So, I think I should explain this story a bit.

The Capitol is based largely on Rome. Old Rome. The Rome of debauchery and frivolous dressing and decadent food.

I'm trying to reflect that in this story, and trying to show the contrast between the Capitol, the very top of Panem, with District 12, the very bottom.

Let's see how this works out.

…

EFFIE

Mother didn't care for Effie's job. In fact, when Effie announced that she had been named escort, Mother instantly assumed one of the upper districts. She was wrong, of course. District 12 was the lowest in Panem.

Mother fainted on the spot.

"Fainted?" Cinna, the stylist, repeated with a wide smile, bent over his sketchbook. Today, his eyes were lined with a glowing emerald green, a curious cosmetic that shed soft phosphorescent spheres with every blink. Effie secretly envied his ability to make a demand for attention without uttering a word. "And this happened recently? Has she not seen you during the televised broadcasts of the Games?"

"Oh, heavens, I told her long ago, Cinna." Effie chuckled unevenly, sitting wobbly atop a tall stool beside Cinna's workspace. One of the legs was a bit shorter than the other, making her believe she would fall unceremoniously to the floor with every little movement. "I was merely making a polite story to ease your inevitable tension, dear." She said with forcible bounce.

The strokes he was making with his metallic orange pen paused for a brief second before he continued with too much levity. "Tension? Is it that obvious?"

"Well, obviously." Effie tried to straighten her posture, careful of the flute of fluorescent pink liquor so that it wouldn't spill onto the stylist's work. "It is your first time working for the Capitol, and such an important job. You produce our victors' faces, their…their look…oh, what do the French call it…? Dash it, and I took conversational French in school…"

"Je ne sais quoi," answered a grumble rather than a voice, one that swaggered and swayed as much as its owner's steps. Haymitch tripped over the glittering carpet that separated Cinna's work studio from the polished floors of the penthouse beyond the door. He rested his stocky weight against the doorframe and leered lazily into the room. Drunk. As always. "You ain't the only one who took classes, little lady."

Effie pursed her lips in a glower. "Yes, well, I doubt you even know what it means."

"'I don't know what,'" he answered, swishing whatever alcohol he was drinking around in the bottle he had in hand.

"Just as I thought," said Effie primly, noting that her posture felt much straighter than it had just seconds prior.

"No, Effie, he was telling you—"

Haymitch waved his hand for Cinna to stop. "Don't bother. Just settle for the fact the girl can walk and breathe at the same time."

Effie bristled. How dare he? He was always calling her "little lady," or "girl," as though she were so much younger than him, a dithering little nobody that wasn't worth his breath. And she was plenty intelligent! More intelligent than a man who drowned himself in swill that was slowly murdering what brain cells he had left! Haymitch's smug smirk made her want to rip his lips from his face.

"At least I can walk at all, Haymitch. Who was it that was lying in the hallway this morning because he 'forgot how to use his legs?'"

He screwed his mouth upward. Effie noted that his free hand twitched at his side, briefly making a fist. Stand back, stand back! she thought to herself, forcing her bottom teeth to stop pressing into the ones on top. Haymitch wouldn't hit a woman—but he was drunk, and he had been forced to do much worse when he was much younger. No, Haymitch was not above hitting a woman.

Haymitch's eyes narrowed, studying her. Effie was suddenly aware of how wide her eyes were. Had he seen her fear?

"So," said Haymitch loudly, "what kinda crazy, over-the-top, eye-catchin' design've you got cooking up for those kids?"

Cinna quickly turned the paper over that he was sketching on. "It isn't quite finished yet."

"A shy artist, are we?" said Effie brightly. "My, isn't that rare?"

"Yeah," Haymitch took a swig from his bottle. "You Capitol types're usually all about—hic—makin' big impressions and all that."

"Impressions can be made even if your voice isn't the loudest," said Cinna. "I feel like our tributes have their own voices."

"Doesn't everybody?" asked Effie, sipping from her glass.

Cinna's eyes flickered up and down her frame. She could feel him silently judging her, but she wasn't sure why. "Some people force themselves to speak in the same voice, Effie. No, our tributes…they definitely have their own. Peeta's is more subtle than Katniss's, but not quieter. Actually, he might be louder, in a way we just don't hear. Especially Katniss."

Haymitch's weathered face morphed in a knowing smirk.

"What?" Effie leaned forward. "What, what?"

Haymitch chuckled into his hand, while his fingers rubbed his crooked nose. "I'll tell you in a minute. C'mon, let's get outta his hair."

"I don't really mind—"

"No," said Haymitch firmly. "You've got a big job. You just focus on making sure those kids don't go unnoticed. Make their voices heard."

Cinna closed his mouth, nodding faintly. There was a small smirk on his lips, likely realizing his great luck in working for a former victor that actually let him do as he felt was needed for their tributes' costumes.

