Author's note: This is not my usual style at all, but I wanted to write something a bit different. I don't know if I managed. Well, whatever, enjoy anyway :D

"What's wrong?"

"What?"

"You haven't said anything nasty to me the last hour, something must be wrong,"

"Don't confuse silence for kindness, princess," Haymitch slammed the glass down onto the glass table.

"You have some very serious problems Haymitch," Effie said shaking her head, then instantly bringing up a pocket mirror to check if her wig was still on right.

"And you have very serious … ugly-ness," he tried snapping back at her, which didn't really work the way he expected it to. He couldn't form the words he wanted to say to her, he probably didn't even know the words he wanted to say to her. Though there had been plenty of time for learning profanities through his childhood and youth, he could never find one, which fit Effie Trinket. Sometimes he wondered if she even understood the sarcastic remarks he threw at her, for she never seemed to be rubbed by any of it – the worst she did was to get angry.

"I'm sorry if my presence hurts your eyes," she said calmly and looked resolutely into the mirror doing some sort of thing with some black paint on a brush. Haymitch never really understood that entire make-up thing. Not very many women in district 12 did it – or had the means to do it. Not very many women in the districts did it, but here… In this godforsaken place, a woman would be called weird if she went outside looking like herself. It was surely a strange world, but he couldn't deny being just a bit intrigued by it.

"If you could just shut your damn mouth, I might be able to stand looking at you, sweetheart,"

"I liked you better silent," she sighed, but seemed to comply with his wish and stayed voiceless.

He tolerated her. Yet his body deceived him sometimes when he saw her gliding past a half-open door wearing nothing but underwear, rushing to get a glass of water or picking up the phone if someone called the apartment. In the dim light he usually couldn't see her face, so he'd made one up in his mind, so he could imagine her before him if he wanted. He still had no idea what she looked like without her paint. And she had no idea that he knew what she … well kind of … blurrily looked like without her expensive dresses covering all the good parts. Haymitch liked to keep it that way. He figured he could probably fuck her if he wanted to, it wasn't like she looked like someone who was getting it on with a lot of men or anything, but he just felt that if he wanted he could do it. It would complicate things a lot, though, so it'd probably be stupid. And who said she didn't have some surgically fixed vagina, that wouldn't let anyone in who didn't say please and thank you. A laugh escaped him when he saw that for his inner eye. No. He had a feeling that Effie didn't have much surgical business going on. If one looked intensely enough on her face for a long time it looked just like a real face, almost, if one could decipher the deceiving highlights and crazy foundations from her real shape.

This was why he was so quick to painfully slam a covering pillow against his nether regions, when he heard her clacking heels in the hall. Heels. Always those damned heels. Why don't she just go ahead and break an ankle so she can't run around here? he thought and soon enough she stuck her head into his room and frowned at the overall appearance of the scene she was now witnessing.

"Why are you not ready yet? Have you been spending all day in here?" Yes. Yes he had. But he wasn't about to admit to that. Or – actually, he would admit to pretty much anything right now, if she would just leave, so he could release the groan of pain stuck in his throat from frantically hiding the physical evidence of his not so proper thoughts about the escort.

"Do I have somewhere to be, princess?" he asked instead.

"Yes, Haymitch! We're going to the Victors' Party,"

"Not again,"

"Yeah, it's almost like it's tradition and they throw one each year," He had never before heard her use that kind of spotting sarcasm. It fascinated him.

"I'm not going,"

"Oh yes you are. I personally promised president Snow that I would drag you to that party even if it was the last thing I did," she said and stepped inside. It was kind of cute how secure she wanted to look here, but her trembling knees and shaking hands were tell-tale signs that she did not want to be caught dead in this situation ever again.

"I've bought you some new clothes, they should have been put in your dres- eew! What in the world do you keep in there?" she stepped back from the dresser and threw away the dirty sock she'd gotten a hold of instead of the fine white shirt she had bought him. He grinned at her, knowing very well that he had already spilled wine on the white shirt and he left the jacket of the set in a bar last night.

"Get lost sweetheart, I ain't leaving this bed,"

"I will turn your bed into a slab and carry you to that party,"

"Why do you even care?" he said annoyed at her while she searched through his dresser again obviously irritated with his lack of hygiene.

"Because if I'm ever going to get anything out of this, I have to get bumped. And pleasing the president of Panem might just be a good way to get people to like you, isn't that what you always say? To get people to like you," she said and pulled out a green shirt from his dresser. She held it for a moment dangling in front of her, before she gave up and quickly smelled it to check if it was clean. It was, but the intimacy of that move made Haymitch squirm. She should not smell his clothes, whether it was for her own winning or his, no.

"Nobody's ever gonna like you, Trinks," he muttered and ripped the shirt from her when she held it out to him as an approved replacement for the dress shirt. She only sighed impatiently at his comment.

"Get dressed, Haymitch. If it's any consolation – When I get bumped you won't have to … what did you call it … bleach your eyes, every time you lay them on me," she hissed at him. He smirked back through the blinding light of the lamp she just turned on.

