Work Text:
THE POOL HOUSE
“It won’t open.”
Effie’s expression was frozen and a little comical in disbelief as she turned to face Haymitch who stood framed in the doorway that led from the changing area back to the main room of the pool house, summoned there by her high-pitched yelp. He sighed with annoyance.
“Try turning the handle, Sweetheart,” he said sarcastically. “That’s what those of us without a personal team of Avoxes at our disposal do. Go ahead. Try it. You might find it empowering.”
He’d been pretty pleased with himself for finding this quiet little bolthole to read his paperback, away from the noise of the party, the braying of hundreds of over-excited Capitols, and he hadn’t appreciated her turning up to spoil his solitude.
It was bad enough that the Capitol forced him to return every summer with two fresh pieces of meat to feed Snow’s machine, but at least he could usually reckon on a good ten-month stretch of relative quiet holed up in his house in Twelve.
This year was different.
Annie Cresta’s obvious mental breakdown following her win had made the Victory Tour decidedly awkward and very difficult to spin in a positive light and the gamemakers had gone all out to distract the population by any means necessary. Annie had been presented as the strong, cool, silent type, an enigmatic beauty, and an attempt had been made to make up for her lack of vibrancy by summoning all existing victors back to the Capitol for this leg of the tour. It might not matter for the districts to witness the shell-shocked wreck of the person the girl had become, but it was out of the question for Capitol citizens to be made aware, to have any doubt cast on the morality of the contest.
The week so far had comprised a tedious amount of talk show appearances, seemingly endless photoshoots with the other victors and a dizzying cycle of red-carpet functions and sponsor parties. And as if things weren’t unbearable enough, it was so damned hot everywhere.
It was December, so Haymitch had thought he was justified in not expecting the sweltering conditions. What passed for winter in the Capitol was positively balmy compared to what they experienced in Twelve and he was sure they must employ some scientific trickery to modify the seasons but, even so, every Capitol citizen he came across acted as though a new ice age had been unleashed. If he had to have another conversation on the topic of how very cold it was, someone was liable to get punched.
Everywhere he went, the heating had been cranked up to blistering levels and yet still Capitols swanned around draped in heavy furs and feather accessories whilst he sweated through his shirts and jackets at a rate that was sending his stylist into a nervous breakdown.
Tonight’s event, held at the grandiose mansion of one of the wealthiest Games sponsors, was no exception and, after putting away a decent amount of liquor, Haymitch had known he would have to get out of that house fast, before he fainted, puked or both.
He’d wandered in the empty grounds for a while until the cold became a little too much even for him, but still he couldn’t bear to re-enter that sweatbox and force himself to converse with fools, to stand by as that poor beautiful girl with the flowing chestnut hair and the vacant eyes was paraded about the place by her escort and mentors, never lingering with anyone long enough to arouse suspicion that all was far from well.
He hadn’t realised how far he’d strayed from the mansion until he saw the pool. It was covered over, frigid and uninviting, small patches of frost glinting on top of the tarpaulin that covered the water’s surface, and Haymitch was surprised to see that it hadn’t been drained. Although now that he thought about it, he vaguely recalled earlier enduring a monologue from their host about the benefits of a daily morning dip in the freezing water. Capitols could be weirdly masochistic like that.
He’d been here before, but on a long, light, humid summer’s evening six months earlier. He remembered it well because he hadn’t wanted to come. He never wanted to attend any of these events of course, but this one had been a particular flashpoint because it had been a pool party.
A pool party meant swim shorts and bare chests and his bare chest was a taboo subject, rendered so by the huge raised and angry scar that stretched from his right hip to just under his breastbone, the signature of his arena so many years ago.
Haymitch’s relationship with his scar was a complicated thing. It was big and ugly and he could have had it dealt with at any time over the past two decades – lasered, or grafted, or otherwise polished smooth by whatever procedure Capitol medicine had come up with – but he never had and he knew he never would. Heaven knew he hated people staring at it, and more than one stylist or rookie prep team member had fled his suite in tears after a tongue-lashing for doing just that. Hell, he hated looking at it himself. But to remove it – he couldn’t help but feel it would be condoning what the Capitol had done to him, what it continued to do every year. It would be akin to saying it was ok, that it could be washed away, made as it was before, no harm done. So, although he hated to look upon it, he liked keeping it there beneath his clothing, silently holding the Capitol to account. Showing it in public though – absolutely not. He’d known exactly what it would lead to – gushing recollections of his Games by nostalgic idiots, simpering over his victory as though it were the best thing to ever happen to him rather than the biggest tragedy of his life. He wasn’t sure he could stay in control of his actions once faced with that.
