year, knowing he did it willingly, because rebelling meant risking losing her, risking losing the family they might have built?
She would have been ready to give her life, or anyone else’s, for the good of a greater cause. But could she accept that he took lives only to protect the ones he loved?
At the time, he believed it true. In the quiet corners of your mind, it’s simple to weave the person you love into the shape you need. To silence the edges that don’t fit, to blind yourself to the cracks, and dream that love flows easy, without struggle or loss. To pretend love isn’t tangled, isn’t raw, isn’t beautiful in its mess.
That’s not who he is now. That boy and his girl are long gone in the breeze, as much as they still hold steady and echo in his heart.
He knew Effie’s plans fizzled and stopped the moment she stepped out of that elevator the first day they met. This crazy, pretty, magical girl that exhaled life like there was no stopping her. Nowhere in that mind could she have imagined or hoped or wanted to be here now, with that boy she met all those years ago.
There was something that happened in those weeks. Maybe something that no one else had ever shown them. He had promised that he wouldn’t hurt her, and she had told him she knew who he was.
It meant even more now than it did then. Knowing how used Effie was by everyone, how little anyone truly cared if her feelings were hurt, let alone anything else. It had meant something to her.
When he emerged from the Games, everyone saw a different boy. Some edited, constructed version of who he once was. But not her. She never bought that lie. To hear her say she knew him, truly knew him, meant everything then. And everything now.
He knew that her remaining unmarried was a disappointment to her family. He knew he was the reason she never did. It was never spoken aloud, but he was aware of the offers, the interest that came her way over the years. He knew about the jobs and promotions she had turned down, all because he had stumbled into her life and helped her pick up her makeup case.
It would seem a strange contrast to anyone watching them now. Her, radiant and impeccable, draped in the latest fashions, and him, sprawled on the bed in worn, threadbare clothes. Not by District standards, but certainly by Capitol ones. Yet beneath those differences, there were a dozen quiet ways they intertwined: shared glances, unspoken understanding, the gentle ease of companionship. Sometimes, the closeness between them was almost frightening, a raw reminder of how tangled their lives had become.
Lenore Dove never surrendered her dreams, and it cost her everything. Effie, on the other hand, set hers aside, and it left her with him. There was a bitter, twisted irony in that.
The dreams you carry at sixteen aren’t the ones that follow you into adulthood. They shift, reshape themselves, because life happens, things you never imagined when you were still a stupid kid with a heart full of plans and no idea what it meant to live. Things both beautiful and brutal, that rewrite who you are and what you want.
He remembered being fifteen, the year before the Games, standing in the kitchen and shouting at his mama. He couldn’t recall what the argument was about now, just the heat of it, the way his voice cracked with conviction. He’d told her he was a man grown, that he knew his own mind and wouldn’t be swayed. She didn’t yell back. All the fight seemed to drain from her. Instead, she reached out, cupped his chin in her worn hand, and said softly, “Oh, darling, you’re only half-cooked. There’s a lot more that’s gonna change around you yet. Your mind’s the least of it.”
That was something he felt with Effie. He liked the way she looked at him. He was still a man, and he couldn’t help enjoying being seen like that. But over time, he’d learned from the mistakes he made with Lenore. With Effie, he didn’t just see the sparkle and the polish. He saw all of her; the parts that drove him crazy and the ones that pulled him in like gravity. He noticed how she cared in quiet, careful ways, how she carried a whole ocean of feeling beneath that practiced poise. He saw her flaws too, and sure, they wore on him sometimes. But more than that, he understood them. He understood her.
Sometimes the past sat heavy in his mind. Often it dragged him under, tore at him from the inside out. But some days, rare days, it felt like it belonged there. Like something earned. On those days, regret was quieter, and fear kept to the corners. The memories didn’t cut. They brushed against him soft as a hand on his cheek, more a caress than a wound.
Today was one of those rare days. The cakes sat half-eaten on the table, forgotten in favor of the moment. He watched Effie at her dressing table, framed by the soft glow of the vanity mirror. She wore nothing but a black lace slip that skimmed halfway down her thigh, delicate as ash. She had paused before slipping into her next outfit to apply a swipe of red lipstick. The simple, practiced motion sparked something in him; a flicker of a memory, distant and warm, like sunlight through old glass.
“Maysilee?” he repeated, though he knew there was no need. Effie had heard him the first time. Her stillness had told him that. “Do you ever think about her?”
