#heart-ache

And yep, not four hours later came a brand-new cry from the nursery. One so loud, it shook the very foundation of the house.

“Maama Maamaaa! Issa monster inna closet!!”

It took Haymitch and Effie several minutes to calm the kids down. That night, and the one that followed and the one after that. Not yet three and a half, the twins struggled with the words but little by little, piece by piece, Haymitch and Effie got the full story in choppy, incoherent gasps.

There lived a “nok-turtle preddydoor” in the cellar. That’s why mama and dada and uncle Pee-Pee and auntie Kat never saw it. Because it slept down there all throughout the day and only came out at night.

Once the sun set, that’s when it crept out of its lair, up the stairs and into the house. A big scary monster with huge yellow teeth and sharp claws and yet it could make itself small, almost invisible. Yes, so small it slipped beneath any door, anywhere, hiding in closets and cupboards and under the bed.

And there it sat. Waiting. Watching. Hungry and dangerous. Red eyes glowing in the dark. Waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth into you and never let go.

“Oh, my loves, there’s no such thing as monsters”, Effie said, but that didn’t help, like: at all.

Nor did the extra nightlights, or the plant mister turned monster spray. Not even the “No monsters allowed” sign that Peeta painted.

So, in a last-ditch effort, Haymitch came up with this new nightly ritual.

“Where does monster like to hide when it comes out of the cellar?” he asked during breakfast, really pumping them for information, and later, while the twins napped, he and Effie sat down brainstorming and jotting down rhymes.

A monster check. A magic spell that would banish all bad creatures, big and small, from the Victor’s Village.

Mama held the pen, obviously. It had to be her. Effie’s roughest, messiest draft still beat his best effort by a mile.

“OK.” She paused, looking over her notes. The papers spread over the kitchen table were full of crossed out words and scribbles. “’No monsters staring by the window, not tonight’ … Hm … I don’t know …”

“Better stick to ‘hiding’”, Haymitch said, pouring coffee into first Effie’s cup and then his own. “No need to paint any extra pictures in their heads.”

“’Hiding’ …” Effie scratched the word out and added in the new one. Haymitch put some cream and sugar into his brew and had a big sip.

“How about ‘out of sight’?” he suggested next. “‘No monsters hiding by the window out of sight. Only the moon, shining’ … no, ‘beaming, kind and bright’. And make it ‘Mother Moon’. They’ll like that. Safer association.”

Effie smiled.

“You’re good at this”, she said, eyes on the page as she jotted the words down. “Then again, I’m not surprised. You’re almost as creative as Peeta.”

“I am?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “When?”

Effie tsked, giving him a long look.

“For real? Honestly, Haymitch …”

But his question was sincere.

Since when am I creative?

She couldn’t mean “in bed” at least. Back when they still slept together, he was the dullest, most vanilla guy you ever met. If Effie hadn’t stirred things up a bit with roleplay and different positions, he’d be doing the missionary until his back gave out.

Maybe she was talking about the piano. That made sense. But he never really viewed the piano as a creative outlet. More like a means to an end. Someone’s need had to be met, so he met it. When his family felt anxious, the piano helped for some reason – so of course he played! Would be dumb not to.

But that’s as far as his creativity extended. Sure, he sang. Well, a little. Lullabies and what-not. Especially these days, with his hands shaking so badly. And he wasn’t above telling a story or two either. The bedtime kind. First to Amadeus and later his kids, but which brother or father wouldn’t?

He splotched paint on paper sometimes, and shook a leg during the Harvest Festival, once in a blue moon. But really, he only ever did those things because it made his family happier. And he got to spend more time with the people he loved and cared about. Yeah, it was all about community and being together. Not the act itself.

Well, except for the poetry of course. That was a lonely hobby he must still sort of enjoy, for he always read the library books Effie got him back at the Capitol.

Lord knew how she found out. He couldn’t recall ever telling her. I must’ve been drunk off my ass, he thought. He never even asked for any specific books. They just sat there waiting for him, whenever he visited. Poetry dating back to the olden days before Panem. Plays too, that read like it.

Yeah, maybe he was creative after all. Maybe the twins brought it out in him. Brought it back.

But to compare him with Peeta was quite a stretch, wasn’t it? Peeta was a real artist, who spent both time and money on his craft. He was genuinely passionate about it. About the process. The boy painted because he could not not paint.

Then again, his own gravitating toward the piano must have come from some inner need too, right? Initially. Why else had he bothered learning it in the first place? Playing with Madam, writing songs and doing mashups … it wasn’t only about forgetting? About numbing yourself out?

