modern! au actors! au @hayffie-week
The hotel lobby welcomed guests warmly, offering a welcome coolness that created a stark contrast with the stuffy street outside. High ceilings with stucco work soared upward, and underfoot stretched a giant Persian rug with intricate patterns, successfully muffling footsteps.
The massive reception desk of dark polished wood gleamed in the light of crystal chandeliers, each scattering a shower of sparkles around the room. Beyond the windows, draped with heavy curtains, the noise of the metropolis could be sensed, but here, inside, reverent silence reigned, occasionally broken by jazz notes from the bar.
Effie Trinket, adjusting her flawless hairstyle — blonde curls lying in perfect waves so that not a single strand escaped the strict composition — approached the reception desk with a smile honed over ten years in the media world. Her high-heeled shoes clicked softly on the marble floor.
"Good evening. A reservation under Trinket and Abernathy. Two rooms, luxury suite, prepayment confirmed."
The receptionist — a young man with an unnaturally straight back — began typing on his keyboard. The typing grew slower and slower, and his face took on a shade that Effie usually called "the color of approaching disaster."
"Ms. Trinket…" he mumbled something unintelligible. "It seems there's been an error in the system. Your agency confirmed the booking, but the hotel… we've just been acquired by a new chain, and all the old requests…"
"Get to the point," Haymitch Abernathy's voice — low and slightly hoarse — rolled through the lobby like a clap of thunder. He stood three steps away, his hands shoved into the pockets of a worn leather jacket, looking as if he had been dragged there against his will. Which was almost true.
"Only one room is available. The Presidential Suite for two," the receptionist forced out, swallowing nervously.
Silence hung in the air. Effie slowly turned to Haymitch. Her flawless smile disappeared for a moment, but immediately returned — even more dazzling than before.
She looked at Haymitch. He returned her gaze. In Haymitch's eyes — warm, gray, with an eternal smirk in their corners — something flickered that an ordinary passerby might have taken for irritation. Only Effie knew it was excitement.
"That's out of the question," she cut him off. "We're colleagues. Our first shooting day starts at six in the morning. I can't…"
"Ma'am, there's an independent film festival going on in the city. I've just called every place I could. There are no available rooms within a hundred kilometers," the receptionist added hastily.
Haymitch stepped closer and leaned toward her ear:
"Effie. We're adults. One night. I'll sleep on the sofa. You pretend you're disgusted by my existence. The press gets another rumor, which we'll deny through our managers. Deal?"
"I am disgusted by your existence, and there's no need to pretend we're best friends when we're just colleagues," she whispered back, but she took the room key.
The receptionist exhaled in relief, sensing he had narrowly avoided a scandal. His fingers, still gripping the key card, relaxed, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Haymitch smirked, shoved his hands back into his jacket pockets, and lazily moved toward the elevator.
"Let's go, then, colleague," he threw over his shoulder. "I hope this 'Presidential' has some whiskey. And a sturdy sofa."
Effie adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and followed him, trying not to notice the curious glances of the staff.
The room turned out to be grotesquely luxurious. The crystal pendants of the chandelier cast patterns on the walls like spiderwebs. The enormous four-poster bed looked like a set piece from the film they were starting to shoot tomorrow. It was a psychological thriller about a couple trapped in a ski chalet during a snowstorm.
Apparently, fate had a nasty sense of humor.
Effie kicked off her shoes at the door and walked barefoot across the floor; the soft carpet, like moss, springy under her feet. Haymitch watched her from the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. In the semi-darkness of the floor lamp, his face seemed carved from stone, stripped of the mask he wore in public.
"I'm taking the shower first," Effie warned without turning around.
"Wasn't even going to argue, princess," Haymitch chuckled.
She locked herself in the bathroom, pressed her forehead against the cool mirror, and looked at her reflection. The pink sheath dress, the perfect makeup — a mask no less artful than Haymitch's. Beneath it beat a heart that had been syncing with Abernathy's rhythm for two years now. Two years of secret meetings, stolen kisses in dressing rooms, passionate sex, three‑a.m. text conversations when the whole world was asleep and they discussed how absurd their lies had become.
Haymitch and Effie were together. And it was a real relationship, not just a "fling" or "friends with benefits." They were truly together. With long Sunday breakfasts, with his habit of stealing her hair clips just to annoy her, and with her habit of sorting through his rock cassettes while he made coffee.
Effie ran her palm across the mirror, as if wiping away an invisible film. In the reflection, she saw not the flawless Effie Trinket, star of red carpets, but the woman she really was — a woman who loved Haymitch Abernathy more than she had ever loved anyone before. And that love was both her strength and her weakness.
"How much longer are we going to hide?" she thought, and her chest ached at the thought.
But the press? The damn journalists would eat them alive and not let them take a single peaceful step.
"A scandalous affair! Haymitch Abernathy — eternal bachelor and whiskey lover — has hooked up with Hollywood's iron lady!" The tabloids had already plastered a dozen photos of them together with the question: "What if…?" And every time, their PR teams issued denials in the style of "They're just friends who occasionally hate each other. A long-standing creative partnership."
But in reality, all of it was pure bullshit.
The water from the shower began to hiss, masking the sound of her ragged breathing. Effie closed her eyes, letting the warm streams wash away not only her makeup but also all the dark thoughts.