The question had surprised them both. He didn’t often talk about the Quell, about the other tributes, so plainly. At least not sober. What came out of his mouth when they were sitting on the bathroom floor, him clinging to her between bouts of retching up his guts, was always hazy after. He could never quite tell, in hindsight, which words had stayed locked inside his head and which he’d spoken aloud to her.
“Of course,” she said, picking the lipstick back up and resuming the careful sweep of color across her lips. “She was one of my tributes. I think about them all.”
He knows she does. His time with Drusilla had taught him that not all escorts were cut from the same cloth. As time went on, it became clearer that Effie was different. She was kind, yes, but also firm, with a structured way of caring, like a mother cat corralling her kittens. The other escorts were a mixed bag; not all were cruel like Drusilla. Though some were, and some were worse. At best, most were detached, clinical. They gave instructions, pointed their tributes in the right direction, but never truly saw them.
Effie treated the tributes like children. Because they were. She cared in the quiet ways that mattered: making sure they got more of the treats they liked, that they were dressed as well as possible. There was little she could do about the stylists, but he knew about the fights she had behind closed doors. Few people understood her relentless optimism, but he did. Because she believed, truly believed, that she could will them to win.
It had only happened once. But she carried all the other names with her. Always.
“Not officially,” he said quietly. “She wasn’t officially your tribute.”
Effie slowly turned around to face him, her eyes narrowing just slightly, caught between curiosity and caution. As if she wasn’t sure whether this was just a random musing he’d soon dismiss or if he was genuinely opening up a deeper conversation.
“You think it matters?” she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.
He thought back to that brutal Quell. How Effie had been there through it all. The one who dressed them, prepped them, comforted them, without ever needing to do so.
“No.”
Silence stretched between them for a few moments as she shifted at her dressing table. He thought the moment had slipped away.
“I think about her every time I pass the window of this little jewelry store near my apartment,” Effie said softly, her fingers lingering over the smooth edges of her makeup bag as she packed it away. “She had an eye for pretty things that caught her heart. She never cared if someone else liked the same thing or thought it foolish. She understood that everyone’s beauty was different, personal, like a secret language only they could speak. I think she’d never let anyone look down on her.”
“Yeah, didn't mind what people thought about her,” he said quietly, a flicker of a memory stirring behind his eyes. A stubborn smile that refused to fade, a spirit untamed by the world’s harsh judgments.
“I think of her every time there’s a problem I’m not sure how to solve,” Effie said softly, her eyes distant for a moment. “I remind myself to look at what I have around me, to make it work, no matter how impossible it feels.”
No one could fix a problem like Effie could.
“Every time someone talks to me like I’m nothing, just some frivolous thing that likes makeup and pretty clothes, I think of her,” Effie said, voice steady but tinged with quiet resolve. “How she wouldn’t stand for it. That caring about the surface didn’t mean she wasn’t fighting her own battles. She rebelled in her own way, fierce and unyielding. She was smart, and strong. Stronger than I’ll ever be. And sometimes, I wish I had that kind of strength, the kind that makes you refuse to let others talk to you like you’re less than.”
Haymitch smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips. “You remember her the way I remember her.”
“You both shared something special,” Effie said softly, turning to face him fully now. “Something no one else in either of your lives could ever replace. She helped you in there.” She didn’t say the Games or the arena. The words felt too sharp, too loud. “Not just keeping you alive. Something more. She opened your heart, cracked it wide. They all did. Opened your mind, too.”
They’d never really spoken about what she had seen. What had been glimpsed or revealed of his Games. Maybe Plutarch had shared more over the years, though Haymitch doubted it. But in the end, it didn’t matter. When she had watched back then, she’d seen things no one else noticed. She was the one who knew him before it all, and who knew him after. She had always known who he was.
“Wasn’t it just the other day you called me a heartless asshole with a brain full of whiskey-soaked rocks?” he laughed, shaking his head.
He dodged just in time as she hurled something soft and pink at him. A fluffy powder puff tied with a delicate bow on the handle. He caught it mid-air and brought it slowly to his nose. The scent was sweet and floral, utterly unforgivingly her. The way she threw it at him with a fiery, petulant glare? That was definitely her too. She was a storm wrapped in silk and sugar.
“I never said you don’t have your moments when you turn back into a ten-year-old brat!” she teased, a sly smile playing on her lips. “Maysilee saw all the good in you: the stubbornness, the care, the charm, and yes, even the fear hiding underneath it all.”