Effie, however, was impressed. For one, Haymitch was speaking coherently. For another, he was making sense, and he was being useful. Effie didn't know what to make of it, but the new steadiness in his voice made her smirk. It was high time he took his job as mentor seriously, instead of using his time pestering her.

"Aren't you supposed to be trying your hand at sobriety?" she asked pleasantly, feeling a bit more bright-spirited than she had been moments ago. Her legs were a bit numb and prickly from sitting on that ridiculously tall stool, that in combination with her teetering heels set her balance on edge. She tentatively placed a hand around Haymitch's thick arm for support, surprised and a bit pleased that he didn't pull away.

"I am. This's some kinda pop. I don't really like it. I don't like drinks that tickle the back of my nose."

"Then why drink it?"

"'Cause if I hold it in my mouth just right, it burns kinda like vodka. I ain't choosy."

"'Am not,'" Effie corrected softly. "Well? What was all that about in there about Peeta's voice?"

He glanced down at her, then took another drink from his bottle. "Why don't you just take the damn things off?"

"Because I—wait, you wouldn't mind?" she asked hesitantly, even hopefully. It was drawing near the end of the day, and she could feel the calluses on the backs of her heels trying to rub open.

"Unless yer feet reek er something," his mutter bore an extra amount of growl to it.

Effie scowled. "Of course they—wouldn't—" she toed the expensive things off and carried them by the back straps with her fingers. Suddenly, a blush crept up her cheeks. Strange. Was it because she was walking around barefoot in someone's company? Or was it because it was just Haymitch, who likely wouldn't even care if she wore a pair of underpants over her wig, or perhaps not even notice at all? With that thought, she relaxed her posture a bit, reveling in the relief settling into her neck and shoulders with an audible sigh. If only she could loosen her belt, perhaps even remove her pantyhose…

"Peeta's in love with Katniss," said Haymitch suddenly.

Effie snapped out of her reverie of a nice hot bath. "What?"

"Says he's been for years."

"Well, that's—I mean—it's very—is that why he asked to be trained separately?"

"Yeah."

"Then what could he possibly learn from you?" Effie chuckled with mirth.

"He's under the impression that I'm gonna be able to teach him how a man acts when he's in love, instead of that boyish schoolboy crap he's been tryin'."

Effie's laughter increased into a veritable fit, doubling her over at the waist. "You? Teach him how to—how to—?"

Suddenly, Effie was pressed bodily into a wall. The breath was gone from her lungs as she became aware that she was being held there by big, strong hands that covered part of her upper arms as well. She looked up, startled to find that Haymitch was looking down at her in a way that was both menacing and alluring. He was intent, but not quite in a violent way. The abrupt presence of his body's soft warmth, the smells of old alcohol and some kind of soap or cologne, conflicted with the visibly rugged texture of the skin of his face and neck.

Scars. Plenty of them. More than his fair share. More than from his journey in the arena all those years ago. Was Haymitch a brawler, the sort to start fights in whatever bars and taverns he wasn't banned from? Somehow, that image didn't fit him, not when his warmth and scents were so close to her.

They were on his hands, too. She could feel the rough creases and folds and calluses on the backs of his fingers as he touched her cheek, rubbing it softly, more softly, more tenderly than she could ever imagine Haymitch capable. All her life, whenever she thought of Haymitch, she had seen the boy from the arena, not the man he was today. But even that boy was a tainted image. He wasn't always the boy with a firm grip, a grip designed for holding much deadlier things than a woman's hand, for holding knives. Like that knife he slept with when sleep claimed him at last.

Looking up at him now, she could see a bit of something in his eyes, something that could be a relic of the boy Haymitch Abernathy was before his name was drawn for the second Quarter Quell. A relic of tranquility, mildness. Things about him his mother probably adored, even praised him for.

Suddenly, she hated that she hadn't known that version of Haymitch. Had that Haymitch was capable of tenderness, of compassion, more than the dull illusion he was giving off right now?

But when he leaned down, she found herself leaning up, trying to cut through the small distance between them, longing for something, something only part of her understood, a part that wasn't communicating with her at the moment. She wanted to know the answer. She wanted to know him. She wanted—

He pulled away from her, taking the surprising softness about him with him. There was still warmth, but not quite his, unless it had been transferred beneath Effie's skin and ignited hundreds of smaller fires underneath.

"I still have a few tricks, little lady." He said, brow arched, drinking from the bottle in his hand again. She watched, short of breath, as he walked away, wiping what spilled from his mouth and onto his chin with the back of his hand.

Effie peeled herself from the wall, feeling somehow boneless, and straightened her clothes. Though nothing happened to make them messy. Nothing more than a handhold, not even a kiss…

With a faint, bemused smile on her face, she trotted off after Haymitch, but after finding he was much further ahead than she was, she changed course, and went to her room instead.

…

TBC