#He lovingly cares for his purple long haired wig better than he does his own hair | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ellanainthetardis · 7 years

Note

I know this is a very random prompt (and I understand if you don't write it), but I would love to read a story about Effie's hair. I would love it if it was one that matched with important parts of her life e.g. being compared to her sister when she was young, dying her hair for the first time, getting her first wig, Haymitch seeing her hair, it being cut off in prison and growing back in MJ etc.

This is a very longone, more Effie centric but there is hayffie in there of course.

Since it is so long,there won’t be a prompt tomorrow but I will be reblogging the vampire au because… the requested sequel is coming on Wednesday;) [x]

Dye, Wig And Style

Lyssa’s hair is perfect.

Even at eight, Effie can see that very clearly.

She watches from her sister’s doorway as theirmother lovingly brushes Lyssandra’s hair. The hairbrush never gets stuck in thelovely straight blond strands like it does with Effie’s. From there, it looksglossy and soft, something you would like to run your fingers through… It looksa bit like liquid gold and it is sopretty.

Lyssa is a very pretty girl as a rule, though,everyone agrees on that and nobody agrees more than Effie. She loves hersister, worships the ground she walks on, even if, at eleven, Lyssa tends toconsider a mere baby. Even when she’s jealous of the high heels she’s not yetallowed – having to make do with babyheels, as Lyssa dubbed her shoes – she can recognize her sister’ssuperiority. It is so very obvious that it’s not that difficult to admit.

She wraps her silk dressing gown tighter aroundher, shivering a little in the big cold corridor. She wants to go in, she wantsto jump on the bed – or rather sitproperly and fold her hands on her lap like a lady ought to – and marvel atthe beauty of her mother’s dress, she wants to join in the hushed whispersabout the boy Lyssa likes, she wants to tease her sister about the blush on hercheeks…

She knows she wouldn’t be welcomed and that shewould only be intruding.

Mother will only have time for Lyssa tonightbecause their parents are going out to one of those glamorous parties Effiedreams of attending. Elindra’s dress is a deep crimson, there is a bustierembroidered with tiny sparkling gems – that she thinks are rubies – and a puffyvoluminous skirt that spirals around her mother’s thighs but never moves, keptin place by metallic wires Effie marveled at in the shop. Geometric forms arethe latest fashion – or so her sister claims.

“Euphemia, what are you doing here?” Elindra’svoice suddenly asks. “Wandering the corridors in your night clothes. Truly. You should know better.”

There is nothing hush hush about it and the tone doesn’t bide well for her.

“I forgot my book downstairs, Mother.” sheexplains innocently, waving the aforementioned book for her to see.

Elindra sneers a little. “Books. I do not understand why you choose to waste your time likethis. It is magazines you should read. You do so need to learn about current celebrities’ affairs. You almostembarrassed me with your lack of knowledge at your latest pageant.”

“My apologies, Mother.” she mumbles.

“Do not mutter, Euphemia. It does not become a lady.” Elindra huffs. “Now.Where is the nanny? Why do we pay thatwoman, I wonder… Ah, Tadius. Very good. Be a dear and make sure your daughtergoes to bed.”

Effie whirls around with a bright smile. Herfather got caught walking out of his room and looks startled by the task thatis required of him.

“Don’t we have a nanny for that?” he frowns.“We pay her enough.”

“It might be time to find a new one.” Elindraconcedes.

Effie and Lyssa exchange a disappointed glancebecause they like they current one – but nannies and governesses have beenwaltzing in and out of their lives every few months since they were born and theyare used to it.

“Very well.” Tadius sighs, outstretching hishand with hesitation. “Come along, Effie.”

She beams as she takes it and she lets herfather steer her back to her room. It is a veryrare treat when their father tucks them in. He seems embarrassed and not quitesure what to do. She’s a bit disappointed when he leaves her at her door with astern reminder that she shouldn’t wander around wearing night clothes becauseit is improper, but she feels filled with a warm fuzzy feeling when he pecksthe top of her head and bids her goodnight.

She’s tempted to hug him but controls thespontaneous idiotic gesture before it can get her in trouble.

The Trinkets don’t hug.

They verypolitely shake hands or exchange air kisses.

