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whimperwoods · 3 years

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Arms of the Enemy (D&D Whump) - 17

This is part 17! It was supposed to be fluff and angst and it is definitely both of those things, but I couldn’t get them both to fit in before the read-more.

There is now a masterpost, which can be found here.

Castor is a warlock, in service to the Great Old One and the Dark Emperor, in that order. Ed is a fighter, a knight and battle master in the service of the True King of Lumenea. They have always been enemies. Away from it all, they might be able to become something else. Maybe even friends.

(This time: Ed has his hair washed. Castor has an unpleasant realization.)

tw: aftermath of torture, tw: mind reading, tw: captivity, tw: scars, tw: threats (maybe???)

taglist: @redwingedwhump, @fanastywhump, @insanitywishes @bluebadgerwhump,@burtlederp, @newandfiguringitout, @kawhump , @extrabitterbrain, @kixngiggles, @whumpitywhumpwhump

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Castor’s hands were gentle in Ed’s hair, his fingers running tenderly along his scalp, careful not to pull too hard as he worked the knots out of the wet locks. Periodically, he found one of the places Ed’s hair had been pulled hardest or used as a grip to drag him by, and Ed wasn’t sure what it meant that it was easier than ever to let little noises of discomfort out as Castor brushed against the scabs left behind.

Ed was mostly in the water, half floating, and his limbs were warm away from the cool breeze of the surface. Castor had rubbed at the base of Ed’s skull and down through the back of his neck, at first working soap into his hair, but then lingering, easing out muscle tension, warm and gentle, all the way down into the less injured portions of his shoulders, and Ed was floating, and he was tired, and if he let himself think about anything but the gentleness of the fingers on his scalp, he found himself trapped thinking about the pain that still radiated from his bound knee, throbbing with his pulse and running up his thigh and down his calf, and he couldn’t - he had to - the hands in his hair felt nice.

The soft grunts that escaped him almost before he noticed them were sparked, this time, by pains so small, so insignificant, next to the barely-lessened agony in his knee, that they almost weren’t pain at all, but only surprise. And yet, he couldn’t stop the sounds. He tried to convince himself that it was on purpose, that he was still being “entertaining,” that there was nothing comforting about just letting the soft, instinctive noises flow out of him as he melted under Castor’s fingers, but he had never been that good at pretending. Not to himself.

A soft moan broke from his throat and he wasn’t even sure, anymore, if it was a sound of pain or pleasure, but the soft “shhh” Castor responded with was more reassurance than instruction, and Ed gave up worrying about it, keeping his eyes shut and just letting himself relax and try not to overthink.

*****

Ed was lax and easy in Castor’s hands, cooperating, for once, and the water woman was studying her reflection in the water, looking pleased, but Castor was still on edge.

This was the moment. If he was going to grab the amulet and Ed and run, this was it. They were most of the way in the water, not so pinned down to this scarier bank, the woman was distracted, and Ed was - well, Ed was something, anyway.

The impulse to run was almost certainly a foolish one. Most of his impulses were foolish ones. He was outdoors, on a strange plane, wearing nothing but his underclothes. Ed was the same, but the underclothes were technically not even his, and he was too injured to walk. There was no way they could make a run for it. Was there?

Ed made a soft little noise in the back of his throat, more hum than grunt, apparently content, but Castor remembered how he’d sounded underground, begging not to be kept here, begging to be taken away from the woman who had them caught.

His breathing was short, tight, squeezed by indecision.

He ran his fingers along the healthy parts of Ed’s scalp again, and the knight turned his head into the touch, probably unconsciously, because even after everything, Castor still couldn’t imagine Ed accepting comfort from him without somehow demanding it first, just to be in control.

Gods, Ed was a nightmare, when he wanted to be. But he was so peaceful right now, so content in a way Castor had never seen him in his life, and something in him couldn’t wreck this moment, not even for that desperate, pleading voice still lingering in his memory.

No. It was better to scare Ed than to let him get hurt worse again. His shoulders relaxed as he made the decision. He kept working the tangles out of Ed’s hair, trying to be gentle, and breathed easily as he let the moment pass them by.

*****

Castor’s sweater was dry now, warm under Ed’s cheek as he lay tucked against the warlock’s side, using the front of his shoulder as a pillow. Castor’s arm was around him, carefully placed, solid and comforting, and he didn’t know how to hate it, anymore.

Castor’s breath had slowed, but Ed could tell he was still awake, if not by much. The water woman was, as far as he could tell, fully asleep, her pale hair floating eerily in the water, gleaming in the faint moonlight streaming through the shaft of the well above them.