"Shut up, Trinks," he mumbled at her. When she sometimes used the things he said against him it actually hurt. He would stop someone from calling anyone half the things he called her. It was just different with Effie Trinket. If he didn't beat her down, she would overrule him completely. Not that she didn't already, he realized as he was buttoning up a shirt for a party he never intended on attending. Meeting the old victors once again. Being celebrated for murdering innocent children. Not really his cup of tea.

"Where are the nice pants I put in here a week ago?" she asked him while she slapped his hands and fixed his tie in a manner that might have looked one hundred percent more decent than he would ever be able to do himself, though he heard her mutter something under her breath about it being 'good enough, nobody is going to look at his tie'.

"Are you implying that you expect me to keep track of such things? I could also just do the Reaping for you, princess," he said and pushed her aside. He never used violence against her. Only pushes and sometimes a grab, when he wanted her out of somewhere. It'd been close several times, though he had restrained himself thinking she was like a rare, contagious disease – better left untouched.

"Haymitch!" she blushed as he stepped out of bed, his manhood finally calmed down to do so, wearing nothing but the green shirt and a pair of briefs.

"Get me some pants instead of standing there acting like you've never seen a pair of legs before," he commanded her. She seemed to send a silent prayer towards the heavens and pulled out a pair of black pants for him. They weren't all that clean, but he suspected she had almost given up even dressing him, so it was probably wise to just put it on, less she would force him to go halfnaked to the party.

"We should've been here an hour ago, Haymitch," she said through gritted teeth, which quickly changed into a smile when she met someone whom she ran of with after muttering: "Be sure president Snow sees that you're here," to him in an almost pleading manner. Haymitch couldn't decide if Snow wanted people to actually come to this party or if he just wanted to torture him further by facing it all again. All around on the walls were big still pictures of the final kill. Of that moment, Claudius Templesmith always described as 'The Climax of the Games'. He noted with a mixed feeling that there were no pictures of his final battle. It bothered him more than it should have. He did not want to see it, but the fact that the Capitol still saw him as something to put pressure on, something to be afraid of did grind him a bit. They'd ruined him such a long time ago. He had nothing more to lose than his life and even that was such a miserable thing, that they probably wouldn't even bother with it. His legs automatically led him to the bar, where Chaff was sitting slumped over a beer with the nails on his one hand clicking against the surface of the bardesk.

"Yours dragged you here as well?" Haymitch sat down beside him, looking over the crowd of escorts, victors, prep teams and general upper class Capitol-people who were invited to this sophisticated bloodbath.

"Promotions coming up, hear there's an open spot in five," the mentor from eleven said. "She's plain crazy,"

"Oh, but you have yet to meet Effie Trinket," Haymitch warned him. He had been told that it was always the outer districts who got the most eccentric people. They needed them, because a district 1 tribute, a career, would be enough without the Capitol garbage surrounding them. 10, 11, 12 they were barely enough with someone as high pitched as Effie to bring them attention.

"I'll pass," Chaff said and patted him on the shoulder with the stump arm, "They forgot to put your pretty face on that wall," he said in a whisper.

"I guess they did," Haymitch replied in a monotone voice.

"Good for you," his friend nodded. "Good for you," he repeated trailing of, eyes locked on his own picture of him, one arm still bleeding with infections, pushing a spear through the stomach of a tiny girl, who'd been hidden for most of his Games. Haymitch remembered watching the recaps of it, thinking about how dishonourable a man Chaff must have been, killing little girls like that. Only five years later he knew the exact feeling Chaff had felt when he ended her life.

"So, you're up for a bet right, Chaff?" Haymitch said to break the silence and furthermore save Chaff from dwelling too long at the memories this place revoked.

"This is entirely your fault!" she yelled at him, "if you hadn't – as always – drunk that much-"

"Shut up, princess, I don't care," Haymitch shooed her away with an aggressive movement of his hand, while he wiped his sweaty forehead with the other. It had been a long time since he'd been this drunk. He could usually hold his alcohol pretty good.

"You need to care! I'm a human being and you disgracing me like that in front of the entire population of the Capitol is not how you treat a human being,"

Disgracing. Funny word to use. All he did was give her a kiss. A dare from Chaff. They had drunk too much though. It hadn't been as he expected – at least not what he remembered from it. Somehow he had expected her to taste of lipstick, powder whatever she put on her face, but her, now pouting, red lips had been so sweet, he'd almost been close to enjoying it, as long as it lasted, before she had laughed awkwardly and tried to explain his actions as a result of alcohol. It would still be in the magazines tomorrow. He smirked.

"Go away," he sighed and felt another portion of vomit passing through his system.

"You could at least have done it nicely, Haymitch. I would have helped you win your stupid bet if you asked me," she said and kicked him lightly, mostly to see if he was still alive after the last bit of vomit left him.

"You would?" He raised an eyebrow and stated laughing, which really wasn't the best idea with his upset stomach.