Once the door is closed and she’s alone again,she tosses her book on the bed and wanders to the dresser in the corner of herroom. She sits down to grab the hairbrush. There has been no miracle when shelooks in the mirror though. Her hair still looks wild and impossibly curly, abit reddish where the light directly touches it, not at all liquid gold butmore like dark honey… Ugly.

It is no wonder their mother likes taking careof Lyssa’s better, really.

With a soft sigh, she places the brush at thetop of her head and runs it down very slowly.

“One.” she whispers. She counts out loud as sheruns the hairbrush down.

A hundred brushes each night.

Elindra promises it is the only way to haveglossy shiny hair.

Effie wantsglossy shiny hair.

She wants to be pretty like her sister.

Effie watches the hairdresser’s reaction in themirror like a hawk.

The woman doesn’t betray anything. She smilesand happily chats and Effie has been answering in kind since their mother has lefther and Lyssandra at the salon. Everyone had oohed and aaahed atLyssandra’s purple hair. Everyone also agreed that Effie badly needed a dye jobtoo, once she had taken her wig off – which is why she’s here in the firstplace, because Elindra finally caved and authorized her to dye her hair instead of just wearing wigs.

She’s nine and she knows this will change herlife.

She will finally be pretty like her sister.

Elindra warned her there would be no walkingaround with her hair in its natural unruly state, even if it doesn’t look its usualplain color. If she wants to be allowed to forego wigs, she will need to takecare of it. It means straightening it every day and making sure it lookshealthy.

Effie doesn’t really mind wigs. She loves them,even. It’s funnier to be able to change color and style every day. But Lyssaproudly wears her hair natural and Effie wants to be like her so she begged and begged…

“Here.” the hairdresser says, done assessingwhat needs to be done with her. She presents her with a card on which there areseveral shades of purple. “You can choose the one you would like.”

She glances at her sister, a few chairs away,who is laughing with her own hairdresser as she gets her hair trimmed. There’sanother woman doing her nails at the same time and Effie looks down at her ownhands, at the impractical fake nails that she keeps damaging – to Elindra’sutter annoyance. She so desperatelywants to look like Lyssa…

But even with the same shade of purple, sheknows she will only suffer in the comparison, so she takes the card and studiesit very attentively and then turns the page back and smiles when she spotssomething she likes. She points at the small square. “This one.”

“It’s pink, Miss.” the woman winces. “Your mothersaid purple.”

“She won’t mind.” she lies.

“Still…” the hairdresser insists. “Purple is really the latest rage… Everyone haspurple hair…”

“Precisely.”Effie grins, flicking her soon-to-be pink strands away from her face. “I do notfollow trends. I launch them.”

She makes her claim haughtily, as if there isevery ounce of truth to it. For a moment, she allows herself to believe it.It’s a game after all, just a game, and in that game she’s famous. She’s… An actress. Or maybe a model. An escort, why not?

She doesn’t want purple. Purple will only makepeople remark how well it suits Lyssandra and how sad it is it doesn’t becomeher as much.

“Miss…” the woman hesitates.

“Please, Olivia.” Effie cuts her off in thesame polite but dismissive tone her mother often uses. “Dye my hair pink.”

She flashes her a charming grin – or what shehopes is a charming grin – and the hairdresser caves.

It takes a long time for the whole thing to bedone but when she sees her reflection in the mirror, Effie gapes. For a fewseconds. Time enough to remember ladies do notgape like common girls.

But she’s beautiful.

Straight hair that falls to her shoulders, thestrands a vibrant bubblegum pink that makes her heart soar with how bright itlooks.

“Mother said purple.” Lyssa comments when shejoins her, done with her own beauty treatment.

“Pink looks better.” she claims.

Her sister runs her fingers in her hair with asmall smile. “It does look good butyou will get in so much trouble…”

She juts her chin in the air and refuses to admitshe might be getting a tad nervous. “But it looks pretty.”

“Yes, but purple is fashionable, not pink.” Lyssa sighs. “Mother won’tlike it.”

“Pink is a kind of purple.” she argues, gettingreally agitated now but trying hard to hide it. “And if I am pretty, won’t shebe happy?”

Lyssa pouts but eventually runs her fingersthrough her hair again. “You are alwayspretty, Effie.”

“Mother does not think so.” she laments,looking at their reflection.

Lyssa is still a lot more beautiful with herbright blue eyes and her fake feather eyelashes Effie isn’t yet allowed. Shelooks grown up. She’s twelve but every head turns in her wake.