When Effie came out in a silk pajama nightgown, her wet hair twisted in a towel on top of her head, Haymitch was sitting on the edge of that enormous bed. Without his jacket, just a black T-shirt hugging his broad shoulders. In his hand, he clutched a glass of something amber.
"Rules," she said, raising her index finger. "You're on the sofa. I'm making a barrier out of pillows just in case. You don't snore."
"I don't snore," he smirked.
"You do snore, Haymitch," Effie countered. "I've heard it many times."
He grinned. And on his lips appeared that smile she only saw when they were alone, away from prying eyes.
"Were you watching me while I slept, Trinket?" he continued.
"God give me strength," Effie rolled her eyes.
He set the glass down on the nightstand and quickly closed the distance between them. Now Haymitch stood opposite her. Too close for "colleagues," but not close enough for the two of them who had been kissing last week in a hotel elevator after the Golden Globe awards.
"What?" she looked at him attentively, waiting for him to continue.
"Your towel is falling," he simply observed.
She raised her hand, but it was too late — the turban slipped down to her shoulders, and her hair fell in damp strands down her back and chest. Haymitch smiled gently, watching Effie's irritation.
In the thriller films they acted in, moments like this usually preceded either a murder or a passionate scene. In real life, they marked the collapse of all their barricades.
"I missed you," he admitted. "Three weeks. Filming in New York. Your interviews in Los Angeles. That stupid ban on calls after eleven because one of us is afraid the manager will see the call log."
"That was your idea," her voice wavered.
"Because you wanted it that way," Haymitch ran a hand over his short hair. "But you know what? We have one room. The paparazzi are downstairs in the bar. The rumors about us are everywhere anyway. What difference does it make?"
"Reputation," Effie reminded him, looking at him.
"We, Effie, have the reputation of actors with the best on-screen chemistry of the decade. And maybe…" he covered her hand with his, "…maybe it's time we stopped performing for others?"
Effie stood there, feeling every cell of her body screaming "yes." They had really dragged this out. Two years of fleeting touches under the table at press conferences, two years of explaining "why we're leaving the party at the same time," two years of lies that had worn thin.
"Haymitch," she whispered.
"Effie," he said her name as if it meant that everything would work out.
The kiss wasn't Hollywood — not against a beautiful sunset. It was real: hungry, with the taste of whiskey and her lipstick, with his hands sliding to her waist, with her fingers clutching his T-shirt. The bed was too close, because they fell onto it without breaking the kiss, and all the pillows, that so-called "barrier," flew to the floor.
"They must have seen us," she breathed into his lips as he reached for the floor lamp switch.
"What do you mean?" Haymitch didn't understand.
"The window," Effie nodded toward the panoramic glass. "The view of the city. And if there's a damn telephoto lens out there…"
Haymitch looked there, then at Effie, and laughed.
"Effie. My dear. I don't give a damn."
These words — especially "my dear" — Haymitch had never said in public.
"Neither do I," Effie admitted. And it wasn't as scary as it had seemed before.
Haymitch and Effie woke up because their phones were vibrating like crazy. First her latest-model iPhone. Then his smartphone, which had seen better days. Then both at once.
Effie, squinting against the morning sun that streamed mercilessly through the panoramic window, reached for her phone on the nightstand and quickly scrolled through all the notifications. Seventy-three messages. Forty-two missed calls. Haymitch's hand rested on top of hers, reading over her shoulder, bare-chested with the marks of her nails on his back.
The first message from their agent: "Holy shit, Trinket. You didn't close the curtains last night."
The second: "You were kissing. For half an hour. By the window. It's been published by three global tabloids and TMZ."
The third: "We're not going to comment on this, but your ratings have gone up 200% overnight."
Effie slowly lowered the phone. Haymitch took it, read the rest himself. His expression became serious — the kind she had seen only once before, when he got the call about his mother's death.
"I'm sorry," Haymitch said. "Last night… I really didn't give a damn. But I didn't think about you. About how you didn't want…"
"Haymitch," Effie interrupted him. She sat up in bed, the sheet slipping, but she didn't care. "I said 'I don't give a damn either.' It was a joint decision. And I'm glad it happened this way."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he took her iPhone, opened the camera, pressed his cheek to hers, and took a selfie. Sleepy but happy faces stared back at them.
"What are you doing?" Effie asked.
"Posting it on my Instagram. With the caption: 'The rumors turned out to be true. We'll tell the rest in an interview. But for now — we're happy. Follow our joint channel.'"
Effie snatched the phone, but it was too late. The post had gone out into the world. Within thirty seconds, the first likes appeared. Within a minute, a comment from a colleague from their last film: "I KNEW IT. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU LOVABLE IDIOTS." Within five minutes, the total view count had surpassed a million.
"You're insane," Effie laughed. "This move is even better than your words about our failed takes in your last post."
"You love me for it," Haymitch hugged her, kissing her slowly.
Downstairs, by the hotel entrance, paparazzi, fans, and curious onlookers were already gathering. Assistants were rushing around with coffee and crisis PR plans that were no longer needed. The director of their new thriller was rewriting the script, adding more depth to the romantic storyline, because the chemistry between the actors, multiplied by such a candid confession, was too good not to use.
And in room 817 of the Hotel Métropole, two actors who had been pretending for far too long had finally stopped performing. And the world, it seemed, didn't mind.
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