“She liked you,” Haymitch said with a crooked smile. “Even though you were Capitol through and through, she took to you right away. I never thought Maysilee had much patience for anyone, but for some reason she took to you.”
“Well, she was a good judge of character,” Effie said with a smirk. “The way she talked about Drusilla, she could spot a faker a mile off. Never afraid to call out their bullshit straight to their faces.”
He laughed quietly inside at her choice of words. It wasn’t that she didn’t curse, far from it, but she wielded those words like rare gems, each one carefully chosen to land with just the right sting. When she let one slip, it always felt more scandalous.
“Imagine if things had been different,” he mused softly. “If Maysilee had won.”
Effie’s eyes darkened, steady and clear. “If Maysilee was here,” she said, almost without hesitation, “then I wouldn’t be.”
“You don’t picture her as our age, sitting here beside you on the bed, sharing fancy cake?”
“No. Because that’s not who she was. I won’t make assumptions about who she might have been, or the life she might have lived; those aren’t my stories to tell. She was Maysilee: a bright, beautiful, fierce force of nature, full of love and light. To twist her memory into some imagined future would be a disservice, a disrespect. When I remember her, I see us. Two young girls drawn together by a spark, kindred spirits caught in the same moment. What she gave me was more than enough. More precious than any false hope or made-up tale. When I speak of her, I speak her truth. Her story. That’s the least I owe her.”
“But if anyone from Twelve had won, then they’d be the mentor and you’d be the escort, and-“
“Do you really think you’ve made so little difference in this world, Haymitch Abernathy? That nothing would have changed if you weren’t here?” she said, eyes locked on his, voice low and daring, her half smile deepening. “Do you think I invite just anyone into my room?”
She rose from the chair, and his breath hitched, like a spark caught in his chest. The air between them shifted, electric and inevitable. With them, everything always slipped from one moment into the next, seamless and charged.
Effie glided over to the bed, that wicked smile playing on her lips. One he knew all too well and matched without thinking. She dropped to her knees beside him, her fingers sliding slowly, teasingly up his leg, sending a shiver through him. In one smooth, bold move, she swung her knees over his thighs and settled herself right where he wanted her, moving her hand down to rub him through his pants. No preamble, no hesitation. He’d been half-hard for the past hour, watching her change, craving this moment, hungering for it. He leaned in, lips reaching for hers, but she slipped back just in time, eyes sparkling with that starling-bright, wicked smile. Pure mischief dancing there.
It was her way of laying down her card; a teasing dance, their silent game of give and take. This wasn’t a battle for power but a playful sparring, a delicious back-and-forth where control slipped effortlessly between them, neither truly winning, both savoring every inch of the chase.
It wasn’t always this way. Sometimes it was slow, a soft unraveling. He’d peel away every inch of clothing her clothing, one delicate layer at a time. Her breath would hitch, trembling on the edge, as if just the touch of him undressing her would bring her to climax. He’d lay her down tenderly, his lips tracing every curve, nipping where pain blurred into pleasure, his tongue awakening and heightening every sense until she was lost in the exquisite ache of it all.
If they weren’t here, tucked away in the quiet of the penthouse, it would be quick, stolen, urgent. It would have to be. An evening of flirtations squeezed between the hum of conversations and clinking glasses, surrounded by a revolving cast of sponsors, victors, officials, eyes everywhere but never truly seeing. Her nails would be scraping teasing trails up and down his thigh; his hand tracing the curve of her lower back like a secret promise. Her heel would slide slowly along his calf, while his fingers ghosted over her wrist, tickling softly. Small touches charged with the electricity of what they couldn’t say aloud.
Sometimes he’d catch her working the room, talking with a Gamesmaker or some slick society friend, throwing him those sly, teasing glances that said, 'See me?' She’d lean in closer, letting the heat of her body brush against whoever she was flirting with, knowing damn well he was watching. And when some sponsor got a little too handsy with him, her eyes would blaze with quiet fury, sharp and possessive. Their game of chicken was electric, each daring the other to crack first, to claim the night, to own the moment.
By the time they stumbled into the nearest bathroom, closet, or office, any small sanctuary away from prying eyes, it was chaos. A tangle of hands and mouths, desperate and claiming, skin pressed against skin, the air thick with heat and hunger. After hours of teasing and promises, the craving spilled over into wild, urgent need,
Many a time, he’d tear through her underwear with reckless abandon, knowing full well she’d scold him later, but in that blazing moment, she only let out a low, raw sound, her fingers fumbling to push him inside her like her very breath depended on it, as if the world might shatter if it didn’t happen right there and then.