No. No, he enjoyed it. Back then, and today. Even if it meant just creating ambiance to someone else’s journey.

Funny the things you forgot, with enough time and alcohol. Truths about yourself that slipped your mind like magnets falling off the fridge, until someone, like Effie, passed by and put them back into place.

Taking a long sip of coffee, Haymitch watched her across the table. Effie had rested her chin against her hand, tapping the pen with dreamy eyes.

The words came to him unbidden. Ancient words from an ancient time. Only in his mind, of course. Effie would totally laugh if he spoke them out loud.

See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand.

O, that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek.

“I miss this.” The words couldn’t help but slip out. “Feels like ages since we did anything together. I mean, just you and me. I love spending time with you."

A smile worked its way onto her face, but then it was like she caught herself. Averting her gaze, Effie cleared her throat and gathered the pages up into a neat square.

“I feel a little peckish. You? Do you want some biscuits?” she asked with false cheerfulness. “I think there’s biscuits.”

Haymitch nodded.

“Sure. Why not?”

She rose to check the pantry. She even got out some of her prettiest china. But the moment had broken. The sense of unity – of togetherness: gone. Just like it had before.

It was like she remembered where she was – and who she was with.

Even now, with their children in his arms and Effie by his side, she was there but at the same time, not really. Not for him.

He hadn’t felt close to her, truly close, since November when they planted those tulips. In the days and weeks that followed, there’d been a subtle yet definite shift between them. Something he first noticed, when Effie’s period finally arrived. Four days late.

Usually, she went by her day anyway during her time of the month. A trooper, through and through. But maybe her uterus was pissed over the close-but-no-baby, for it came down on her fiercely. The cramps and headaches and nausea so bad, it kept Effie in bed for almost two days.

Sae, who kept inviting herself over, helped with the kids, and Haymitch pulled her out of earshot, almost as soon as she stepped through the door.

“She won’t let me take her to see a doctor”, he said, face hectic. “She tells me I’m being silly. Please talk to her, Sae. What if something’s really wrong? Like an ulcer, or what if there’s a kid in there after all? She’s puked twice already. What do I do?”

But the old woman reassured him.

“Pregnancy scares are high-stress. It’s a hormone thing. Just take a deep breath and give her some space.”

And he tried to help. Like he always did, when she had a bad time of it. Warm water bottles. Herbal tea. He blacked her room out. Kept it childfree. Even offered her a back massage.

But it quickly dawned on him that Effie didn’t really want him close. First, he blamed it on her feeling like crap. Who wanted company while puking? He sure didn’t. But she recovered a few days later, and yet she still, well … It was hard putting your finger on it. What changed.

She didn’t give him the cold shoulder exactly. She was always civil, friendly, and not in a passive-aggressive way. But something was different.

They went to see an OBGYN together, to confirm the non-existing pregnancy. An appointment she booked more for his peace of mind probably, than her own.

And while she did want him in the room with her, it was very here-but-not-closer. When he tried to comfort her, she shut him down. Kindly but firmly. When he squeezed her hand she went and intertwined her fingers against her lap, so he wouldn’t get a second chance.

Things just weren’t the same. He felt it at every turn, until he could no longer lie to himself about it.

They stayed together as a family for longer stretches of time now. Both here and in the Capitol. Little had changed about their daily routine but Effie, well … he guessed the right words would be she “emotionally distanced” herself from him. Kept a wall up. No, closed a door. A door inside herself that used to be wide open for him.

She never hugged him anymore. He could usually count on it happening twice a visit. Hello and goodbye. A hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Not any longer.

Any display of affection, public or private, had to come from him now, if at all. But he quickly stopped trying, because when he hugged her she put her arms around him, sure, but her heart wasn’t in it. It felt automatic. Mechanical. Like she was taking out the trash or something. Not because she wanted to, but out of obligation.

It seemed like she couldn’t stand to be in his proximity these days. Not for long. Not if she could help it. She was putting boundaries down left and right, and who could blame her, really?

Welcome to the rest of your life, buddy, he thought. She is your ex, after all. This is what co-parenting’s supposed to look like. Whatever the hell you got going on while “not together” wasn’t healthy in any way. She’s just being a responsible grownup and grownups move on.

But he missed her. Missed the way they used to be, so much it hurt.

It wasn’t just the hugs and kisses.

Ever since Effie Trinket became a fixture in his miserable life, ever since they became a team – allies – she’d been by his side. Literally.

In a room full of seats, she always chose the one next to him, without fail. It became the unspoken rule among the prep teams and stylists. You never occupied the empty space right next to Effie, lest Haymitch be cranky.