Effie had rescued him on that occasion, he knew, viewing the stylist’s sketches of the outfit she’d designed and insisting on the addition of a roguishly casual white linen shirt and not taking no for an answer.
It had stirred some complicated feelings in him.
Effie knew that his scar and his Games were off-limits and he’d felt touched and grateful that she’d so skilfully dealt with that particular problem. That in turn had made him angry – with her, with himself. He didn’t want to feel grateful, to feel beholden to Effie Trinket, and he remembered he’d been particularly acid-tongued and obstreperous with her that day. Right up until an hour into the evening, when she’d appeared from the changing rooms in her own pool party outfit.
He could still picture it now. A vibrant red one-piece costume with some kind of stiff gold ribbed detailing at the front that served to both lift and separate her breasts to such an extent that they seemed permanently on the verge of escaping the material. And when she’d turned around… he’d seen that the whole thing was held together by just the tiniest string of material that almost disappeared into the crack of her perfect ass, leaving both smooth, taut cheeks exposed.
He'd forgotten about being obstreperous then. He’d practically forgotten his own name.
He’d known that his were not the only pair of eyes trained on her, not by a long shot, and that knowledge only served to make his blood run hotter. He would remember this evening because it was the first time they’d really flirted with one another.
They’d fucked plenty of times before, but always without preliminaries, without precursors, anger their only catalyst. One minute they’d be screaming insults, the next Effie would be pressed against the nearest flat surface. This was the first time she’d teased him, built him up, made him properly mad for her, not just at her.
He’d thought it was accidental at first. He’d tried not to look at her too often, but it had been futile. His eyes were drawn by force, not only to that bright red costume, to her endless slender legs, to her provocative stance, but also to the reactions of those around her. Every time he’d looked over, she’d caught his eye and smiled at him – a girlish smile, an innocent smile. He hadn’t smiled back and she’d upped her game, seeming to ignore him but working her way through a series of gestures he was sure were designed to titillate. He’d seen her use them many times before to lure in sponsors, but never dressed like that. And never directed at him.
She would trace the contours of her ruby red lips with one perfectly lacquered fingernail, pretending to brush away non-existent crumbs; when she visited the buffet table on the other side of the pool she would examine the selection with an air of extreme concentration, bending low over the table to give him a perfect view of her precariously arranged breasts. At some point the Avoxes had come out offering vodka ice lollies to cool the guests in the heat. Effie had selected a red one to match her outfit and had set about licking it in a more than appealing manner. She’d looked over at him as she did so and this time he’d returned her stare, the lust in his eyes probably unmistakeable.
He'd stood up and moved towards her, surprised when she’d moved away, just a little, halting his progress in catching up to her. He’d tried again and she’d used the same trick, moving on to a new group just a little further from his reach. She’d look him straight in the eye every time, sometimes running her tongue over her lower lip, sometimes back up and down the length of the lolly.
It had excited him for a while but, as the chase continued, it had stopped being fun to him and become merely exasperating. Annoyed, he’d left the pool area and set off through the grounds in the direction of the woods, contemplating taking care of his frustration among the trees the way he had done so many times as a fifteen-year-old back in Twelve, after heatedly kissing his girl goodnight. His heart hadn’t been in it though and instead he’d taken a seat on a bench at the edge of the copse, trying to breathe away the insistent stirring of his loins beneath the designer swim shorts.
He hadn’t been there long when he was disturbed by a rustling behind him. He’d jumped up on full alert, ready to fight or flee, only to lock eyes once again with Effie as she emerged from among the trees, still licking that damned ice lolly. She’d already freed one breast from its red and gold prison, holding it cupped almost casually in her hand, her crimson manicured thumb and forefinger toying idly with her exposed nipple.
Haymitch hadn’t hesitated. He’d lurched forward, grabbing her by the elbow with one hand, tossing the lolly into the grass with the other. He’d pushed her hand away from her breast and taken over with his own fingers, their mouths crashing together in a rough and messy kiss. Effie had manoeuvred him expertly backwards to the bench seat, pushing him down to sit on it with a firm hand to the middle of his chest. In an easy, fluid move she’d straddled him, knees bracketing his thighs, and she’d reached inside his swim shorts for his now throbbing penis, holding his gaze as she’d pushed the small strip of fabric that barely covered her core to one side and sunk down onto him with a contented sigh. He remembered now just how wet she’d been as she’d moved up and down over him, urging his mouth to her exposed breast, and he’d felt himself swell even further inside her at the realisation her little game had aroused her every bit as much as it had him.