Tentatively, Ed wrapped his fingers around the neck of Castor’s sweater, resting his knuckles against the warmth of Castor’s collarbone and holding on to the fabric, just to reassure himself that even if Castor let go, they’d stay together.

Castor hummed softly, rearranging just slightly to let Ed settle still more closely against him, and Ed took the offer, tucking himself more thoroughly against Castor’s relatively thin frame.

<<We’ll go in the morning,>> Castor said dozily in his mind.

<<Where?>>

Ed felt, rather than saw, the answering shrug.

<<You’ve been in danger, too,>> he said, glad he didn’t have to try to make eye contact while they were like this.

<<Yeah.>>

<<I’m sorry.>>

<<It’s not the first time.>> Castor’s shoulder tensed, as if he were going to shrug again, but then he didn’t, stopping before he jostled Ed.

<> Ed answered, <<But I am anyway. Same as I’d be sorry for somebody who lost their house in a fire or got lost out at sea.>>

<>

<<Is that how you got- >> Ed nudged Castor’s shoulder gently with the side of his jaw, <<that scar?>>

<<Yeah,>> Castor answered, turning his head to the side as if even facing the same direction was too close to making eye contact, just now. <<Lightning hit the mast. Sent pieces flying everywhere. The one in my side is worse. Actually got impaled by that bit. I’d - rather not talk about it.>>

Ed nodded, tucking his head down to get farther from Castor’s gaze, too. <<That’s fair. Might be a while before I want to talk about mine.>>

*****

I should let Ed have that, Castor thought. And yet - now that Ed had pulled him back from the brink of sleep, a half-formed question from earlier in the day was nagging at him, almost unbearably.

<<You, um - I saw the old scars, too,>> he said, trying not to push too hard, even as he gave in to curiosity. <<I kind of figured you’d been cut with swords and things before but the, uh - the burns were a surprise. The old ones, I mean. The other thigh, where it’s not new ones. Unless they healed you up in the dungeon and I just didn’t know about it?”

Ed’s head shook against his shoulder, a short, quick motion. <<You - you don’t want to hear about that one, Castor.>> The thought was barely a whisper, but something about it still managed to ring like it was hollow.

<<Now you have to tell me.>> He didn’t manage to make it a joke. It was foolish, being quiet in their own heads like this, as if their captor would hear. And yet - he couldn’t imagine speaking more loudly, not curled together like this, and he couldn’t make it a joke, even when he was trying.

<<That one was your lot, too. The time you burned the armory. I went in after the box of healing potions in the basement even though I knew the whole thing was ablaze. It was stupid, but the fire was spreading, and we thought the next building over might catch, and I thought if there were any casualties- >> Ed paused, cutting himself off. <<Anyway, it was me. I was the casualty. My sister didn’t half tell me off for it, either.>>

Cold washed through Castor’s gut and he suddenly felt himself being torn apart. He needed to get away from Ed. He needed to pull Ed closer. He needed to apologize. He needed to ignore what he knew. Instead, his whole body tensed and froze, stiffening as his impulses fought each other.

<> Ed said, staying right where he was, even as a bit of the old bitterness crept back into his voice like a sharp, poisoned thing.

Castor’s face burned with a blush, all of a sudden. <<You already know it was me, then.>> he said, trying to keep his voice even.

<<I’d have taken your head off your shoulders a dozen times before now if I could have managed it. You knew that already.>> Ed said it like it meant something and like it didn’t mean anything at all, all at once, perfectly calm.

Castor was lost, still torn between pulling away and pulling Ed closer, something in his chest was aching with it, now. <> he told Ed, half whispering, <<It was supposed to be empty. Just the weapons. We heard you had a guy working on magic javelins, and we figured - well. Wood burns.>> He licked his lips, not sure how his mouth could be this dry after a day breathing water half the time. <> he continued. <<Not - like that. Not then.>>

<> Ed said pensively, <<But you were always so damned far away. Long range, just blasting things but never getting close. I always thought you were a coward, playing keep-away like that when I knew you carried a sword.>>

<>

<<You’re not. That’s what sucks about it. One of the things that sucks, anyway.>>

Ed was still cuddled up against his side like he meant to be there, his fingers tangled in his collar, and Castor couldn’t move, couldn’t get away, couldn’t move his arm from around the knight. He had to just sit here, knowing things.

<<Do you still want that?>> he asked quietly.

<<Want what?>>

<<To mark me back.>>

<<Don’t be an idiot.>>

<<I’m not.>>

<<You are.>>

<<You didn’t answer the question.>>

Castor’s arm had begun to feel oddly estranged from the rest of his body, wrapped around Ed like they weren’t having the conversation they were having, like there hadn’t been a threat in there, somewhere, and maybe a reprieve.