It was always awkward in those small spaces. The way she’d wrap her legs around him, trying to perch on whatever surface was close enough, teetering on tables or pressing against cold walls, or when he bent her over anything that wasn’t built for their tangled mess. It was sloppy; he kept slipping out of her with the clumsy loss of coordination or because the Capitol weren’t considerate enough to make desks a suitable height for fucking her from behind.
It was always gloriously messy. Her lipstick smeared across his skin, streaks of red blooming where their mouths had collided. Her wig either tossed aside or hanging crooked, forgotten in the heat of the moment. They came hard, breathless and wild, with no thought for the chaos left behind: the sticky mess, the tangled limbs, the sweat-slicked clothes to sort out later. Scratches bloomed across their bodies like battle scars, teeth marks and bruises telling the story of how they’d tried to crawl under each other’s skin, to bleed into one another until there was no line left between them.
It was often loud. Sometimes they’d manage to stifle it, muffling moans into desperate kisses, his mouth claiming hers like survival hinged on every sloppy, bruising press of tongue and clashing teeth. She’d bite down hard on his shoulder, sharp and demanding, then slip two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking slow and deliberate, eyes locked fiercely onto his.
But often it was just fucking loud. They knew people would be able to hear. Yet in those moments, none of it mattered. Effie’s cheeks would burn bright red, her eyes dropping when they slipped back into the daylight, a flush of embarrassment tinged with something far more electric. And that shy regret? It never lasted long enough to stop them from diving right back into the madness again.
They never gave a damn if a door was unlocked or if someone might walk in. Hell, someone probably had, curious enough to check on the noise, but they didn’t care. They were hardly the best-kept secret in the world. Their sex in public places was loud, wild, and unapologetically enthusiastic. Equal parts addictive, passionate, and fiercely possessive. When they got going, the rest of the world didn’t exist. It was just them, lost in each other with a hunger that left no space for anything else.
That’s exactly how they were in public too: the teasing banter, the sly glances and lingering touches, the way they bickered fiercely but always had each other’s backs. They moved with a kind of effortless rhythm, like a dance only they understood. Everyone around them thought they knew the story, the whole story. But they didn’t have a clue.
Half of Panem was utterly entertained by them, thought they were a dazzling, perfect mess wrapped up in one another. The other half? Certain they were both mad, reckless, and it was downright wrong. But Haymitch? He couldn’t give a damn what anyone thought. No one really knew them. Not like they knew each other.
He knew how she liked sex best, like it was now. Just the two of them, wrapped up after hours spent talking, peeling back the layers only they dared to touch. Sure, he had other people he'd known longer, but none who truly knew him. Not like she did. Not all of him, down to the raw, messy edges.
He knew she liked it best when they’d been vulnerable, when the walls came down and they let each other in, raw and unguarded. That it got her going, just like it did now, with her biting her lip and rubbing him slow and sure, in the way only she knew how. The way he liked it.
He knew she liked it best just like this, right now, when he flipped them over in one swift, urgent motion, of top of her with heat crackling between them. Sometimes they shed clothes in a frantic rush, gone in a blink; other times, like today, they didn’t bother at all. He’d undo his pants with practiced ease, sliding them and his underwear just enough to slip inside her, once he had hitched up her dress and peeled her thong aside.
He knew she liked it best when she wrapped her legs tight around his back, pulling him closer until she was completely buried beneath him. Part of him always thought she’d find this position routine, perfunctory even, after the hundred and one other ways they’d fucked. But she never did. There was a rawness, a hunger in how she clung to him, like each time was the first and last all at once.
He knew she liked it best when he started thrusting slow and deliberate, giving her time to roam her hands over his back and arms, to press her nose into the curve of his neck and breathe him in deep. She craved the solid, unyielding weight of him draped over her, protecting her in that moment and every one that followed.
He knew she liked it best when he shifted his pace, thrusting a little quicker, then easing back down, teasing her with subtle changes in angle and rhythm. It was their unspoken game, a way to read each other’s bodies like a secret language. In life, they’d always kept each other on their toes, unraveling what made the other tick, and in moments like this, that playful tension only deepened their connection
He knew she liked it best when he slid his hand between them, rubbing just above where their bodies met, slowly stroking right beside her clit, building the pressure inch by inch. She loved joining her hand with his, guiding his fingers exactly where she needed them. Like his shadow, matching pressure and pace perfectly. Sometimes, it was just her hand there, tracing out a rhythm that kept her teetering on the edge, never quite letting go. He could feel her nails ghosting over his cock as he began to slam into her harder, desperate to make her unravel completely beneath him.