“Of course, she does.” her sister soothes her.

She wishes time would freeze or that their motherwould forget them but, unfortunately, ten minutes later Elindra waltzes back inthe saloon with her arms full of shopping bags. She stops dead in her trackswhen she spots her youngest daughter.

It is a disaster.

She makes such a scene Effie doesn’t know whereto hide.

The hairdresser gets a earful and Effie knowsshe is next on the list but that it will probably wait until they are back inthe car on the way home. A part of her is still overjoyed when the salon’sowner, who hastily came out of her office, says that they can’t die her hairpurple now, that it would damage it, that they need to wait a few weeks…

At least she gets to keep her pink hair.

Olivia doesn’t get to keep her job, on theother hand.

Effie is devastated and mortified because itwas her tantrum that put the woman introuble. However, no matter how many times she tries to explain, nobody willlisten to her.

She’s crying when Elindra drags her daughtersout of the shop but an icy glare from her mother convinces her to swallow backthe sobs – and to do it fast. Lyssaslips her hand in hers and she clings to her sister’s fingers like to alifeline. She feels sorry for the kind woman she has accidentally gotten fired,she feels sorry for herself…

The second the car’s door closes behind themand the driver starts the car, Elindra launches into a rant about how Effie always has to be an embarrassment and about how she should just take example onLyssandra.

“I think pink suits Effie.” Lyssa manages tocut in when her mother takes a breath.

“That isbecause you are too sweet on your sister.” Elindra snaps. “And do not get involved in conversations thatdo not concern you, Lyssa, dear.”

Properly chided, Lyssandra remains silent forthe rest of the drive. But she often squeezes Effie’s hand in support and forthat she is grateful.

Later on, once she escaped the madness and sheis back in the safety of her room, she studies her reflection in the mirror anddecides pink is her favorite color.

Effie storms to her room, sweaty and disgustingfrom her third round of the day on a treadmill. It doesn’t matter how manyhours of exercising she squeezes in an afternoon though or if she sticks tosteamed vegetables and soup: she doesn’t get any less chubby.

Puberty sucks.

Being thirteen sucks.

Being thirteen and chubby when your sixteenyear old sister is a successful model sucks even more.

Effie goes straight to the shower, having longperformed the art of not getting a glimpse of herself in the mirror while inthe bathroom. She hates her reflection. She hates the disappointment in hermother’s eyes every time she glances at her.

She is supposed to go to one of Lyssa’s fashionshows tonight. A treat if there ever was one because ever since she put onweight, her mother hardly takes her anywhere. Elindra’s embarrassed because herfriends giggle behind her back about her curvy daughter.

Effie likes fashion though and she loves fashion shows so she’s determinedto look her best. She puts her dress on first, a lovely white and silver piecethat manages to hide any small pouch on her not-flat-enough stomach. Then shecomposes herself a cheerful face with make-up. She’s getting very good at this:inventing herself masks with eyeshadows and lipsticks…

The last thing to do is put on her blue wigbut, naturally, that is when she starts wasting time. Her hair won’t stay inits bun and the wig looks crooked, forcing her to start over and over again.She gets so frustrated she seriously wonders if she shouldn’t just take hermother’s advice and shave it all. What is even the point of having hair sinceshe will never ever allow anyone tosee it?

The thought is fleeting though.

She tears the hair tie off and runs her fingersthrough the strands, making a face at the reddish hues. She hates it. But notenough to get rid of it.

She thinks she is too vain for that.

Better ugly hair than no hair at all.

Herwhole body is hurting.

She’s been going from fashion shows tophotoshoots and back to the catwalk for days on end. She has been crazily busylately and, although she is happy with the attention and the fame that comeswith it, she cannot help but be tired.

She waits for the steam to clear from themirror after she steps out of Stelan’s shower, eager to start her morning.There will be more photoshoots that day. Faun Harwyn’s latest collection iscoming out and she is its face, his star model…

At only seventeen.

The last couple of months have been crazy butshe thinks she did pretty well for herself.

She has a job, fame, money that she will beable to get her hands on in a few months when she would turn eighteen, and anolder boyfriend who is rumored to be the next great photographer. Even hermother is impressed.

The bathroom door suddenly opens and Effiestartles, her eyes growing wide. Stelan makes a face, still looking a bitsleepy, as he rubs his orange dyed hair.