He’d thought the feywild was supposed to be the incomprehensible part of all of this. But it wasn’t.

Ed looked up at him. <>

It was a relief when Ed looked away again, snuggling back down against his shoulder. Castor should leave it at that. He knew he should leave it at that.

He didn’t.

<<Ed, I didn’t - >> he breathed out heavily, frustrated. <>

Ed snorted, sounding almost - fond? <<You never know what you’re doing, Castor. Not sure why I’d be surprised that you didn’t know what you were doing then, either.>> All of a sudden, Castor wanted that old Sir Edmond venom, wanted Ed’s voice to twist like a knife into him, cutting and gleeful, but it didn’t, and somehow that was worse.

He shook his head. <<No, listen to me, Ed, I don’t - >> he cut himself off, sighing to buy himself a moment to think. <<My master sent me there, said I needed to work with them for something, to get the two of us to a goal, but I don’t - I don’t even know why they’re at war with you. Why you’re at war with them. I don’t know any of it.>>

Ed was silent for a long moment.

<<Them, huh?>>

Castor blushed. <>

Castor was still blushing when Ed sighed, twisting his head down a little as if to evade something. <<We’re at war with them because they’re at war with us. You can say what you want about who started it, but the first battle was a thousand miles away from me and by the time word got to us it just - was. But once you’re at war you can’t just - just stop being at war.>>

<<Can’t you?>>

<<Not unless somebody surrenders.>>

<<Yeah, that’s not so much your bag, huh?>>

Suddenly, Ed pulled away, pressing himself farther into the little alcove, away from Castor’s side, and Castor’s whole body reacted with surprise against the sudden cool of the night air.

<> Ed said quietly, but with some unreadable edge to his voice. <<But if you didn’t, I’ll never forgive you.>>

It took Castor a moment to realize what he meant.

<<If I ever rub it in that you told them what they wanted to know, you can stab me through the shoulder,>> he said, after a moment, extending a hand toward Ed in the faint moonlight. <>

Ed’s eyes locked into his own so intently that neither of them could look away, but he didn’t reach for Castor’s hand, wrapping his arms around himself instead. <<I’m going to kill them some day,>> he answered, quietly, <<If you want to help when that day comes, you can stay out of my way.>>

That was it, then. The tension between them dissipated, all at once. He was forgiven. Or something. The water had whooshed past, under the bridge, a swift current. He broke the eye contact, looking down and away. <<If you - >> he bit his lip. <<Just, uh ->> Finally, he chickened out and pulled his arm back in toward his side. <<Don’t let yourself get too cold up against those rocks. You’re still healing.>>

It took 20 minutes for Ed to reach out and pull lightly at the sleeve of his sweater to urge him closer, but Castor didn’t fall asleep until they were back up against each other, warm in spite of the rock at Ed’s back.

#whump #hurt/comfort #d&d whump #emotional whump #angst #angst and hurt/comfort #castor and ed #aftermath of torture #idk y'all I feel like there should be more tags here but I've no earthly what they are

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madeofpurestarlight · 7 years

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If This Was A Movie, VI

// While Effie Trinket is Hollywood’s darling and all her dreams seem to be finally coming true, Haymitch Abernathy is drinking himself into an early grave and shuts the world out completely. However, Plutarch Heavensbee decides it’s time for his comeback. The two main stars can’t stand each other and tension builds up soon, but as they dive in deep into this project, somewhere between shooting love scenes, fighting on-set, fighting off-set, opening up hesitantly and helping their younger colleagues deal with everything this world brings, they grow closer and closer, until one day they realize they’re not pretending anymore. | Hayffie Actors AU //

“FIRST TIME AGAIN”

April, Venice

“Here you are!” Plutarch’s cheeks were red when he saw Haymitch stumbling to the set from the make-up trailer with a creased screenplay in one hand and a leather jacket in another, hoping he didn’t look half as terrible as he did when he saw himself in the mirror that morning. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.“ Haymitch waved it off with the screenplay and looked around. Everybody was already in their places, discussing something with each other, trying different angles and reviewing their technical storyboards. The set was bounded by black tape, and despite the team doing their best finding the least bustling location and Coin making a deal with the mayor and the police about reserving the place for a few days, there were some people curiously watching them from the passing boats or from the opposite streets.

Then he saw her, she was sitting in her chair with the script open in her lap and a mug of coffee in the throes of her pale fingers with insanely long red-painted nails. “Effie said you were… sick yesterday.” Haymitch looked Plutarch in his hard, pale eyes that weren’t buying that story for anything.

“Yeah,” he humored carefully, “ate something bad.”