He’d sucked, licked and even bitten her breast as she rode him, delicious low moans and gasps escaping her lips. Encouraged, he’d slid a finger down between them to her clit, feeling the small bud become tighter under his touch, and it wasn’t long at all before she came, her own hand clamped firmly over her mouth to muffle her scream. He’d followed her over the edge almost immediately and she’d stood up quickly, looking him straight in the eye as she snapped the crotch of her swimsuit back into place and tucked away her breast.
“Well, that was fun,” she’d said in a breezy tone as she’d slipped back among the trees, leaving him slumped dumbly on the bench, his shorts covered in a sticky mess the long shirt would thankfully hide. “We must do it again sometime.”
Haymitch had no recollection of the rest of the night, but there was one thing he did know: it had been the best, most erotic, sexual experience of his life so far. He and Effie never spoke of it, but the pattern had been firmly set for the rest of that summer’s stay.
In the cold light of day, he’d told himself it must never happen again. Short, angry fucks in the privacy of the penthouse were one thing, but out in the open, at these huge social occasions, it was downright risky, dangerous even. District/Capitol fraternisation of that sort was forbidden by law, punishable by… well, by what he wasn’t quite sure, but if a man could be put to death for poaching in Twelve, he could be pretty sure the judgement for something like that would be no less harsh. Victors were a valuable commodity after all, to be sold to the highest bidder. They weren’t supposed to give it away for free. And, whilst their special status meant the odd one-night stand would generally be overlooked, Haymitch was pretty sure the same would not apply to repeat offences with one’s own escort. Add to that the fact that he couldn’t possibly want to be involved in a thing with Effie Trinket of all people, to let her have that power over him…
Without fail, every time, he told himself it was the last time, only to find himself playing the same game over and over again, sometimes only a matter of hours later.
Perhaps he hadn’t needed to worry though, because six months on, the chances of a repeat performance seemed to be less than zero. He hadn’t been able to so much as guess at Effie’s figure all week, bundled up as she was under multiple layers of cashmere and fur, but it wasn’t just that.
Effie was definitely not herself, or at least not the persona Haymitch had been used to for the last five-and-a-half years. The fire seemed to have gone out of her somehow, or become somewhat dimmed, running on half power. She still sparkled for the chat shows and public appearances, but back at the penthouse it was a different story. She was quiet, so much quieter than Haymitch had ever known her, and it was rather unsettling. She couldn’t even be bothered to argue with him most of the time and he wondered what it said about him that he rather missed it. She wasn’t nagging him about drinking or demanding to know his whereabouts at every minute of the day and it was distinctly odd. He’d even started to deliberately test her, trying to provoke a reaction, but it hadn’t seemed to have any effect. Just this evening, he’d purposefully ignored the outfit she’d set out for him for tonight’s party and dressed in something far too casual for the occasion, but she’d merely rolled her eyes when he’d appeared in the living room and called down for the car with nothing more than a small sigh of resignation.
She was still puzzling him now, turning up at the pool house which he’d been pleased to find open and empty, and asking him, not to return to the house as he’d assumed, but to leave with her for the Training Centre.
He couldn’t understand it. Effie always waited it out until the bitter end at these things, always hoping, once the teams from the wealthier districts had departed, to wring tipsy sponsors for a few last drops of promise for Twelve. Pointless, Haymitch had told her countless times, but still she insisted. Though clearly not tonight.
He'd tried to stir her usual fire by refusing to leave the pool house, but instead of getting angry, she’d merely nodded.
“Fine,” she’d said, “Get a ride back with Chaff or one of the other teams. Or call the penthouse and I’ll have them re-send the car.” And, with that, she’d turned on her heel and left the little refuge he’d made for himself out of sight in the changing room, only to utter a shout of what seemed like genuine distress just seconds later.
Haymitch had come running, anticipating mortal danger, but instead confronted by the sight of Effie confounded by the doorknob. That was where they both stood now, Haymitch smirking from the doorway, Effie frantically rattling the handle to no avail.
“That’s not funny,” she replied to his sarcastic comment. “It must be broken.”