Even when furious and “I’m not talking with you!” Twelve’s mentor and escort still gravitated toward one another. It was like second nature. Without her close, he felt lopsided somehow. Like the symmetry was off.

They were Haymitch and Effie. Not Haymitch and Cinna and Effie. Not Effie and Portia and Haymitch. Not even Katniss and Haymitch and Peeta and Effie.

Haymitch and Effie. Always shoulder to shoulder.

Until now.

Now, whenever there was an empty seat at the table or the couch or the garden furniture, Effie made sure to place one of the twins there. A barrier between herself and him. Even when he put in effort to keep the seat vacant for her and her alone.

He told himself it didn’t fucking matter but holy shit … she really went out of her way, didn’t she? Making sure his heart was altogether broken.

And that’s fair, ain’t it? he thought. I mean, I break hers daily. If I wanted to be close to her, then maybe I shouldn’t have driven her away! Fuck. Leave it to me to insist I make my own bed and then complain about it being lumpy.

He’d taken it all for granted, he guessed. What they had. Took her for granted. Hell, he didn’t even realize how much he depended on her love and care until it was already gone.

He even spontaneously hugged Katniss and Peeta once after a Sunday dinner, because he was so depleted and lonely he couldn’t stand it.

The girl frowned even before they parted, looking at him like he’d lost a marble. They never hugged each other. Not really. Not unless one of them was heading for the Hunger Games.

“Er … are you OK, old man?” Peeta asked.

“Not even a little”, Haymitch sighed, making a mental note to never try that ever again.

Instead, he spent even more time around the twins. Immersed himself in their little world. The only two ones left in his life who wanted anything to do with him.

They were nearing the end of the monster ritual. Effie pulled the cover off first Amy’s, then Ian’s bed. The flashlight gleamed off the framed page sitting on the wall. The one holding the magic spell, written by Effie’s beautiful, graceful hand.

“It’s called calligraphy”, her voice from years ago echoed in his memory. “Between you and me, I only ever learned it properly so that I could hand-write the invitations for my future wedding.”

“Married, you? Please!” Haymitch chuckled, lying on the couch with his legs slung over her lap.

“Excuse me!” she protested but smiled at the same time. “It may be too big a concept for your pea brain to comprehend, but some people actually consider me quite the catch.”

“Yeah, sure you are, sweetheart”, he said, teeth flashed in a grin. “Just don’t forget to send me one of them pretty little invites. I’ll bring your better half a bottle of scotch and my condolences.”

Effs would make the most beautiful bride, he thought. Then again, Effie looked gorgeous in just about anything. Give her a potato sack and some safety pins and she would find a way to rock it!

With grief pressed hard against his ribs, and his arms around the twins, Haymitch spoke the final words with a heavy heart:

“No monsters hiding, the spell has been cast.

Time for soft pillows and sweet dreams at last.

So close your eyes precious, you’re safe as can be.

Nothing here will hurt you or your family.”

Author's note: Oh, Effie. If only she knew Haymitch recite Shakespeare when looking at her. 💔 Because, yeah: Those lines were from "Romeo and Juliet".

I feel for Haymitch (and Effie and the twins) but at the same time he was absolutely hilarious to write here. Like: “What do you MEAN I'm creative?" followed by a list of him doing ALL the things! 😂 Effie truly knows him better than he knows himself.

He longed himself crazy for their chaos when alone. The house always felt too big and too quiet without the running commentary about every little thought that crossed their minds.

If it was all up to him, he would’ve let the trainscape reside on the living room floor indefinitely. It’s not like he needed the space for anything. But Effie was relentless. “Toys live in the toy chest between visits.”

She wouldn’t say so, but Haymitch strongly suspected she feared it would otherwise trip him up when drunk. And she wasn’t wrong, was she?

Clearing the phlegm from his throat, Haymitch placed the final cargo train – a coal wagon – inside the toy chest. Still crouched before it, he rubbed an arm over his bloated, ruddy face. Blinked back against the beads of cold sweat.

The night was chilly and yet, here he was: soaked to the damn skin. Like it was July all over again. What he wouldn’t do to just peel off every layer and step outside, standing there in nothing but goosebumps, while the rain washed the aches away. Washed him away too, if he was lucky.

He could never not think of Madam when it rained.

Madam and Sophie and ma and Amadeus and Tara and Maysilee and all the other ghosts from his past.

As if his current predicament wasn’t bad enough.

So, in an attempt to try and distract himself he’d spent the last few hours cleaning up.

Not just the toys (which had an uncanny ability to reappear in the most bizarre places, no matter how many times he put them away). He also washed and dried the dishes. Gathered all the stray clothes he encountered and either folded or stuffed them in the laundry basket.