Plutarch nodded, as if to himself, with a strange look on his permanently worried face. “Are you sure you can do this today?”

“Totally.” It didn’t sound very convincing, but it was enough for Plutarch who just quickly patted his back, too worried about his shooting schedule with Fulvia Cardew tapping at her expensive watch impatiently.

"Fine,” Plutarch said and left him standing there to give orders to the technical team.

Haymitch’s eyes met Effie’s. When he caught her gaze, her features hardened and she put her stuff on the side table by her chair, got up and walked up to him with an intimidating look on her face.

“Not now,” he grunted, already knowing very well what was about to come.

“Yes, now,” she snapped. A few extras have looked in her direction, but she ignored them. “Did you sleep well?”

“Can you turn the volume down, please? My head’s gonna fucking explode.”

“How about a thank you?”

“How about fucking off?”

“Haymitch, Effie,” Plutarch shouted, “you’re in Venice, get in the gondola!”

“We’re having a talk later,” she promised him in a hiss and walked angrily towards the wharf.

He watched her retreat with a growing headache and once more silently cursed her. The events of yesterday were strangely blurry. The last thing he properly remembered was jumping into the water for her… and then nothing except for dreams that were on the border of reality and fantasies that his delirious imagination was producing, and scents that he wasn’t familiar with and voices that he kind of sort of knew. It was confusing, but the note he had found beneath a bowl of cold soup on his nightstand both scared him and partly cleared things up.

He thought he wouldn’t be able to face anyone this morning, but that was mentioned on the note as well, in Effie’s right-tilted, elegant, curly handwriting – that if he’s not on the set by eight, showered, ready and with the script perfectly memorized, he was going to “regret it”.

The only thing he was currently genuinely regretting was not sending her to hell a little more vigorously when he first faced her in the New York hotel room back then.

He followed her steps, determined to get through with this as quickly as possible, and reluctantly accepted the gondolier’s help into the boat, ashamed of the way his fingers were trembling when he held his hand up in front of him. Him and Effie then found themselves in front of each other in the gondola, in a position they didn’t get to yesterday, frowning at each other while the technicians were adjusting the mics and cameras. Cressida was already in a boat next to them, and nodded in greetings while struggling with her camera’s lighting.

Plutarch walked up to them and crouched down with a conciliatory expression and the onset of an unappreciated pep talk.

“Haymitch, Effie,” he started calmly, placing a hand on each’s shoulder, “you are two adults. You have both been adults for some time now-“

“He’s implying you’re old,” Haymitch whispered to Effie and guaranteed himself a kick in the shin.

“-so I expect you to be acting like ones,” the director finished his sentence in a defeated sigh. “I don’t know what it is with everyone here. What have you done to each other except that he had accidentally pushed you off this damn boat?” he frowned at Effie and then looked at Haymitch. “And what is it with Katniss and Peeta?”

“What’s with them?” Haymitch furrowed his brows in sudden concern.

“I don’t know if they got these mannerisms from you two, but they’re refusing to spend time together after shooting,” Plutarch complained and made it sound like something equal to a tsunami wave in Kansas or meeting little green people with huge eyes on your midnight journey to the bathroom.

They have been here for two days, so, if Katniss and Peeta weren’t exactly friendly, well, Plutarch may have acted like he knew all about teenagers, but he had little sympathy for their motives. They were sixteen, barely knew each other and were forced to spend a lot of time together. No wonder they weren’t exactly thrilled to have sleepovers in their hotel rooms and take selfies in front of every historical building in Venice or whatever kids their age did these days.

“They’re just tired, Plutarch,” he reassured the director.

“I really hope so.” Plutarch put his hands on his knees and got up with a pained moan. “My back, okay- everybody knows what to do? Everyone is ready? Cressida?”

The woman with a green tattoo on the left side of her head that embraced her shaved skull like a nest of vipers pouted her dark-purple lips when she looked into the camera. “I don’t know. We could use better lightning.”

“I’m certainly not putting this off again,” Plutarch promised to everyone angrily and shot the two unhappy stars in the gondola one last warning look before rushing to have a look at what her camera was shooting on a small display by his seat. “What do you mean? It’s perfectly fine!” he shouted even though nobody would have trouble hearing him from his spot six yards away.

“You are right, we can always work on it in post-production,” Cressida rolled her eyes and looked at the other two cameramen, Pollux, who was in a boat behind them, and Castor, who was walking on the shore with a camera on a carriage. “You ready, guys?”

Plutarch waited for their raised thumbs and started briefly discussing something with Fulvia.

“He was right,” Effie said silently so the mics above them wouldn’t fully catch it, “we are professionals. We need to act as such. So-“

“Second take! Lights!”