“Move over,” commanded Haymitch, striding to the door. “How could it be broken? We both got in here no problem, didn’t we?” He seized the doorknob and twisted. It didn’t budge.
“See!” exclaimed Effie. “There’s something wrong with it.”
Haymitch crouched down to examine the mechanism. “Oh shit.”
“What is it?” demanded Effie, with no small degree of panic. “Please say you can fix it!”
“Can’t fix it,” stated Haymitch. “There ain’t nothin’ broke. It’s locked.”
Effie’s face blanched. “How could it be locked?”
Haymitch shrugged. “My guess would be security doing their rounds. Must have passed by just now when we were both in the changing room. Guess it looked deserted from the front. No reason anyone would be out here on an evening in winter.”
“This can’t be happening,” Effie whispered, more to herself than to him. “Whatever are we going to do?”
Haymitch shrugged again. “Not a lot we can do. You can try screaming if you want, but I don’t reckon anyone will hear you.”
Effie immediately turned back to face the outside, pounding on the toughened glass with both fists and calling for help at the top of her lungs. Haymitch endured it for all of a minute before gripping her wrists in each of his hands and forcing them back to her sides.
“You want to give us both a headache into the bargain?” he spat. “I told you it’s pointless. He’s long gone. Patrols on one of those electric carts. I’ve seen it.”
“Can’t you break the door down?” asked Effie, not bothering to disguise the desperation in her voice.
“Not likely,” said Haymitch. “Looks like reinforced glass to me, same as the stuff on the train.”
“Whatever will we do?” she repeated, realising the truth of his assessment.
“Nothing,” he stated simply. “They’ll open up tomorrow, ready for the old boy to take his morning dip. Just have to wait it out until then.”
“I can’t stay here,” fretted Effie, shaking her head.
“For fuck’s sake,” muttered Haymitch. “Why d’you have to be such a princess about it? Plenty worse places to spend the night. It’s got… facilities back there. And I won’t even fight you for the couch. Just get your head down there, it’ll be morning before you know it. I’m going back to my book.” With that, he turned to head back to the big armchair in the changing room.
“Wait!” called Effie, her voice unusually wobbly. “Please don’t leave me out here.”
Haymitch turned back again. “What now? You’re being weird. Weirder than usual. What’s the deal here?”
“I… I can’t be shut in,” stammered Effie and Haymitch noticed how her breathing had become shallow, coming in short gasps, her face as white as snow. “Everything’s spinning!” she gasped in alarm. “Help me!”
“Fuck!” muttered Haymitch, walking over to her and guiding her to the sofa. He pushed her down onto it, sitting beside her. “You’re all right,” he stated gruffly. “You’re just having a panic attack. Look, get your head down between your knees.”
Effie paid him no attention, seeming not to hear him as she struggled for breath, clawing hopelessly at her throat. Haymitch placed one hand on the back of her neck and forced her head and torso downward.
“Now take deep breaths,” he instructed. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Like this.” He demonstrated in exaggerated fashion and, after a few seconds, Effie thankfully followed his lead. He waited a few moments, until her breathing settled back into a regular rhythm, then pulled her back upright. “Better?” he asked.
Still deathly pale, Effie nodded.
“The fuck was that about?”
“I…” she faltered. “I have a phobia. About being locked up. Especially in the cold.”
Haymitch nodded. “Ok.”
Effie sighed. “It stems from childhood.”
“Yeah?” replied Haymitch as he crossed the room to the kitchenette and poured her a glass of water at the tap. It was best to keep her talking, he figured, since it seemed to be distracting her from starting to hyperventilate again.
“Mmm hmm.” Effie accepted the water and took a grateful sip as Haymitch flopped down into the armchair opposite. “I had a governess when I was small. She was extremely strict and I do not think she liked me very much. Or even at all. If I didn’t do well enough at my lessons, or if I said or did something she didn’t like, she would take me out to my parents’ summerhouse in the grounds and lock me in. She wouldn’t come back until the next morning. It was terrifying. And so cold. I don’t think it was any coincidence it was a punishment she favoured in winter.”
Haymitch nodded and, noting how she trembled, stood and wordlessly removed his jacket, draping it around her shoulders.
Effie smiled her thanks as he reclaimed his seat. “You don’t seem shocked,” she observed.
“That’s ‘cos I’m not,” he returned. “When people are told their whole lives that the annual slaughter of twenty-three innocent children is something to be entertained and excited by, it’s no wonder the line between what is and isn’t acceptable to do to kids gets blurred, even among their own.”