Sometimes she would do that by herself when he was watching her try on outfits on afternoons like this.
She’d slip out of the dress she’d just flaunted, her eyes flicking to him, catching the way his tongue darted over his lips from where he lounged on the bed. Settling into the chair before her dressing table, she’d slowly unlace the bodice hugging her, loosening it just enough for her breasts to teeter on the edge of escaping. Her fingers traced light, teasing paths over her skin, gliding along the hollow of her neck, the gentle rise of her breasts, and down to the soft curve of her lower stomach, each touch drawing a soft, almost imperceptible breath from her lips.
Effie would then trail her nails slowly down over her thighs, switching between the delicate pads of her fingers and the teasing scrape of her knuckles. She kept her gaze locked on him the whole time, even as his eyes flickered lower, captivated by the path her hands traced. Her eyes stayed on his face when she began to move her hand over her underwear, her nails just barely grazing the material at first, then fingers sliding softly along the curve of her slit beneath, every motion deliberate and charged with quiet invitation.
She would slip her fingers under the elastic of a thong, or French knickers, or whatever delicate fabric she wore that day. Rubbing and teasing quick circles just above where she truly craved touch. A bite to her lip betrayed the pleasure, almost letting loose a soft smile or a quiet laugh at how good it felt. Her eyes would dart back to his, sharp and clear. A silent, deliberate message: it was him she was thinking about, him she wanted watching. Him that she wanted to watch her.
Sometimes she’d keep the underwear on, teasingly holding back, but most times she’d slide them down her hips with a slow, deliberate wiggle, letting the fabric slip off her legs. Occasionally, she’d flick them playfully with her toe, sending them flying right onto him sprawled on the bed. They’d both burst out laughing. A light, breathy sound that somehow only deepened the charged atmosphere without breaking the mood.
Any hint of humor vanished the moment she spread her legs, stilling for a heartbeat as the heavy anticipation hung thick between them, so intense it almost hurt. Almost. She knew exactly when it became too much, and just then, she’d suck two of her fingers into her mouth, eyes locking onto his with a smoldering promise before sliding her hand back down to her slick core, pressing a little firmer now.
She slipped a finger inside herself, moving it in slow, tantalizing strokes for a few seconds. Her feet lifted just a fraction off the ground, caught in the rush of pleasure, as a soft moan escaped her lips. Then, she gently withdrew her finger, letting her hand wander back to tracing the curve of her thighs and the delicate edges of her folds, her feet settling firmly once more against the floor
Haymitch watched, heat pooling low in his body as the pattern continued. Each stroke slower, more deliberate, her feet lifting higher off the ground, hips dipping lower on the chair. Her bottom lip pinched tightly between her teeth, a silent signal of the rising heat inside her. He clenched his hands into the bedsheets, fighting the urge to reach out, sweat beading on his skin from the tension. He’d come like this before. Just watching her, never even needing to touch himself. More times than he could count.
Other days, resistance was useless. He’d rub himself through the material or slide his hand beneath his pants, fingers moving with a desperate rhythm, imagining it was her: her touch, her warmth, her control. Sometimes, he’d pull himself free, letting her catch sight of just how damn hard she made him, stroking himself openly, matching the slow, teasing tempo of her own movements.
He didn’t always want to come. Because sometimes, just when she had finished, she’d slide over to him, straddling his hips and settling on his cock with a slow, deliberate ease. So slick and wet, he’d have to grip her hips firmly, anchoring her to keep her riding him hard, grinding deep and fast.
That always came after. Once she’d fumbled with her bodice, loosening it just enough to slip a hand inside and start squeezing her breasts. She’d pinch her nipple hard, teasing and twisting as she thrust two fingers deep inside herself, fucking herself with them while her hips jerked so fiercely that he half expected the chair to splinter beneath her
Those were the sounds filling the room then: his rough, ragged breaths he fought to keep quiet, drowned out by everything else: Effie’s fingers plunging frantically into her pussy, slick and coated from her arousal, and the scrape and squeak of the chair legs on the wooden flooring, trying to stay in position.
And his name. He always heard his name.