Effie’s plants got some well-needed water. He wiped every surface. Twice. Gave the knobs and handles a good shiny-up. Then of course there was the mountain of boots in the hallway and before he knew it, he’d gotten out the old broom and mop, working his way through every room on the bottom floor.

All while being as quiet as he possibly could, so he wouldn’t disturb his family upstairs.

Yeah. Effie and the twins came home eventually. Only not for Haymitch’s sake, mind you.

The twins were so excited over this unexpected stay and Effie couldn’t find it in her heart to break theirs all over again. Had she insisted on propping them into some strange room at the Inn – or even next door – it would only shake what little stability they had left. Make them wonder what they did wrong.

She wouldn’t do that to them. No matter what she felt about their useless, miserable deadbeat dad. She didn’t even bar him from bedtime. True to form, she kept a stiff upper lip and stuck to the routine as much as possible.

They ended up giving the twins a soothing bath. All bubbles and rubber ducks. Mama and daddy then carried them upstairs in their teddy bear robes for some bedtime stories, since Haymitch was too much of a mess to play the piano.

Around the kids, Effie was her usual calm, sunny self. All smiles and soft caresses and she addressed her children’s father like everything was fine. Normal.

If he hadn’t already seen her Games facade a hundred times over, he might have misinterpreted it as forgiveness. That she had had a change of heart and would “accept his sandwiches” after all.

But they weren’t OK. Far from it.

Her downcast eyes told him as much when they left the nursery, coming face to face out in the corridor. The same place, the same spot, where they had kissed like there was no tomorrow, only days earlier.

He got the sense that she was waiting for him to break the silence. And he tried. Honest he did. But only a clicking sound came from his throat. Finally, she must have gotten tired of just standing there, being gawked at. For she walked away and once her door shut behind her, she didn’t come out again.

With the marble windowsill for aid, cool to the touch, Haymitch struggled to his feet. His hands were fucking useless. Trembling like jelly on a plate. Still, he managed to work the latches on the window and sighed with relief once the rain-heavy night spilled in. Cold and wet, but Haymitch didn’t give a shit. He breathed in the dampness as if it was nectar.

“There’s no air left in this house”, Effie had said. Truer words had never been spoken.

Gazing into the night, Haymitch’s eyes fell on a tin bucket on his left. Close below him. Nine o’clock. Full to the brim. A purple rubber octopus bobbed on the surface. Like a Kraken at sea.

I gotta collect them too before it freezes over, he thought, making a mental note to do a toy sweep of the backyard tomorrow.

It was probably only a matter of time before the first snow.

Man, how he hated winter.

Snow lands on top. The president’s family aphorism, forever branded into his brain.

Words that always came to mind, uninvited, this time of year. Not that he ever spoke of it. Well, yeah. Once. In a drunken, vulnerable moment with Effie. Him all weepy and pathetic, with his head on her lap. Effie calm and combing through the tangles of his dirty-blonde hair.

Her reply always stayed with him. Because it was such an Effie Trinket thing to say, while simultaneously reminding him of Tara.

“Maybe so. But the sun also rises.”

I shouldn’t have changed the clocks, he thought unhappily, huddled in the open window, staring into the dark. No moon. No stars. Nothing to guide your way. Eff’s right. That was fucking psychotic.

It just felt like the right call at the time. Like, in his head it made sense – which should’ve been his first warning.

Why didn’t I just write her a letter?

A good, long letter explaining everything. He could’ve slipped it inside her purse. Something for her to read on the train home, once the kids were asleep. If she could decipher his chicken scratches that was.

The ball would be in her court then, and she could decide for herself how, if and when she wanted to respond.

The idea just didn’t strike him at the time. Would have – maybe – if he hadn’t been in the clutches of full-blown withdrawal.

Now it’s too late. Beyond late. In every sense of the word.

When Effie wanted to leave, he wouldn’t stand in the way. It was only so much pressure one person could take. Enough’s enough. He didn’t want to hurt her more than he already had and – Effie was right about that too – he didn’t want to hurt the baby. If there was one.

Oh, of course there is, he snarled at himself.

How could there not be? This was just the kind of mess he always got himself into. Well, got Effie really. She was the one who would pay for his fuckup. As usual.

Rain splattered down Haymitch’s face. Clung to the hairs on his forearms like pearls, but he hardly noticed.

This is all my fault, he thought. I’m the one who threw the rubbers in the trash. I put myself in a situation I know I can’t handle. And I came inside her … after I swore I wouldn’t! She trusted me, even after everything, and I blew it. Big time! It’s like I took a damn course! “How to ruin people’s lives, 101”.