Effie considered his words for a moment. “I have no idea what motivated her. I tried so hard to second-guess her, to learn what would set her off, but I never managed it.”
“Surely your folks wondered where you were though?”
“No. Governesses reign supreme in upper class households in the Capitol. I only saw my parents when they requested I be presented to them. Sunday afternoons typically. And Miss Othello had me totally in her power. I was very young – I believed her when she said my parents would think I was a liar. I did tell my mother eventually though.”
“And what happened?”
“Absolutely nothing. My mother said that Miss Othello was the most well-regarded governess in the entire city. That she must have reasons for her methods. And besides, she was highly sought after. It would have damaged my mother’s social status to let her go. She said it would reflect badly on me if we dismissed her. She moved on eventually of course, when I outgrew her, but the legacy of what she put me through unfortunately remained. I still see her sometimes. She’s retired now, but she sponsors the Games most years. Never anything for Twelve, of course,” she finished with a bitter little laugh. “You know, I used to try to outsmart her. Hide blankets in the summerhouse so it wouldn’t be so bad, but she found them every time. She’d only shut me in for longer then, so I stopped bothering in the end.” A visible shudder ran through her body. “I was so afraid. I used to get into a terrible panic, convinced she’d never come back and that no-one would miss me until I was just a pile of bones. And the cold. I’ll never forget it. How biting it was, how my fingers would ache with it, how my lips would turn numb. I hate winter because of that. The cold scares me.”
Haymitch regarded her with a strange new-found pity. He’d felt many things for Effie Trinket over the past half decade: anger, annoyance, lust, frustration, to name but a few. He’d never before felt sorry for her. Her story confirmed what he’d always known – Capitols were fucked up. His mother certainly hadn’t had much to offer him or his brother, but he knew she’d always been on his side at least. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. Looking over at Effie now, pale and shaking, swamped by his jacket, he found he could see more there than the self-absorbed, fame-hungry, entitled creature he’d always assumed comprised her character. Beneath that façade was just a frightened little girl, still in constant fear of being of being forgotten and doing whatever she could to ensure it didn’t happen.
“That why you’ve been weird all this week?” ventured Haymitch. “’Cos you hate winter?”
“Have I been weird?” Effie asked, her brow knitted in a frown. “How so?”
“Well…” began Haymitch, “don’t get me wrong, I ain’t complaining, but you haven’t torn me a new one any time I’ve turned up in the wrong clothes, you haven’t nagged me about my drinking, my time-keeping, even my manners. Like I said – weird.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Effie glanced furtively about the room. “Do you think this place is bugged?”
“Don’t reckon so. Haven’t spotted any of the usual tells. Beetee schooled me in what to look out for years ago.”
Effie pressed her lips together, clearly struggling with something. Eventually she let out a long sigh. “I hate the Victory Tour.”
Haymitch didn’t respond immediately, studying her expression as she gazed into the space between them, as though she could see the words she had just spoken hanging heavily there.
“Go on,” he commanded gruffly.
“I hate it every year, but this year is the worst of all. Before I became an escort, I thought it was the most exciting thing imaginable. I was so jealous. Those victors had everything I craved for myself: more money than they could ever spend, the best stylists to dress them, fame that was off the scale, admiration wherever they went. I thought they were so lucky.”
“So what changed?”
Effie shrugged. “I did, I suppose. I became an escort. My very first year, the victor was a girl from Six, do you remember? I was so thrilled at the prospect of being one of the few people who would get to attend parties with her, to be able to say I knew her, to associate myself with her greatness…”
Haymitch had leant forward, carefully observing her. “And? Didn’t you get to do all of that?”
“Yes,” confirmed Effie. “Except there was nothing victorious about it. The girl was a wreck. Twitchy, scared, drugged to the eyeballs. I was good friends with the escort for Six at the time; she told me how she screamed every night, the cocktail of meds she had to feed her throughout the day just to get her to put one foot in front of the other. And I was there when the appointments started coming in.”
Haymitch winced, knowing full well what sort of appointments she was referring to, the sort he’d only managed to shake free of himself this past few years.
“It sounds so naïve to say it now. I truly hadn’t ever realised. What it costs that person when they win.”
“You seem to get through the Games every summer just fine,” remarked Haymitch without sympathy.
