Mutually

Disclaimer: All hail Suzanne Collins.

A/N: It is not intended to be "romantic." At all. Finding a genre to stuff this into was very difficult. I've already categorized it, but I'm still worried. It takes place during the 74th Hunger Games (early on in them). The "he" is Haymitch (which is rather important...). Happy reading, and, hopefully, reviewing… *hint, hint*

He tears his eyes away from the flickering screen and looks at one of her two-inch heels which are nervously tap-tap-tapping the Capitol-perfect marble tiling. He hears her breathe in sharply and knows that the boy from four has dodged one of Clove's knives. His eyes travel up to her hair, which she has un-wigged for what seems that first time in years. She's still wearing make-up, though, and, for some reason, it annoys him. Can't take the whole mask off, Effie? He thinks darkly.

She reaches up, tucking a strand of graying light brown behind her ear and he knows that the chase has not ended and that the odds are not in the boy's favor. He doesn't have to look at the television to know that the blade has found its mark and that the all-too-familiar boom of a cannon is coming; Effie biting her bottom lip and smearing pale lilac lipstick on her teeth is sufficient proof. She only does that when something bad happens

Briefly, he wonders if he despises her. He knows that he has every right to hate her guts. To hate her bright wigs, iridescent dresses, and sickening glitter, the way she dresses as though she is attending a party when, in reality, she is attending an execution. Effie Trinket didn't come up with the Games; the Capitol did, but she plays her part, and, by pulling two small pieces of paper out of the glass bowl, annually ends the lives of two of District 12's children. And yet… He knows that he is at fault, too, that if he was a better mentor, maybe those kids, at least some of them, would make it out of the Arena. They both are pawns in the game on this damn Arena, so the right to despise is certainly mutual.

He asks himself if he is disgusted by her. He examines her and has his answer almost immediately. Masked from head to toe by vivid colour, hidden in the guise of Capitol fashions, Effie is disgusting. He knows it. But he also knows that given his drinking and the odd (he still has to suppress a laugh at the memory) incident at this year's reaping, she finds the feeling mutual.

He tries to decide if he respects her. What a laugh, he thinks with a smirk, but he knows that it's not as much of a laugh as he thinks. He has to respect her in some ways, at least because her punctuality keeps District 12 afloat until the start of the Games. After that, it's all his responsibility (most years, he's intoxicated and forgets all about it). He thinks of all of the Games when, once the first Twelve kid died, he'd start drinking his way into oblivion and Effie had had to all but forge his signature on the other one's sponsoring agreements. Yes, he respects Effie Trinket. And he knows that, even though his organization hardly deserves her respect (That, he thinks, would be a laugh), since she knows his Games were a living Hell, she might find the feeling mutual.

He attempts to find out if he pities her. He almost shakes the thought off, tosses it away. Why should he pity her when she has everything and he has nothing but shards of liquor bottles? Because, he realizes, she delivers the sentence. He thinks that her job must be so damn awful. She has told him, many times, that she likes the publicity. She never said that she liked the Reaping, having to select those who would be killed for the Capitol's pleasure. He sees her every year, and, every year, without fail, she is bouncing around on that stage. Has been, he knows, for 16 years. He now wonders if it's all excitement or if it's nerves, too. If it's the latter, he knows that she must be under so much stress. Is this why she lives by a schedule? Because it is easier to hide in a to-do list than in a life with nothing to do? She must know that, should she break, then the rest of this "festivity" will go with her. He knows that, deep down, he does pity her. And, given that he's survived a Quell, the feeling is probably mutual.

Does she interest him? He knows that he has known her for 16 years (he's proud of it, too: it's hard to annoy someone for 16 consecutive years and have them annoy you back without strangling one another), but he also knows that 16 years have shown him virtually nothing about Effie Trinket. Sometimes, when he wants a distraction and doesn't have his alcohol to help out, he tries to figure out what goes on in her head. He has no idea, and it unnerves him. He wonders what would be left if Effie were stripped of her glosses, her polishes, her shimmering outfits. He questions if there is a real, deeper Effie inside the protective casing of the Capitol, beyond the superficial statements and outlandish appearances and the realm of scheduling and planning and timing. What does she dream about? Having to pick the names from the bowls, the slips-of-paper-turned-guillotines? Or sparkles, nail polish, and eye shadow? What thoughts fill her mind? What does the world look like through her eyes? Who, essentially, is Effie Trinket? He doesn't know. At all. Oh, yes, she interests him. But, for once, he does not know if the feeling is mutual.

He turns back to the screen, hoping to hear something, a snippet of news about Katniss or Peeta. Instead, it tries to mesmerize him with the image of the boy from 3 realigning the mines, protecting a supply mountain. Suddenly, he has the odd sensation that he is being watched. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Effie examining him closely, deep in thought. She studies him, emerald eyes soaking up information. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Yes. The feeling is definitely mutual.