“I have no problem with that,” Haymitch replied coldly, “you’re the one acting like a spoiled little brat.”

“Camera!”

“I hope you at least bothered to brush your teeth today, you drunk, immature-“

“Action!”

ii.

34. VENICE – EXT. / DAY

JACK and LORELAI are sitting opposite each other in a gondola. They are in the middle of a conversation.

LORELAI

I never thought we’d be here again someday.

JACK

(reaches out to caress her face)

Me too… it’s been too long.

LORELAI

Do you remember the first time we came here?

JACK

(smiles)

Yeah.

LORELAI

(looks at her wedding ring)

I haven’t taken it off in nineteen years.

JACK

I know it’s hard, but… we’re here now. We’re together.

LORELAI

You are right.

(looks around)

So, the Doge’s Palace…

JACK

Really? Again?

LORELAI

(giggles)

Come on.

JACK

Who am I, your guide?

LORELAI

My everything.

JACK

Aren’t we a little too old for this?

LORELAI

We are never too old for this.

JACK

(sighs, rolls eyes)

Lori…

LORELAI

Sorry. I just… I still can’t believe it.

JACK

There’s a lot of things we have to talk through.

LORELAI

Jack…

JACK

You’re married, Lorelai.

LORELAI

And yet, I’m here with you.

JACK

And it’s wrong.

LORELAI

And we’re happy. We’re fine.

JACK

I’m not denying that.

LORELAI

So what is your problem? What is your point?

We need to talk things trough. We need to come to an arrangement.

I do see a point in this, I think it’s worth it. You don’t?

JACK

I do. But it feels wrong.

LORELAI

I have been waiting for this for nineteen years. I have been

waiting for you for nineteen years. I’m not going to give this

up again just because you think that it feels wrong. Why would

you be here if you thought that it wasn’t worth it?

JACK

(hesitates)

Lori…

LORELAI

(waves it off)

Jack, let’s just enjoy that we’re here again, okay? We’re

together. We’ve got three more weeks ahead of us.

Let’s not spoil it.

(pauses)

Let’s just try to enjoy it. We will see.

JACK

I wanna be with you. It would just be easier if I knew

that it’s real.

LORELAI

What makes you think that it isn’t?

JACK

Because you’re not just mine anymore.

LORELAI

(leans in)

I missed you so much.

JACK

(cups her cheek, leans in as well)

So did I.

LORELAI

(whispers)

Would you feel bad about kissing me, too?

JACK

I really should.

Lorelai kisses Jack.

JACK (cont.)

But I don’t.

They start making out.

LORELAI

(moves away slightly)

Neither do I.

CUT

iii.

“Stop!”

Plutarch’s face was lit up with genuine excitement when he rushed to the spot that the gondola has stopped at, and was breathing a little too heavily when he finally got there. He looked on the verge of a heart attack, but also finally content.

“That was amazing!” he exclaimed.

Neither Haymitch or Effie managed to answer. They were still sitting uncomfortably close to each other; so close they could still smell each other’s scent, so close they could still feel their warmth. She was the one to move away first, the early morning sun playing with the color of her orbs and giving them various tones of blue, and smiled at Plutarch. It was a mindless gesture and he realized he felt a little stuck himself.

“You have excellent chemistry,” Plutarch carried on with his praise, looking as if he was about to burst, “I’m proud of you both. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint. So, let’s have it one more time.”

Haymitch noticed the emotions that splashed over Effie’s face and couldn’t help but take it personally when she railed at that idea. “I don’t think that’s necessary-“

“Effie,” Plutarch cut her off, still in good spirits, but the initial irritation creeping back into his voice, “that is up to me to decide, and I think that we should get one more take.”

“Why?” Haymitch gifted Effie with a shady look to which she only reacted by pursing her lips. He could still taste them on his own when he spoke. “I think it was fine, wasn’t it, Cressida?”

“It was great,” the camerawoman agreed and decently lowered her voice, “but if Plutarch thinks it’s for the best to try it again, just go along with it, okay?”

Him and Effie exchanged uncomfortable looks before giving up. “Fine.”

“Just one more time,” Plutarch promised and hurried back to his chair.

Effie sighed and Haymitch couldn’t help the annoyance that was slowly taking over him again. “Not now,” he pointed at the mics over them that were still on.

“So when?” she hissed.

“Just fuck it for now, you’re the one preaching about having a job to do all the time. Just let me do it,” he grunted and ran his fingers across the water’s shiny surface. He saw her scowl and couldn’t help but chuckle at her expression. “Does that bring back bad memories, huh?” he sprinkled the water at her, which resulted in a high-pitched scream that might give one the impression that he was attempting to drown her.