Effie nodded. “Yes. The game face is easier then. There are twenty-four of them and we’ve no idea who’ll win. I can stay detached. I never meet most of them. The Tour though – all the focus is just on that one person. Some years are better than others. If a career district wins, it’s easier. Those victors are more able to fool themselves, better prepared probably. I thought that might be the case this year, but Annie… it’s crushed her already. She was always such an unlikely winner. Such a beautiful girl, and now entirely dead behind the eyes. She can’t possibly last much longer.”
“You don’t need to worry about Annie,” interjected Haymitch. “She’ll be taken good care of.”
Effie looked at him quizzically. “How? Her mother’s dead, her father’s an invalid. Who will be there for her?”
Haymitch hesitated. He shouldn’t trust her. She was Capitol. And you didn’t share secrets with Capitols. But then again, Capitols shouldn’t take district citizens into their confidence either, yet here she was, telling him candidly about her past, her weaknesses, admitting to her distaste for the Games. That stuff was dangerous for her to let slip. In the wrong ears, it could cost her her tongue. Or worse.
He’d never have guessed at the truth of her feelings on the subject. She was always so gratingly upbeat, so sickeningly enthusiastic. And she did love the attention she got from being a public figure, that much he was still sure of. He knew she cried in her room every year when Twelve’s tributes died, but he’d always assumed it was for her own misfortune at being on the team of a losing district yet again, at kissing goodbye to her chance of promotion for another year. He’d never guessed those tears might not be entirely selfish. Or had he? Perhaps, subconsciously… He’d never been attracted to a Capitol the way he undeniably was to her, not even to the stunningly beautiful ones who used to throw themselves at his feet. They were too shallow and twisted on the inside for him to find them anything other than repulsive. Sure, he’d fucked enough of them when he’d been drunk enough, but he’d never wanted a repeat performance. Until Effie. And even then, the rough, angry sex had been justifiable, he’d thought. Last summer’s lust-driven antics though…
“Finnick.”
“Sorry?” Effie looked puzzled.
“Finnick will take care of her. He already is. He’s doubled his appointments so she won’t have to… be available for bookings. It wasn’t as hard to arrange as he thought it would be. Snow doesn’t really want her to get too close to anyone in the Capitol for too long. Better this way to keep the rumours in check.”
The trace of a smile pulled at Effie’s lips. “Finnick is in love with her.”
“For years apparently. An unlikely winner, you said. Who do you think came up with the idea for the flood and pitched it to the gamemakers?”
“He did,” stated Effie with conviction. “That poor boy. They must have made him pay for it.”
“And then some,” confirmed Haymitch. “You breathe a word of this to anyone and I swear…”
Effie put her hand up to stop the fierce lecture he’d been about to deliver. “I’ll never breathe a word. You can trust me, Haymitch, don’t you know that by now? When have I ever betrayed you?”
Haymitch looked away, out into the dark gardens that he could just about make out in the gloom. He’d said too much already, but somehow he didn’t regret it. She was right. When had she ever betrayed him? There had been plenty of occasions where she could have reported him, caused him serious trouble, but she hadn’t. Even when he was beastly to her, she’d turn up at all hours to bars in the shady parts of town, paying off the damages he’d caused in a drunken rage or a fight; she’d bailed him out of the detention centre and bribed the guards to lose the charge sheet; he knew to his shame that she’d held him over the toilet bowl when he was sick with drink, washed the vomit from his hair and body herself rather than leaving him to the Avoxes. And even after all that, she was still willing to let him fuck her, to play those dirty games with him last summer…
“It’s late,” he croaked out as he turned back to face the room. “We should try to get some sleep before morning. I’ll take the armchair, you keep the couch. I’ll see if I can find something to use as a blanket.”
He stood and walked back to the changing room, his head swimming, for once not with the alcohol, but with Effie’s continued ability to surprise him, to place herself outside of that neat little box marked ‘Capitol Princess’ that he liked to keep her in. He found several large thick towels and a generous fluffy bathrobe in the cupboard and took them back out to the lounge.
“Here,” he said, handing over his bounty. “Get yourself set up with these. I’ll just, uh … use the facilities while you change.”
A few minutes later, Effie’s feather monstrosity of a dress was hanging up in the changing room, having been replaced by the bathrobe. Haymitch sank down into the armchair once again, draping the jacket Effie had returned to him loosely across his torso as she arranged the towels over herself on the couch.
“Will you be all right sleeping upright like that?”