It wasn’t constant, more like a flicker in the storm. Her breath came sharp and ragged, punctuated by soft moans and quiet sighs when she hit just the right rhythm. There were no dramatic screams or exaggerated cries, no rehearsed wails of pleasure. But when she started to edge closer, a low, guttural sound would slip from her lips. A whispered, barely audible “Fuck…” over and over. And woven through that desperate breath was his name, spoken like a secret wish.
She’d bring her other hand down when she reached that point, rubbing and flicking her clit with restless urgency. It was never perfectly synchronized with the fingers buried inside her; the closer she came, the more erratic her movements became, both hands rocking and teasing her raw and tender, building a delicious tension until finally, she tipped over the edge.
It was that image that he clung on to on cold nights back in District 12, where he felt like the last person left on earth and everything was bleak and stripped of hope. The sight of Effie, her breasts spilling over her corset, flushed and tender, nipples swollen with desire. Her head thrown back, her natural hair tangled and damp with sweat and her cheeks pink as blossoms. Her lip caught between her teeth as soft pants escaped, eyelids fluttering with each shuddering breath. The tremble of her thighs, fingers still tracing slow, gentle strokes between her legs.
It was both ecstasy and torment, that image seared into his mind. A cruel kind of punishment when he was a thousand miles away from her, aching for the warmth and wildness only she could bring.
During these afternoons, it took everything he had not to push himself up and crawl over to her. To close his lips around a swollen nipple, sucking and teasing it with just the right scrape of his teeth; to bury his head between her legs, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles, lapping every inch of her; to use his thumb to flick her clit with the exact pressure he knew sent her spiraling when she teetered on the edge of losing control.
She didn’t ask though. He knew she’d come to him when she wanted to. In those moments, it was like an itch she needed to scratch. She needed him to watch her. She needed him to watch her come undone, bare, vulnerable and naked in so many different ways; raw and so fucking inviting. She knew he liked to watch. And she liked him watching.
He wondered if she did this when she was here in the Capitol and he was back in the district. But really, there was no doubt. He knew she did. Just like he did, with this image of her: sitting there with her fingers knuckle-deep thrusting into her cunt, head thrown back and panting his name while she squeezed and caressed her tits. That wasn’t for him right now. No, that was for him in the weeks and months ahead, for the lonely nights when they were apart.
The sight of him watching her, cock hard at the mere vision, knowing he wouldn’t be able to look away even if a tank rolled into the room. She had all his attention, utterly and completely. That was for her. That was for her in the weeks and months to come.
They both needed something. Something beyond the desperate touch they craved when apart. A way to feel close even when miles stood between them.
But. He knew she liked sex best like this. Right now, in these precious moments when they were finally together. Him on top, her arms and legs wrapped tight around him, clinging as if trying to fuse them into one person, making up for months apart. It wasn’t the easiest position for her to come, but their hands worked to help. And it was the raw, close heat between them that truly turned her on the most.
When he was getting close, pounding into her with a relentless, rocky rhythm, she’d whisper into his ear, the messy, raw truths they never said aloud but both craved. Between gasps and moans, she’d spill out how he made the world better, her words tangled and breathless in fractured sentences, the best she could manage while his cock drove deep inside her and his hand tugged down the scrappy black lace to kiss and nip at her tits.
He knew she liked it best when she could say all those things with no chance of escape, that he had to listen, had to take it in. She’d tell him how beautiful they were together, how beautiful this was between them. How fucking messy and imperfect and addictive it was. How real it was.
Sometimes he’d manage to whisper something back, barely coherent, the best he could do when he was three seconds away from busting a nut. He knew she liked it best then, because at that moment he couldn’t hide a thing. Vulnerable and raw, as this stunning woman pushed and pulled him to the edge of life and made him live it. He told her that.
He knew she liked it best that she could feel his heart beat against her chest, and know he could feel hers just as fiercely. Their beats rarely synced. His racing, wild and unpredictable, hers steady, strong, and unyielding, but in those moments, they were perfectly together.
He knew she liked it best when he came; when his hips stuttered, and he groaned her name into her neck, his whole body tightening as he spilled inside her. And especially the moment after, when he kissed her like nothing else in the world existed, called her “baby” in a rough voice, and checked she was okay even as he was still pulsing inside her. They didn’t always come together, especially in this position, but sometimes she already had, with their fingers working in sync. Her cunt would clench around him, her nails dragging down his arm, one hand buried in the muscle of his ass, yanking him in like she never wanted to let him go.