“You are so… stupid,” she spat desperately while wiping her blouse furiously.

“That’s that? Stupid? You got nothing better?” he rolled his eyes.

Plutarch’s voice stopped their banter once more. “Can you just save this for later? We need to work. Everyone ready? No grudges overshadowing your perfect performances? Awesome! Lights… camera… action!”

iv.

After the last flap, they got out of the boat, without either of them having an unasked-for bath, and to their great annoyance headed in the same direction – to the chairs to pick up their things and then to the make-up trailer to take it all off them again. They were walking side by side, Haymitch’s hands in his pocket, Effie’s arms crossed, and they were quiet and in strange sync when they gathered their stuff and ignored the stares of tourists from the opposite bank.

Effie broke the silence first. “Did you read the note?”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t have bothered to come otherwise.” Effie felt him hesitate when he inhaled with the purpose of adding something else. Not that she was hoping for a proper acknowledgement, because she’d be disappointed, anyway. “You covered up for me. Wouldn’t have expected that.”

"Someone has to be the bigger person,” she informed him haughtily. “I won’t lie, it did anger me, and I still think that you’re absolutely irresponsible, but I’ve already seen that you can do your job if pushed enough. Maybe you just need someone to keep pushing.”

He let his snigger speak for him, but it disappeared when someone pointed a phone at them and tried to snatch a picture. Effie looked at him curiously – she knew that he hated this kind of attention and that it was making him uncomfortable and anxious even, however, this was just another item form the list of things that were going to make all of this nearly impossible and that everyone had initially brushed off. “Why did you do it?”

“It’s none of your business,” he cut her off sternly and seemed surprised when she snatched his sleeve, ignoring the fact that someone might get that exact movement on camera or something like that, to stop him from walking out on her, which, as she realized, they have done after every encounter so far, and she had just decided to put a stop to that. “You got scared?”

Haymitch only prolonged his strides. “I don’t what I should be scared of.“

"Are you drunk right now?”

“I had something.” He stopped and hesitated, then decided there was no point in lying after what happened. “It would come back otherwise.”

She watched him with increasing unrest. “You need to get help.”

He just grunted in refusal. “I don’t want help.”

“You need to do something.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her white blouse again, bad feeling creeping upon her when she remembered what he looked like yesterday. “You were supposed to get sober before coming here. You promised.”

There was another moment of dither on his part. Effie tried hard to catch his eye, and eventually did – grey eyes that she used to admire on posters twenty years ago and that seemed to be the only part of him that hasn’t changed at all, maybe just had more personal tragedies to speak of. It was scary to think about him that way, as though she knew him. She didn’t and right now, she was almost sure she didn’t want to. “It’s hard to do that on your own.”

“But you didn’t have to do it on your own,” she argued, “I’m sure someone would have gladly offered you help.”

Haymitch gave her a peculiar look and started walking again. The group of tourists taking pictures of them has gone its own separate way, but he didn’t seem any more relaxed. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I am offering you help. I don’t know why but I simply refuse to give up now. We have no time to get you fully sober, and it would be dangerous without a medical assistance, but-“

“Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Gradual reducing of everyday intake,” Effie blurted out, ready to name other possibilities that she didn’t even know of.

“Trinket… that’s what I’ve been trying. It doesn’t work. It’s always either too much or too little.” He shook his head again, a gesture he seemed to use every time he wanted to make someone feel inferior, but the joke was on him. It was very hard to make Effie Trinket feel inferior. Even if you were Haymitch Abernathy. “Why am I even talking to you.”

“Because Peeta and I have very likely saved your life yesterday,” she reminded him bluntly. They have finally reached the make-up trailer and she stopped him in his tracks again.

He turned to her with aggravation engraved in his features. Under the powder and corrector, he must have, for sure, looked completely worn-out. His eyes made it obvious. “It was nothing, it’s happened a thousand times before.”

“That’s sort of sad.”

“Thank the boy for me when you see him, though.”

He walked up the stairs to the trailer and wrestled with the handle before pushing it open with brute strength. Effie gripped the railing for stability in her high heels and slowly followed him, pouting in expectation.

“And what about me?”

“I bet that’s your most frequently used phrase, isn’t it.” He turned to her when she closed the door. They were alone in the trailer, or so it seemed. There were four vanities with make-up removers and cotton facial wipes, one full wall of lockers with make-up that had pictures of each actor on them for the make-up team to know what to use on who, and shelves with wigs with names by them, several pieces of each in various shapes and styles. There were usually bright fluorescent lights on at all times, but now the blinds were drawn and the trailer was dim. “We’re squared. I saved you and you helped me.”