“Sorry, babe. I thought you were gone already.”he mumbles, pressing a kiss on her shoulder.

“Stelan…” she protests, embarrassed to becaught looking like this. She doesn’tmind being naked. She is very confident in her body nowadays. She worked reallyhard to chisel it to what it is now and she looks perfect, if she said so herself. But the bare face and the plainhair? She looks for something to hide behind but comes up empty handed…

“Don’t worry.” he chuckles. “I’ve seen plentyof models during prepping. I know you all look like crap under all that powder– we all do really, that’s whatmake-up is for.”

He brushes her wet hair aside to press anotherkiss on her shoulder and leaves her the bathroom. There is no malice to hiswords and she knows he’s right. Only District people and Avoxes would walkaround looking plain. Beauty needs to be nurtured.

She has always known she doesn’t look goodwithout artifices.

So why do the words hurt so much?

“Come on…” Haymitch insists, an amused note inhis voice.

She bats his hand away and turns to her otherside, showing her his back. “No.”

The Sixty-ninth Hunger Games are dragging inlength and they have been fooling around for days, bored out of their minds andabsolutely done with the Capitol’s thirst for blood, waiting for a victor thatwould allow them to put this season behind them. They are a well-oiled machinenow, on a professional level as well as on a more… intimate one. Wasting time in bed – or against a wall – isn’t theworst way to wait for the end of the Games as far as she’s concerned.

Besides, staying locked up in the penthousealso allows them to avoid the hungry crowd for a little while. Effie loves thefame, she does, but… There are timeswhen the fame is harder to bear than others.

“I’ve already seen every inch of you,sweetheart…” he scoffs, nuzzling her nape with his nose, unwilling to take nofor an answer. “I’ve seen you without make-up…”

“Only because you are a rude man who does not understand the concept of knockingbefore entering a room.” she retorts. “And it is different anyway.”

“Why?” he pouts, snatching another pin from herpink wig. She’s too slow to bat his fingers away, this time.

“Because I say so.” she snaps. “You are allowedto take my bra off but not my wig.”

The clasp of her bra immediately comes loose inanswer and she takes the offending piece of lingerie off. It’s the last thingshe had on her anyway because they never got around to removing it. It is a bitridiculous to be naked only from the waist down in the arms of an equally nakedman.

And she’s more comfortable like this anyway.

She doesn’t ask or wonder why he hasn’t lefther bed yet. She supposes he’s aiming for another round as soon as he will beready for it – hence why he is teasing her instead of storming out. The wig isan old and familiar argument between them. He often requests that she takes itoff and she always refuses, even if he argues that she looks ridiculous withher wigs and make-up and puffy clothes… She knows she looks even worse withoutthem. And if he finds her ugly when she looks at her best, she doesn’t want toknow what he will think of her at her worst.

“What are you afraid of?” he taunts, trying tosnatch another pin. She grabs his wrist and brings his arm back around herbefore he can do much damage. “Are you actually bald under that? ‘Cause I’vebeen joking about it all this time but… That’s it, sweetheart? You’re bald?”

It started as a joke but she can feel him gettingmore and more serious.

“I am not bald.”she denies. “Do not be preposterous.”

He tightens his grip on her waist, tugs hercloser to his chest. She feels him shrug. “It’s okay if you are. Won’t lie…It’s probably not that sexy but… It’s fine. You can show me… Won’t make fun ofyou for that…”

“For heaven’s sake, Haymitch, I am not bald!” she snaps, not at allassuaged by the hand that distractedly runs up and down her front. She huffsand puffs and huffs again. “Very well. Since you wants this so much… Let mebook an appointment at the salon. I haven’t dyed my hair in years, it is very plain. And it willneed straightening too… Once I am somehowfit to be seen without a wig…”

“I don’t need any of that shit.” he grumbles. “Hell, I don’t want any of that shit. Iwant to see you. I want to see whatyou look like when you’re not busy playing at being a parrot.”

“I am ugly.” she replies. The words pass herlips before she can think them through. It is not like her to flaunt her flawsor her weaknesses and she immediately brushes it aside with a dismissive hand.“Everyone is ugly in their natural state, Haymitch. Grooming is…”

“Am I uglyto you, Trinket?” he sneers.