“Fine,” said Haymitch in the darkness. “I sleep like this most of the time back home.” He hesitated. “Effie, if I…”
“I know,” Effie cut him off. “I know how to deal with your nightmares. Don’t touch you. Get out of your way. It wouldn’t be my first time. But it’s ok. You think you’d hurt me, but you won’t.”
Haymitch didn’t say anything further. The nightmares were another no-go area and he already hated that he’d been forced to bring it up. Most likely he wouldn’t sleep anyway. Twenty years of habit and experience meant he always tried to avoid unconsciousness in the hours of darkness and besides, he didn’t have Effie’s faith that he wouldn’t turn violent in the grip of an imagined terror. He would wait until she’d fallen asleep and then go back to the changing room and carry on with his reading.
It was easy to imagine himself back in Twelve from here, still fully clothed in an armchair, none of the usual hubbub of the city audible. Just the faint, intermittent hoot of an owl, and… what was that? A strange rhythmic rattling… perhaps they would be rescued tonight after all? He snorted under his breath when he realised what it was.
“You’re not going to have any teeth left if you carry on like that,” he remarked.
“I can’t help it,” whispered Effie. “It’s so cold.”
“You should be in Twelve right now,” he teased. “That’d show you a real winter.”
“Sorry,” mumbled Effie, her teeth still chattering violently. “I really can’t help it. I don’t deal well with the cold.”
Haymitch listened to this pitiful lullaby for a while longer, then got to his feet, mind suddenly made up.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said, as he slipped under the towels to lie behind Effie on the couch. “I don’t share beds.”
“Of course not,” replied Effie, instantly snuggling her back against his torso, relishing the warmth that emanated from his body. “You are just keeping me warm.”
He slid his arms around her in an attempt to stop her shivering and they both lay spooning awkwardly in silence for several minutes, Haymitch trying to ignore how good it felt, trying not to register her toned ass pressed dangerously close to his groin, the weight of her breast where it rested on his arm, the faintly musky scent of her perfume on her neck.
It was Effie who broke the stillness. “We could have sex,” she suggested, “if you want.”
Haymitch struggled to keep his composure through the shock of this unexpected statement. “No thanks, Sweetheart, I’m good. I volunteered to keep you from freezing to death of my own accord. I don’t expect payment.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Maybe not. But what would that even be? Comfort sex? Not really how we roll, is it?”
“It could be,” returned Effie in a small voice that seemed to betray a certain vulnerability. “If we wanted it to be. Or even just for tonight.”
“What happens in the pool house stays in the pool house?”
“If you like.”
Without waiting for any further response, Effie twisted in his arms to face him, looking deep into his eyes, searching for permission.
Haymitch had never hesitated to kiss Effie Trinket before. Every single time, whether pressed up against the wall in the elevator or any flat surface in the penthouse, it had been an angry, messy affair, more of an attack than a kiss. The same had been true of the frantic couplings that had followed their lengthy teasing sessions in various sponsors’ gardens last summer. If he kissed her now, it wouldn’t be like that and he was afraid of what he might risk falling into, yet, at the same time, he seemed powerless to resist.
As he brought his face nearer to hers, Effie took the movement as consent and brought her lips to his in a slow, soft peck that immediately sent sparks running through his entire body. Her lips were warm, despite the chattering teeth of a few moments ago, and perfectly moist and soft and, immediately the peck ended, he leaned in again for another and another. She was teasing him, keeping things slow, her lips slightly parted and her tongue now passing just occasionally against the tip of his own. When she finally let him deepen the kiss to allow them both complete access to the other’s mouth, he pressed her into him with both hands, feeling her small, firm breasts pushing against his chest.
Without breaking the kiss, Effie unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it away to run her hands over his torso, breathing a small sigh of contentment into his mouth. Haymitch reached for the belt of the thick robe and untied it, bringing his own hands straight to her breasts, cupping them gently and tracing small circles over her nipples with his thumbs. She threw her head back then, exposing her long, elegant neck and Haymitch moved to kiss the hollow behind one ear, trailing a path all the way down to the base of her throat. He probed the little indentation with his tongue, then moved on to her collarbone. It would leave a mark, but the noises she was making did nothing to discourage him until he felt the gentle pressure of her hand on the back of his head, urging his mouth down to her breasts. He ran his tongue over her right nipple several times, enjoying the sensation of it growing increasingly erect beneath his ministrations, more turned on than ever by the heaving of her chest as her breath began to come as long, drawn-out sighs of pleasure.