“You didn’t save me-“

“Sure.” He walked up to one of the vanities and pulled out the chair for himself. “Are you gonna stare at me?”

“No,” she rolled her eyes, manners be damned. She didn’t know what it was about him that made him so annoying for her, but he was definitely bringing the worst out of her. He made her want to scream and cry at the same time, but she was slowly realizing that he was doing for the fun of it. He knew that he was annoying her, and kept on purposefully doing it. She came closer and measured him properly. This could be even fun. “Ladies first.”

“In your world,” he shrugged and attempted to sit down, but then she did something she had never done before, and that she had no idea what kind of reaction it might bring. She pulled the chair away from the trajectory his sitting-down movement, and he landed on the floor with a curse and the look of an utter shock on his face. “What the-“

Effie pouted again, then let a mischievous smile crack her lips. As embarrassing and childish as it was, she felt good about it. “That, my dear,” she said, placed one hand on her hip and showed him the door with the other, “is how it works in my world if you don’t listen to me.”

Haymitch got up clumsily and moved closer to her violently. So close she was afraid he was either going to kiss her or hit her, but she didn’t take half a step back nevertheless. In the end, he did neither. He just looked at her like he was seriously considering these two possibilities and then decided that he’d be better off letting her win this time. Or that was what she saw in his eyes.

Without a word, he walked out and smashed the door like a moody teenager getting told he was grounded.

And Effie decided that she hasn’t won until they’d be able to end a discussion without one of them running away as if it was the only thing keeping them from killing each other.

Which it most likely was.

May, Venice

To put it plainly, Haymitch’s life could have been simple. Simple and maybe even peaceful. He could have lived it out the way he had planned. He’d stay in his house, he’d read the same old books he had already read countless times before, he’d open new bottles each day, maybe, one day, he’d open them a little less frequently, and on Chaff’s insistence, he might go out from time to time. Otherwise, it would just be quiet and calm.

…and then God said: let’s get Effie Trinket into Haymitch Abernathy’s way.

Their mutual relationships didn’t even have time to fall beneath the freezing point after the little wet accident, but they didn’t dramatically improve after his little drunken escapade, either. They were just as annoyed with each other as before, though it had the aftertaste of debt now.

He was slowly becoming used to her weird quirks. He didn’t know it she had always been that way or if it was just due to all the stress she was apparently going through lately, but she was far from stable. She was easily irritable, very defensive, and he often caught her looking around in anxiety or doing some weird breathing exercises. Not that he cared, of course. He never said anything, he didn’t ask, partly because he didn’t need to hear her whole heartbreaking life story, partly because she wouldn’t have told him anyway, just like he wouldn’t have told her, but he did notice it despite the limited time they have spent together so far. It didn’t exactly worry him, he didn’t feel that fond of her, but it did concern him. He wondered if Plutarch knew.

Katniss Everdeen was a strange creature, but at least she wasn’t annoying. Her tension with Peeta was palpable. It wasn’t nice and he wondered what happened between the two of them that made them so hostile around each other - well, what made Katniss hostile, that was right, because Peeta wasn’t hostile at all. He was incredibly sweet toward her and she was either blind to every sign of affection or purposefully ignored his attempts at getting closer to her.

Overall, Katniss was difficult to deal with at times. She was stubborn to the point when it wasn’t funny anymore and wasn’t exactly the friendliest person you could come across. He’d seen her acting and he wondered what she was even doing here. She apparently wondered about that, too. There was no doubt that there was something to her - she wasn’t some tremendous talent, but she did have some sort of charisma. It was the vibe she gave off - a small town girl who started acting to make some money for her family and accidentally became famous in the process. It reminded him of himself, and the similarity in their backgrounds was what made them strangely compatible. They spent most of their time together in silence or making snarky remarks on other people’s account, and they were totally fine with it.

Peeta was nice. Maybe too nice, but he could stand his ground, too. He could do amazing things even if he was given very little to work with and compensated for Katniss’ grouchiness. He told Haymitch that he was planning on moving to New York after the shooting. He also liked baking and once brought some goods on set. And he could draw nicely, too - Haymitch learned that when he saw the quick sketch Peeta made for one scene’s layout when Plutarch and Cressida couldn’t quite settle on one camera angle.