“Of course not!” she protests. “It is not whatI meant…”

“You see me getting… groomed every day?” he challenges bitterly. “I’m pretty muchnatural all the time, sweetheart. You never seemed to mind. Or what… You just wanted a taste of theexotic caveman? Should have made you pay for it like everybody else. Would havemade some money out of it, at least.”

He tries to take his arm away from her but sheholds fast to is.

“It isn’t like that.” she breathes out. “You know it isn’t like that.” She rollsaround and cups his cheek. He won’t meet her gaze but he isn’t really trying tobolt away from the bed either, she will take what she can get. “I do not thinkyou are ugly. You are handsome andyou know it.” She brushes her thumb against his lips until he finally meets hereyes again. He doesn’t look pleased, he has that particular expression thatusually means he will go on a binge soon. “It was a poor choice of words.” she admitsquietly. “I just meant… It is different from the Districts, here. You knowthis…”

“But I’m from a District.” he scowls. “And Iain’t one of your Capitol playboys. I just want to see you, what’s wrong withthat?”

Plenty is wrong with that because it’sflirting with a line they have always been careful not to cross. Mentor andescort fucking each other is onething. Haymitch and Effie having sex, on the other hand…

“I am ugly.” she repeats. She feels ashamed butshe doesn’t want to vex him again. He will forgive her any offense in time – orhe will grow too desperate for a quickie to care long – but… She doesn’t wantto hurt him. The Capitol hurts him enough as it is.

“Bullshit.”he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And cut the crap. You’re the most arrogant personI know. The insecure woman act… It’s not you.”

“I am certainly not insecure.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste at the notion. “I am oneof the most beautiful women in Panem, thank you very much.” She licks her lipsand looks away. “When I wear the proper make-up and…”

He grabs her chin and gently forces her to lookat him again.

“You’re actually serious.” he snorts indisbelief. “You think you need that crap.”

“I do need it.” she argues. “And mind your language, won’t you.”

“Tell you what…” he frowns. “When did I everlie to you, sweetheart? If you need it, I’ll tell you. If you don’t…”

“I am not actually keen on being told I look… plain.”she hisses. “Why must you…”

“Trust me a little.” he cuts her off. “You’veseen every bad thing about me. You’ve seen me puke, you’ve seen me freak out‘cause of bad dreams, you’ve seen me wasted out of my mind… Pretty sure you’veseen me cry a time or two when I was too wasted to care…”

“It is different.” she sighs.

“How?” he scoffs.

“Because nobody is requesting you to be perfectall the time, Haymitch.” she growls. “I come with an expiration date. You do realize this, I hope? I am paid to be beautiful, to be a fantasy… Fantasies are not supposed to be any less thanperfect. Fantasies…”

“You ain’t a fucking fantasy. You’re flesh and blood.” he spits out. “I don’twant you to be perfect. Fuck, Effie,you’re so far from perfect it’s ridiculous.”

She pouts, a bit hurt by that assessment butalso strangely pleased by what he is trying to say.

“Everyone wants perfect in the city.” shewhispers.

“I’m not from this city.” he reminds her. “I hate this fucking city.”

“Seriously, Haymitch, language.” she rebukes, studying him with rapt attention. “Isuppose… I suppose if you want to see thisbadly… But be warned I am not playing coy. It is really not pretty.”

She sighs, sits up, and starts unpinning herwig. He sits up too and his fingers are back in her synthetic hair, making amess rather than helping. He seems eager to have it off though and she’sreminded of children unwrapping presents. It is strangely endearing.

Eventually the wig loosens and he tosses itaside to attack the bun she keeps her hair in. She lets him do that by himself.She stares at the wall as he frees her curls and she braces herself for thecomment she knows is coming.

Haymitch doesn’t lie.

Not to her and never to make her feel better.

She feels her hair tumble on her shoulders,feels his fingers tentatively running through the strands…

“It’s reddish…” he murmurs, almost in awe.

“Certainly not.” she huffs. “It is the light. Iam blond. There might be reddish hues in there but I am blond. Strawberry blondif you must be specific.”

He’s not listening to her, she can tell. He’stoo busy burying his hands in the wild mane of curls, crumpled by a whole dayunder a wig.

“It’s curly.” he remarks. “Didn’t expectcurly.”

He coils a strand around his finger and watchesit bounce back in place.