"You can't even touch me, princess, you wouldn't have kissed Seneca Crane for a bet," He knew Seneca was a soft spot for her. He'd heard her talk to her friends on the phone about this bearded gamemaker who seemed to swoop everyone away.

"Why is it that you insist on finding me so innocent, Haymitch?" she laughed and sat down on the edge of the tub.

"Because you insist on finding me a perverted pig, princess,"

"Well, you have done very little to prove me wrong," she said and blushed slightly under her make-up.

"Then prove me wrong," Haymitch challenged her.

"I am not Chaff. I do have dignity, Haymitch," she reminded him. He couldn't decide if he was angry with her or just generally amused by her sudden backpedalling.

"You're proving me right, right now," he teased her. He wiped his face with some toilet paper inconveniently sticking to his damp stubble. He could still smirk at her, though she sat there in her horrendous yellow dress and played hard to get. She smacked her lips annoyed with him and got on her feet. So did he, chasing after her. Though he'd puked up a considerable amount of everything, he was still wasted to the point where he could barely even begin to care what happened. He caught her in the hallway and smiled as he let a hand trail down to her waist.

"Remember what I said about perverted swine?" she said and slapped him over the fingers, which aided very little in getting his hand to move.

"Remember what I said about stuck up bitch?" he snapped back and leaned in so close to her face that he could smell her perfume mixed with his own reekings of sweat and vomit.

"You should remember who I am, before you take your next move," she reminded him, but there was not much anger in her voice anymore.

"You? I'm not even sure I want to remember that little thing at the party, when it's with you," he laughed and she winced when he let the tip of his tongue touch her collarbone. Involuntarily she let out a slight sigh. He raised an eyebrow. A sigh for more?

"Haymitch!" she pushed him away, but he stood his ground. It didn't take much to be stronger than her.

"Prove me wrong," he repeated, "prove to me that you actually are cable of human emotion,"

She looked at him. Irritated. A bit afraid maybe, but mostly just mad. He could feel something beneath his belt starting to roar, having had a taste of that milky white skin and being so close to her. In total power over what happened. Then she crashed so hard into him, that he could feel his neck getting a slight bend, when she aimed for his lips with hers. This was pretty good proof.

"You taste like vomit, that's disgusting," she noted when she pulled away.

"You're disgusting," Haymitch told her and didn't give her another minute to breathe before he wanted to taste her lips again. He allowed his hands to roam on her body, since she seemed to have pretty much been defeated. She wrinkled his shirt on the front, clenching her fists tightly around the green fabric, pulling him closer.

"You're drunk," she said gasping for air as he let a hand slide under her skirt. He laughed at her.

"What's your excuse?" he asked lowly. Right now he was admittedly happy that he stayed, though their tributes as usual died on the first day of the Games. She moaned her answer against his chest and he decided it was time to see what he was dealing with. Somehow between the fourth and fifth button on her yellow dress, reality hit him. He was doing the exact thing he'd been sure he would never, ever do. He couldn't decide if he did this because he wanted to teach Effie Trinket a lesson or if he actually wanted to have sex with this woman. Either way he was soon ripped from his thoughts when she opened his belt and pants, not showing any of that innocence he'd teased her about earlier.

"It's been a while," she whispered while he half-carried her to her bedroom, opting for hers because he knew his bed was filled with bottles and that knife under his pillow wouldn't be the most titillating thing to get involved with.

"So you are a prude," he said and allowed her to relieve herself of the bra, which was all that was really left on her.

"N-No," Touching Effie Trinket was something he never expected doing in real life and he could confirm that his fantasies hadn't always been … true to what he was seeing now. It wasn't bad. She had a nice body. He found it strange though, all the other Capitol women he'd been with (because what is a man to do, when the urge really checks in?) had had massive alterations. Tattoos, piercings, dyes, discrete little things that lit up in the dark. Effie looked human beneath her clothes, which puzzled him, since her fashion sense was so… Out there.

He pushed it aside and kicked off his pants. Arching her back she moaned into his skin as he spread her legs to allow himself to enter her.

"Haymitch," she half screamed when he did and clung tightly to him, pulling him so close he could barely breathe. Her nails dug deep into the skin of his back and he knew he would have marks of her in the morning. Her ecstatic moans and the way she spoke out his name, begging for him, for once not yelling or correcting him, made him reach his peak too fast. He collapsed next to her, sweating like a pig. Still wasted. He could have never done this sober.

"You win, princess," he said to her between deep breaths, "you are not that nice, little girl at all,"

"I guess not," she said and looked at him with something in her eyes that worried him. Some sort of affection. Maybe it was just the remains from the passion and lust, which had dominated them before.

"You're still a perverted pig, though," she said and rolled out of the bed. How fast she could return to her proper old self surprised him. She picked up his green shirt from the floor and put it on. Then she turned back around, looking like the shirt was made to be on her this way. Even with her wig gone, dismissed to a corner of the room, she looked ten times better than any of the other Capitol women he'd been with. She kissed his cheek softly before she left him alone in the silence, but he knew better than anyone not to mistake silence for kindness.

What in the world had he gotten himself into?