Johanna and Finnick were old friends who have already starred beside each other in some comedy series and were therefore very close. They were very friendly as well. Well, maybe friendly only applied to Finnick. He was well-mannered, California guy with a cheeky whitened smile and a sense of humor consisting of mocking jabs and gentle sexual innuendos. Johanna’s innuendos weren’t as gentle; she was quite blunt, actually, liked to curse and seemed to hate Effie which gave her some bonus points in his eyes. She was from the small town of Naches in Washington and she once shared during dinner that she could throw axes and that she did for sport when she was a kid. Nobody accepted her offer to have a contest, but they all agreed with her complaints that there weren’t many bars downtown. Her and Finnick went out almost every night.

The remaining cast were extras so far, and the rest of the main cast, like Mags Cohen whom he knew thanks to Plutarch and who he learned was actually Finnick’s godmother, or Cashmere Lottway, about whom Peeta told him that was Effie’s biggest concurrent for the leading role and her well-known rival in general who only got a supporting character out of Plutarch’s indulgence, was supposed to come after Cannes, by the end of May, straight to Florence. Everybody here was obsessed with Cannes. Haymitch didn’t understand it – it was the one festival he had never been to and had no desire experiencing. It looked like no fun – just red carpets, flashing cameras, a lot of wealthy people pretending to be movie experts. Nothing for him.

Most of the scenes they were supposed to shoot here were centered around Katniss and Peeta, because Venice was the place of their characters’ honeymoon, which gave the others a lot of free time that there was no gripping way to kill.

Haymitch spent his days in his hotel room, reading, occasionally taking a swig from his flask and trying to not give into the urge to go to the nearest shop and buy all the liquor he could get his hands on. He wasn’t in withdrawal thanks to the small doses of alcohol he did get into his system daily, though.

And that was another aspect of this all.

True to his nature, Haymitch preferred to stay low-key most of the time and didn’t really talk to anyone here. But the trips from his room to the cafeteria or the moments before a rehearsal gave away the fact that his drinking was no secret and people, not from the main cast, but some of the crew and extras didn’t even bother to lower their voices or make sure that their staring wasn’t embarrassingly obvious. He was on the verge of yelling at them to mind their own business more than once.

Ever since Haymitch talked to Hazelle, neither of them contacted each other. There was no reason to. She was probably just as pissed as she was disappointed, and he had enough of his own problems. He had brief thoughts about visiting Seam before going away, but then second-guessed it and for a good reason. The fact that his face was on every news stand and the groundbreaking fact that Haymitch Abernathy has finally been cracked and went back to acting wasn’t contributing to making it a good idea, either.

Coin came on the second day and was, of course, displeased with everything. In her dully grey pant suit and a BlackBerry in her hand at all times, she was wandering around the set with an unreadable expression on her face, occasionally telling someone that they were doing their job wrong, and, if she was in an extra talkative humor, she’d also explain to them why they were doing it wrong. Haymitch was glad that he didn’t have to get back to the set for a few days.

Effie was spending a lot of time by the hotel pool – he saw her there every morning going for a swim, then having fruit salad for breakfast and lying with a magazine or a book on the sunbed. She was annoying and dead-set on getting him to dance as she whistles, but at least, from a respectful distance and the safety of his room’s balcony where he couldn’t hear her complaints and didn’t have to listen to her insults, it was nice to get to at least look at her, because she truly was beautiful, if a little too plastic for his taste, and the fact that there was a lot of touching ahead of them wasn’t helpful.

And then there was a surprise on the break of April and May, totally unplanned, and kind of concerning.

“Chaff?” Haymitch was just on his way from the cafeteria back to his room when he spotted his friend in the empty lobby with a suitcase by his side, talking to a receptionist. When he heard his voice, he told the receptionist to hold on for a second and walked up to him, throwing his arms around him. “Hey, hey, paws off, what are you doing here-“

“You’re an idiot,” Chaff told him simply when he pulled back. His round, dark eyes were scanning Haymitch like a lie-detector. “Trinket called me.”

“She didn’t,” Haymitch growled and looked back over his shoulder. She was sitting in the cafeteria with Finnick and Johanna, with whom she was in some heated discussion. Only a few days were enough to learn that she was incredibly argumentative and also had no idea what self-deprecating humor means, therefore there was no way she was ever going to get along with the younger woman. “When-“

Chaff shook his head empathically. “I know everything, and again – you’re an idiot. I told you not to play with this, to be careful-“

“I was careful,” Haymitch hissed, “I just… need to balance it.”

“I’m gonna balance you, don’t worry,” Chaff frowned at him.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Apparently, you do, and since Trinket has proven herself to be no good at it, I’m here. I’m coming,” he raised his voice toward the annoyed receptionist who was still waiting there with a phone in her hand. He looked back at Haymitch and flashed him a smug smile. “That’s not the welcome I was expecting, though.”

Haymitch’s life could have been simple.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

#if this was a movie #hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #my writing #thg fanfiction

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