Effie clears her throat and keeps her eyes onthe wall. “I told you I needed to straighten it…”

“Don’t you fuckingdare.” he almost snarls, petting her hair almost protectively. “So beautiful… It’s the make-up all overagain… How do they make you think you need all that crap? You’re so much betterlike this… So much better…”

Her heart is racing in her chest but sherefuses to believe him just like that. She refuses to… “Please, do not mock me.You can just say it is…”

“If you say uglyone more time, I’m gonna fuckingflip, sweetheart.” he grumbles, using his grip on her hair to pull her into akiss. “Fucking beautiful.” he mumblesbetween two pecks. “Fucking shame tohide it.”

It takes her a while to accept he isn’tactually playing a prank on her or pretending so he wouldn’t hurt her feelings– when has Haymitch ever worriedabout her feelings anyway? She only starts to believe him because he seems veryeager to have her again all of a sudden and because he spends the whole timepetting her hair. He is still playing with it afterwards, once she is unusuallyallowed to cuddle against his side.

“Don’t dye it. Don’t straighten it.” herequests.

“You like me ugly.” she accuses. “I should haveknown.”

“Who said it was ugly?” he snarls, apparentlyoffended on behalf of her wild curly plain hair.

“Everyone?” she snorts. “It is so common andunoriginal… Nobody likes that around here.”

“Then, they’re blind.” he declares. “’Causeyou’re fucking beautiful. Just like this. All that shit… That shit doesn’tmake you beautiful, it makes you like them.”

She gets a thrill every time he calls herbeautiful. Nobody has ever looked at her plain face or her plain hair andcalled her beautiful. All peopleusually see are the flaws that nothing hides.

“Being like them is what allows us to survive.”she whispers, low enough that it won’t carry much further. Just in case.

“Just another mask then.” he taunts. “Masks areall well and good, sweetheart… But don’t forget who you are underneath.”

She presses a kiss to his heart.

It’s an answer and a promise.

He tugs the wig off her head because she is tooexhausted to do it herself.

The Quell’s Reaping took too much out of her,the knowledge that the train is rushing to the Capitol where a certain deathawaits the children doesn’t help. The fact that she has been forced to callHaymitch’s name…

She kept up her cheery persona for the childrenbut she cannot do that with Haymitch.

So she lets him undress her like a doll andslip her nightgown over her head. She lets him wash away the make-up from herface because it gives him something to do, an excuse not to think about what isgoing on, what almost happened and what isgoing to happen as a consequence. And she lets him take pin after pin offher wig, her unfocused eyes staring straight ahead.

“ Now,that’s fucking stupid, Effie.” hespits out when the braid tumbles loose from the wig.

It is neat and she loves how it looks on her.It makes her look… fiercer, not aspowerless as she feels. It makes her braver.

“It is just a braid.” she whispers.

But they both know it’s a lie.

It is a Katnissbraid.

It is a statement.

Just like the golden tokens.

She stands with Katniss. She stands with hervictors.

She might be wearing a Capitol mask but sheknows who she is underneath.

She looks at the wall with a blank stare when they cuff her to the chair.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t try to flee when theybrutally cut her hair and then shave it.

Her cheek is still stinging from an earlierblow. She thinks the bone might be broken. She thinks she will never make it outof here.

I don’t know anything, she keeps repeating like a mantra,like a shield. The words don’t protect her. Nothing can protect her now.

She doesn’t know if she really wants to beprotected anyway.

Regardless of if he meant to or not, Haymitchleft her behind to die and that thought hurts more than their punches and theircruel gibes.

She’s stubborn about not letting them see howmuch she’s hurting. From the feeling of betrayal. From the torture – that sheknows to be tame still, she knows it will get worse, she knows… From anything.

She sees the blond strands falling to the floorin the corner of her eye but she doesn’t react. She keeps a neutral face, ablank stare, she pretends she doesn’t see. Eyesbright, chin up… The smile, she cannot quite muster. Chin up, though. Always.

Effie Trinket has her pride and they won’tbreak her so easily.

They won’t.

She remains collected even as they push her andcall her names, even as they tell her she was nothing but Haymitch’s fuck toy, a District whore, and that no decent man will everwant to touch something as ugly as her ever again. Haymitch’s bitch, they call her.

She doesn’t protest the title.

Her stoicism annoys them and it makes them moreaggressive.

She knows she should give them what they want,that it would end quicker if she did. She should cry and scream and beg formercy. She will come to that soon enough, she suspects. But not yet.