More often, like today, after he’d come and caught his breath, he’d shift to his side, mouth hot on her skin. He’d kiss and suck at her breasts, drag his teeth over her nipples just enough to make her arch, his other hand already slipping between her thighs. His fingers would work her slow at first, coaxing her back up, slick and sure, until her hips started rocking against his palm. He wouldn’t stop, he’d keep stroking her, circling and pressing until her thighs clamped around his wrist and her moans turned desperate.
He would stay there, gently stroking her for minutes after, building the pace again, until he brought her over that softer, sweeter edge that made her slightly tremble against him, breath catching, face flushed, utterly undone.
He knew she liked it best that way.
He liked it best that way too.
Afterwards, when they’d lain tangled together, bodies still humming, maybe drifting off for a few minutes, she eventually sat up and swung her legs off the bed. He reached out lazily, an arm catching her waist in a loose attempt to pull her back. It wasn’t much. Just a half-hearted tug, his body still heavy and content, but it said what he meant: stay.
She smiled at that, a soft, knowing curve of her lips, but kept walking toward the ensuite. A few minutes later, she returned with two warm cloths in hand, her movements unhurried, familiar.
Effie slipped off her dress and the rest of her clothing, carefully draping them over the back of the chair for now. She took one of the cloths and gently cleaned herself, then paused in front of the vanity mirror to remove the last of her makeup with a wipe, dabbing at her eyes with practiced grace.
As she walked toward him, Haymitch couldn’t take his eyes off her. It never made a difference to him. Whether she was done up in makeup, wrapped in fine dresses and expensive wigs, or like this: bare as the day she was born, hair slightly tousled, face clean and unadorned. His feelings didn’t shift. She was still Effie. Every part of her, in every state, was Effie.
But he knew no one else ever got to see her like this. Maybe no one ever had. It took something fierce in her to bare herself like that; past the dresses, the paint, the masks she wore so well. To let him see the woman underneath. That wasn’t weakness. That was courage. And it wrecked him, how lucky he was to witness it. It was a kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be admired, just trusted you’d see it if you were worth a damn.
She knelt on the bed beside him, and all it took was a raised eyebrow and a flick of her hand in his direction. He sat up without a word, pulled his shirt over his head, and kicked off his pants and underwear.
She tutted, sharp and amused, when he just tossed his clothes onto the floor without a care. Didn’t bother to tidy a thing. Instead, she let that first cloth trail down his chest, slow and deliberate.
Effie had been doing this for so long, it wasn’t embarrassing or awkward anymore. No bashfulness, no shyness. Since his Games, she’d seen him at his worst: dirty, broken, filthy from hell knows what. And through it all, she was the only one who never flinched, never turned away. The only one who’d always been there, steady and unshaken, helping him get clean.
It wasn’t that no one else had seen him like that. He just hadn’t cared. Hell, sometimes he even welcomed it. Wanted the shame, the embarrassment burned into his skin. Needed to see that disgust flicker in their eyes, to feed the fire of the hatred he already carried for himself.
Effie never made him feel that way though. No matter how fierce her rants or sharp her scoldings, she never flinched or backed off. Nothing ever put her off. She stayed, steadfast, relentless. She never left. She never gave up. She was the one who always looked after him, the one who held him steady when everything else fell apart.
Once she cleaned his body, she grabbed the other cloth and went for his face. He protested, pushing her hand away, but she just rolled her eyes and straddled his legs; smirking with the kind of confidence that shut him up every time. He wished he could say she was wrong, but damn, she knew him too well.
It took her only seconds, and the cloth came back streaked with red; her lipstick, sharp and stubborn. He caught himself smirking, and she caught that smile too. With a teasing glint, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips, laughing softly when he reached up to pull her closer, trying to deepen the kiss.
Instead, she climbed off him, cloths in hand, slipping back into the bathroom. A moment later, she returned, gathering his clothes and draping them carefully over hers on the chair, like they belonged together, tangled and waiting.
Haymitch couldn’t help but smile, watching this woman who was completely herself around him in all her wonderful and slightly irritating glory.
She settled back on the bed, sliding under his arm to rest her head against his chest. This was the part that was so them. Quiet, tangled together, everything else stripped away until it was just the two of them, raw and real in the silence.