It should’ve been a no-brainer. No condom. No sex.

Things didn’t have to end the way they did after the Harvest Festival. That’s what hurt the most.

There’d been no rush. No desperation. No frantic attempt to seize the moment before it vanished. Those precious hours with her, some of the best in his life, never felt like a one-time escape. A farewell disguised as intimacy “so let’s make the most of it”. At least not for him.

No, it carried the quiet hope of a beginning. A fresh start, or at least a new chapter. A good one. It whispered of the future. Had him think that maybe, just maybe the door wasn’t fully closed after all. That they could find their way back to each other … and that was all before the sex part!

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at home. So at peace, despite the withdrawal symptoms. Like he was finally back where he belonged, tangled up with Effie, talking and laughing with her in those strawberry-sticky sheets.

No need for penetration. Not at all! They could’ve just finished each other off with their hands and mouths, all night long, and it would’ve been fucking amazing!

But, of course, he couldn’t leave well enough alone. No. Not Haymitch Abernathy. Haymitch Abernathy must ruin everything for everyone or else he can’t sleep at night.

If they had done just that, gone to sleep in each other’s arms, maybe they would’ve been a couple again now.

Or would she have come to her senses all the same? The following morning? Glad she dodged a bullet?

Haymitch heaved a sigh, crossed his arms against the windowsill and rested his chin on top of them.

He should’ve seen it coming, really. This wasn’t the first time they played with fire, after all. And you can’t get away with the same stuff over and over. Sooner or later, you get burned.

But he never meant to burn her. Didn’t want to create consequences for Effie to handle. An added burden on her shoulders that were already carrying so much.

It doesn’t make any sense.

With Tara there’d been so much kissing. Kissing and touching out in the woods and then of course that special moment over at the lake house. But never – not once – had he ever entertained the thought of going all the way with her without protection.

Couldn’t, wouldn’t risk getting his girl pregnant.

Why then, didn’t he extend the same courtesy to Effie? Why didn’t he treat her with the same care and respect? Why was he apparently fine with playing Russian roulette with her mind and body?

A woman he shared more with now than he ever did Tara.

Lord knew he’d done his fair share of really shitty things in his lifetime, but he didn’t think he was actually that much of a filthy scumbag that he willingly put Effie at risk, if it meant salvaging a few moments of top-tier pleasure for himself.

So, what was the reason? There had to be one. Something more than just primal urges. Why could he control himself with Tara as a teenage boy, but not with Effie at age 50?

Because let’s be real. He had thirsted for her that way, craved that form of reckless intimacy, even since they first got together. It happened at the Hob. Under the apple trees. Back in Eleven. And now the other night.

Why? Why was that?

He had re-played their night together over and over in his head. Especially that fleeting moment when he pictured Effie pregnant again and what it made him feel. What he wanted to do.

Was that it then? Despite everything – the Games, losing his family, driving everyone away and that hellish cycle of bringing kids to their deaths for 25 years – was there a part of him, some deep-rooted corner of his soul that not even Snow could touch, who wanted children with Effie? Who wanted more? Or at least, wouldn’t mind it? If one of his swimmers made it through?

He dismissed the thought as soon as it arrived.

Ridiculous, of course he minded!

I haven’t dreamt of a large family since I was 16, he thought. And I flipped the absolute F out when I found out about the twins, didn’t I?

”Uh-huh, sure pal.” Haymitch started at the sound. A ghost voice, like a hand on the shoulder. But not from behind. Out there. The humorous cadences of a certain one-armed victor, impossible to confuse with somebody else.

Eyebrows knitted together, Haymitch scanned the Victor’s Village and sure enough. Over by a dripping tree, hardly shielded under the naked branches, his old friend had materialized. Only a faceless human shape, shrouded in darkness. Too far away for his voice to carry, especially in this downpour, but Haymitch still heard the chuckles clear as day. As if Chaff had stood right next to him.

That’s the beauty of hallucinations, he thought dryly. No need for a microphone. No umbrellas either.

”You don’t want kids, eh?” Chaff mused. ”So if you could go back in time, would you strap on a condom then? The night your son and daughter were conceived?”

Course not, Haymitch thought. But that’s beside the point. I wanted them, obviously. I just didn’t know I did until they were already in Effie’s belly.

“Yeah? And wouldn’t that same logic also apply for …”

“Oh, shut up.”

He closed his eyes, rubbed them for good measure, counted to three and when he looked up, Chaff was gone.

The twins were the best damn thing that ever happened to him. He didn’t need no ghost pointing it out. They were a light in his life like no other.

But that doesn’t mean I want another kid now. Right?