Not when they just stole her hair

Not when they just stole her armor.

She only breaks down later. Once they throw herback in the cold little cell with Portia’s battered body.

Then, she touches her bald hair and shecries.

Effie wishes she still has a gift for notcatching her reflection in a mirror when she steps in and out of the shower.

Haymitch’s room at the presidential mansion isso lavish that it regularly throws her. She hasn’t been here long. It took along time for the hospital to release her – she understands it was mostlyHaymitch and Plutarch’s meddling, that the two men felt she was safer in herhospital room for the time being because the new rebel President was callingfor blood – and she still feels a bit disconnected from reality.

It’s difficult for her to admit she’s not inher tiny cell anymore.

Her memories are sluggish. She doesn’t know howlong she was locked in there all alone. She doesn’t know if she dreamedHaymitch scooping her up from her bed of filth and blocking her eyes from thepainful light that blinded her. She doesn’t know if this isn’t a more elaboratehallucination or maybe drugs that the guards gave her for kicks out of boredom.

She only knows that the thing that looks backat her in the mirror isn’t her.

It’s a corpse that forgot to die.

Her every bone are jutting, as if eager topierce the thin layer of flesh. There are dark bruises still that are takingforever to fade and accidental fresh ones because she cannot bump into anythingwithout it leaving a mark anymore. There are scars, swollen and angry looking,her back is the worst and she’s happy not to have to see it on a regular basis.

There was a brief period, a couple of years,when she had learned to love herself without make-up and wigs – mainly becauseHaymitch kept telling her just how beautiful she was, and she had started tobelieve him.

Now…

Now she has hollow cheeks and there are deeplines at the corners of her eyes. Now the blond peach fuzz on her head makesher want to throw something at the wall.

She wants to get angry – at Haymitch, maybe,because she needs someone to blame for all of this, she needs someone she canhate for what happened to her.

She doesn’t have the energy for it – and sheneeds Haymitch too much right now, he’s the only thing keeping her sane, theonly one who is there for her, the only one who accepts her for who she iswithout condition.

She startles when someone knocks on thebathroom’s door. Her heart hammers in her chest and her first reflex is to lookfor a potential way to escape – naked and still dripping wet, that doesn’tmatter at all.

“Sweetheart, you’re in there?” Haymitch’sfamiliar voice asks and she relaxes. He left before she woke up that morning,presumably to check on the children.

It’s odd between the two of them but Effiedoesn’t have enough energy to care about that either. She usually falls asleepclinging to him, fighting against her exhaustion to stay awake, staring at thebright lamp on the nightstand because she never wants to be in the darknessagain, and when the nightmares come – and they always come – she lets him hold her and whisper in her ear untilshe’s sure this is the real world and not a dream.

They share his room and it’s weird how not weird it is. They’ve known eachother for a long time, they know how to make space for each other. Effie doesit automatically, a bit wary that he will get tired of her and turn her away.He, on the other hand, seems worried about her suddenly starting to hate him.

He needs her, she thinks in her most lucidmoments, as much as she needs him.

He pushes the door open before she can call forhim to come in. He never waits for her permission anyway so she never bothers givingit. He gets nervous when he doesn’t know where she is and he never leaves heralone for long, if he can he asks her to come with him. She thinks he’sterrified sick of losing her again.

It makes her feel warm inside.

It’s a nice change from feeling dead and empty.

He frowns when he sees her standing there andimmediately snatches a towel from the rack where she insists he keeps them –because he has a bad habit of leaving them damp on the floor and it just won’tdo, it won’t, and she doesn’t mindthat he laughs at her with unmistakable relief when she lectures him about itor that he claims she will be ranting about manners with the last breath in herbody. She lets him rub her dry, not really minding the fact that she’s nakedeven if they haven’t been intimate since her rescue, and she helpfully liftsher arms when he wraps it around her chest to keep her modest.

“You’re okay, yeah?” he asks quietly. “You’rehere.”

It’s half a statement and half a question. Hewants to know if she’s having a flashback, she figures.

“Yes.” she answers, a bit laconic.

His face softens and he forces a small smilefor her. He brushes his hand on her shoulder, up to her nape. It’s new, thisconstant need of him to touch her. In complete contradiction with her suddenaversion to being touched.

He’s the exception though.

He’s always been the exception to a lot ofthings and it doesn’t surprise her this is another example of it.