He knew the moment would come when they'd have to open the door and step back into the chaos waiting for them. He knew she’d slip her armor back on, and all those insecurities would swarm her like vultures. He knew his own demons, those hell-born claws, would crawl out from the shadows, dragging him back into the pit of drink, shame, and the relentless self-loathing that gnawed at his bones.
But when Effie was next to him like this, there was only Effie.
They knew each others body, their minds, their masks, their flaws. Fuck, did they know each other’s flaws. They knew each other’s beauty, especially the kind nobody else saw. They knew each other’s pasts: the ugliness, the lost hope, the scattered dreams. They knew each other in the present, more than any other soul on this earth or any other plane of existence. The future? They didn’t know it. But fuck that, because that couldn’t be planned for, and it would be full of pain.
But when Effie was next to him, there was only Effie. There wasn’t a name for what they had, and he didn’t want one. Neither did she. Naming it felt like making it fragile, like giving someone else the power to take it away. Words, no matter how flowery or poetic, didn’t make something real. But this? This was real.
Effie’s breath hitched for a second, and he knew she was holding back, choosing her words carefully. “Would you still be the same if Drusilla hadn’t broken her hip?”
He almost snorted at that. Just the brief time spent with the woman was more than enough. He couldn’t imagine enduring twenty years of that voice, that edge of hatred and desperation.
He sometimes thought about the timing of Drusilla’s accident. How that tough old bat looked like she could weather a storm of bullets in the heart of a battlefield, unflinching, unbroken. Her eyes still sharp, her posture defiant, like nothing could touch her. Yet somehow, a careless stumble down a flight of stairs took her out?
He didn’t linger on it for long, though. Didn’t give a damn whether she tripped over some ridiculous heels, took a shove from Plutarch’s elbow, or if President Snow himself sent his goons to drag her down the stairs by her hair. None of it mattered to him.
Haymitch knew that he barely made it through that Victory Tour, barely survived it through those first few Games. The ‘barely’ being Effie. She kept him alive, she kept him sane. Well relatively sane, that ship had sailed long past. She kept him busy, she kept his mind sharp and his body moving those first brutal years. Barely. But she did it.
“If Drusilla had been here then or now, I wouldn’t be,” he said after a long, heavy moment.
Effie had kept him alive those first few years. And now, she kept him living.
It was his Ma, and Sid and Lenore Dove who had started his heart beating. All that love he had as a kid, his family and friends and his girl, had shown him his heart was there, waiting.
He looked back on those years when he was young, so grateful for that beautiful, fragile, perfect love. Like it floated untouched, where nothing could ever go wrong.
That love had powered him. That love had started his heart.
He thought about his Games. Not too much, but always enough to sting. He thought about Wyatt and his protective bravery, Wellie with her sweetness tangled in fear. He thought about Louella, his sweetheart, and LouLou too, aching to gather them both up in his arms and never let go.
Never letting this cruel world reach them in the way it had.
He thought about Ampert. Always. Every time he looked into Beetee’s eyes, and every time he closed his own. Often, he wondered how much better life would be if Ampert were here, in his place.
And he thought about Maysilee. Who didn’t give a fuck about what anyone thought of her. Who would wear six necklaces no matter who stuck their nose up. Who wouldn’t bother with anyone she hated. He chuckled imagining her ghost giving Drusilla a shove down the stairs, just so Haymitch could spend his life around someone who actually gave a damn. Maysilee has been fierce, loyal, and so damn smart.
He thought about holding her as she died. He loved her so fucking much.
All of them, each one had cracked his heart wide open, showed him it was bigger than he ever thought possible. So much bigger than just the Seam and the meadows of District 12. They all fit inside it. They all tore it apart.
Then there was Effie. And what they had. This beautiful, messy, real thing.
He looked down at her, fighting to keep her eyes open, but her fingers still tracing lazy patterns just above his heart. She was still pretty, stunning really, still crazy in her own way, still spilling life from every breath she took.
It was hard to imagine a time when she wasn’t there. Right by his side. Strange, really, that she only walked in to his life during the time his heart was breaking.
But she put it back together. Piece by stubborn piece. The best she could with something already shattered. She had to fight harder than anyone to get inside his heart. Had to guard it, tend to it like it was made of glass. But that meant she wasn’t just inside it. She was woven and embedded deep into every cracked fragment.
His family, his friends, his girl, they sparked his heart, made him see he even had one. Maysilee and all the others who’d dared to love him, and let him love back, they stretched it wide, cracked it open, made room for more than he ever believed possible.
But Effie?
Effie kept his heart beating.