“More,” she urged him, her fingernails scraping deliciously across his back, “Please, more.”
Obediently, Haymitch sucked her into his mouth, twirling his tongue around her nipple and tweaking it with his teeth, one hand pressed against her back, the other massaging her exposed left breast hard. As he felt her gyrate against him, he became aware that some of the sighs and moans that filled the room belonged to him, far removed from his usual style of strong and silent or just the occasional grunt, and he found himself beyond caring.
He was already hard, and Effie seemed to sense he was becoming uncomfortable, reaching down to open his pants and release him. As she gently caressed him, pushing his clothing down over his buttocks for him to kick away, he stilled her hands.
“Not yet,” he rushed out in a breathy voice that didn’t sound like his. “I want to go down on you.” The words shocked him as he said them, but he realised they were true. He’d never gone down on a Capitol before, in fact he’d never gone down on anyone since his girl. It had always seemed too intimate, much more so than just fucking, but suddenly he ached to explore Effie Trinket, to taste her, to find out what drove her crazy.
“You don’t have to,” panted Effie, but her voice was cracked and desperate and the insistent involuntary thrusting of her pelvis told him that she wanted it and wanted it badly.
“I want to feel you on my tongue,” insisted Haymitch. “I want to feel you come.”
Effie groaned with arousal, pushing him gently downwards as he kissed a line down from her navel, grazing the stubble of his chin over her smoothly waxed mound. Her hips canted upwards then, causing him to release a small chuckle before he gently licked the crease where her thigh joined the rest of her body. He breathed out slowly but hard, causing her to writhe with pleasure as his warm breath rippled over her core. His tongue gently probed her centre, seeking out her clit, moving in tiny circles over the small bud as it became swollen under his touch. Little sharp cries were escaping her now at regular intervals and he knew she must be getting close. He moved down, sliding his tongue inside her, and fuck, she felt amazing, tasted perfect, and he forced himself to calm down enough to refocus his attention away from his aching penis and to what lay between her thighs. He increased the thrusts of his tongue and brought his thumb to her clit, building the pressure and making the circles ever tighter until she suddenly stiffened beneath him, a raw screamed ripped from her throat, collapsing with a shudder against the couch again as her pelvis slowed its rocking against his thumb.
It took her a moment to get her breath back. “You never did that to me before.”
“I know.”
“So…” she teased. “How was it for you?”
“Hot,” he replied honestly.
“How hot?” she insisted, running her hand up his thigh, feeling for his cock, still hard and straining. “How did I taste?”
They’d never done this before either, Haymitch realised. Never spoken about what they were doing. And, damn it, that was fucking hot too.
“Like this,” he answered, pulling himself up higher so their heads were level once more and leaning in to kiss her again, keeping it slow, moving his tongue against hers so that she would taste herself on him. Effie gave what could only be described as a purr of pleasure and pressed herself tighter against him, stroking his cock deftly but never with enough pressure that he would get release. His own hands roamed her body again – her neck, her back but, most of all, that glorious ass – until he could bear the teasing no longer and he groaned her name.
“Shall I suck you off?” she whispered huskily in his ear, nipping playfully at the lobe with her teeth.
“No,” he countered, rolling her onto her back and pushing himself up on his hands to tower above her, “I want to fuck you.”
“Oh, good,” she murmured, guiding him expertly to her entrance, “because I can definitely come again.”
They were going to have to do this again, he thought to himself as he pushed inside, the talking thing. How was it that Effie talking usually annoyed the hell out of him, but tonight, right now, it was the best thing in his life? Except they weren’t supposed to do this again, he remembered as he established a rhythm, thrusting deep inside her, this was meant to stay in the pool house… He lost all coherent thought then, his world dwindling to just the feel of her, warm and wet around him, and he was coming, coming hard, with a rough cry of her name, matched by a breathless shout of his own name from her lips as she shuddered under him again in her second climax.
They collapsed after in a sweaty heap amongst the towel blankets, both boneless and tingling from pleasure. Haymitch pulled some of the covers over the pair of them, lest Effie should get cold again, though there seemed precious little chance of that right now. His eyes were beginning to close and he knew it would be pointless to fight off the endorphin-induced sleep. He felt Effie tense slightly in his arms, probably puzzled that he was still here and showing no signs of going back to the armchair.
“Haymitch?” she whispered tentatively. “This isn’t going to stay in the pool house, is it?”
He heard one last word, before sleep pulled him under, and it was in his own voice.
“No.”