She relaxes when he squeezes her nape, thefamiliar gesture having long become a source of comfort. It used to bepossessive. Then it became a proof of affection.

“I’ve got something for you.” he says and hesounds a bit smug, very pleased with himself. She follows him to the bedroompart of the suite and she blinks at the heap of blinding fabrics on the bed,next to empty shopping bags. There are shoes too, she realizes, heels and flatboots. And wigs. When she doesn’t move, he clears his throat awkwardly.“They’ve reopened shops on Main Street so…” He shrugs. “You can’t go alone yet, it’s not really safe for you, but… Ithought it might cheer you up…”

It is certainly an improvement over the greyuniforms they gave her.

She isn’t sure how she feels about colors.She’s been locked in a grey cell for months, then in a white hospital room… Ina sense, the grey is familiar.

And now colors…

She brushes her fingers against the fur of ablue dress’ neckline…

“Thank you.” she whispers. And she means it.

It’s not the clothes that touches her as muchas the fact he went to get them.Haymitch hates shopping maybe more than he hates fashion. But he went andbought all this for her and that… Sheturns around and plants a kiss on his lips. It’s a chaste thing but his eyessoften so much that, for a minute, she thinks he might cry. She’s a bit too aware he’s been hanging by a threadlately, still fighting against his rampant alcoholism because she and thechildren need him when it would have been easier for him to drown in the nextbottle. She doesn’t think he will hold on long on that front but sheappreciates the attempt nonetheless.

“Thank you.”he replies with a shrug, almost sheepish, hands in his pockets.

Her eyes fall on a bubblegum pink wig and shepicks it up automatically, turning it over in her hands.

“You hate wigs.” she remarks. “Do you… Do youwant me to wear them now?”

She cannot blame him. She looks awful. There isnothing remotely attractive to the peach fuzz on her head. Certainly not whenhe liked tangling his fingers in her hair so much.

“I want you to feel better.” he grumbles.“You’ve always liked you wigs in public and you’re not exactly thrilled aboutyour new haircut so… I thought you’d want them.”

She analyses his answer carefully beforeturning to him with a small frown. “But do youwant me to wear them? I know I am not really pretty to look at and you have tolook at me almost all the time. Do you…”

“Hey.” he cuts her off firmly, taking the wigfrom her hands and tossing it back on the bed before cupping her cheek. “Idon’t care what you look like and I don’t mind looking at you, let me tell you.I’ve spent months thinking I wouldn’tget to look at you again. Sweetheart,I can spend the rest of my life doing nothing but that.”

It’s more of a declaration than she everexpected from him and she blinks, completely unprepared and taken aback.

“I look terrible.” she argues for the sake ofit.

“Kinda do, yeah.” he snorts. “But you’ve beenthrough hell, princess. Even you can’t do that with style. It’s fine, it’ll getbetter.” He presses a kiss against her forehead. “You’re beautiful to me.You’re always beautiful to me.”

She takes a step forward and lets him wrap hisarms around her, burying her face in his neck. I love you she mouths against his skin.

If he understands, he doesn’t let on.

But his grip tightens.

“If anyone knew I do that for you, myreputation would be done for.” he grumbles but keeps on carefully running thehairbrush through her blond curls.

A grin bursts on her lips. She doesn’t bothertrying to hide the amusement in her voice. “You love it.”

Her accusation prompts him to snort but shehears no denial.

And Effie lovesthose quiet nights. She was sitting cross-legged on their bed, brushing herhair, ready for the night, when he came out of the bathroom and sat behind her.She didn’t ask him to take the brush out of her hand. He knows when it’s coldthe shoulder she injured during the war hurts her – and, she also thinks, heenjoys it because he worships her hair.

“Youlove it.” he retorts.

And she does.

She thinks back to all those times she watchedher mother brush Lyssa’s hair and wished she would have done the same with hers…This is one hundred times betterthough. Not only because it is a proof of caring from Haymitch’s part butbecause it’s a secret they share, something intimate.

She leans back against his chest and hediscards the hairbrush to wrap his arms around her and press a kiss against herglossy curls.

And, as far as she’s concerned, it’s perfect.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #pre games #hurt comfort #book!verse #about e past #no wig no make up #hbic effie #post prison effie #protective haymitch #haymitch with feelings #coconuts friends #established #live from the cells #elindra #lyssa

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