[There's a long moment in which he might or might not get up, but sooner or later he rises with a groan. Takes another long sip before stumbling over, setting the bottle down and climbing in next to her. Unlike with Monika, there's no hesitation to the way he moves: he bumps up against her and that's fine, because it's inevitable, the two of them tangled together.
Only once they're settled down does he speak, his arm sprawled carelessly over her side. He is exhausted. Maybe more than he realized, because it settles on him heavily as he finally lies down.]
She's not a friend.
[What is Effie, anyway? Friend sounds wrong. Too paltry, too innocent, and that's never been either of them, not for years and years. Certainly not anything friendly, not for the majority of that time. He'd thought her vapid and idiotic, worried only about fashion and escaping the drudgery of 12 for a more glamorous district. And she was, honestly, it's not like that perception was wrong, but . . .
Afterwards is when she'd shone. Down in 13, stripped of her makeup and her stupid wigs and all the fucking nonsense of Panem, she'd gotten a grip on herself. She was still Effie, with that scarf tied around her hair and as much makeup as she could get away with, but it was more . . . contained. More streamlined. Focused, and she'd actually started using her brain, leading instead of following. Barking orders for Katniss' sake, and sure, it was orders about clothing types and makeup options, but it was still--
Or maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was during that first Victory tour, when they'd finally had not one but two children to care over (and Katniss and Peeta, no matter what they've gone through, no matter how the Capitol dolled them up and tore them down, are still children). Maybe it was late night speech revisions and drawled out comments; half-eaten dinners on trains and anxious fretting about the most inane things, because there was nothing either of them could do about the looming problems that truly mattered.
Maybe it's been building up all these years, because there's only so long you can ignore the only consistency in your life, no matter what form it takes.
When had he looked at her and saw not something derisive, but desirable? It'd culminated in one easy night, one long look as everyone had slowly gone to bed, and Effie following him, heels clicking and voice just a little breathless, til they'd reached his bed, and gave what comforts they could, easy and unassuming. No promises, nothing so childish, but something recurring, and that's more than he'd had in years and years.
Kind of like Katy, he thinks, and runs an idle thumb against her hip.]
It was a lottery system, back when they picked the kids for the Games. She was the . . . I guess you could call her the showwoman. Picked the names each year, and then she and I would train them. She'd show em how to act, how to look good, impress sponsors while I taught em how to survive in the arena. I dunno if she ever thoughts about it, really. It was just a job for all of us. You did it because you always did.
[He keeps up his stroking pattern, tracing the line of her hip, staring at nothing as he speaks.]
After the revolution . . . she'd gone through it. We all had. She never talks about it, but I know what happened. They tortured her, cuz she didn't get out in time, and our last tributes were the stars of the revolution. It wasn't a good idea to be connected to them, you know? But then it was afterwards, all the fighting done, and it was just me and her a bunch while everybody figured out what the hell we were all doing.
Nobody ever talks about that: what happens after all the killing's over and we all figure out what we're doing now. It's dull and tense, all at once. Kinda like now, [he says, and laughs a little, in a despairing way.] You know you're not gonna die, but you don't know if maybe tomorrow'll be better or worse. So we . . .
She's an idiot. She used to be obsessed with all the Capitol crap, all the fashion and wigs and makeup . . . but after it all fell apart, you could see what she was beneath all that. And she's a good woman. Smarter than she thinks she is.
[God, but he misses her. He really does. But oh . . . he snorts at himself, talking and talking like this, but shit, he's drunk.]
She used to say that. They all did, when they picked the names for the next games. May the odds be ever in your favor.
no subject
Only once they're settled down does he speak, his arm sprawled carelessly over her side. He is exhausted. Maybe more than he realized, because it settles on him heavily as he finally lies down.]
She's not a friend.
[What is Effie, anyway? Friend sounds wrong. Too paltry, too innocent, and that's never been either of them, not for years and years. Certainly not anything friendly, not for the majority of that time. He'd thought her vapid and idiotic, worried only about fashion and escaping the drudgery of 12 for a more glamorous district. And she was, honestly, it's not like that perception was wrong, but . . .
Afterwards is when she'd shone. Down in 13, stripped of her makeup and her stupid wigs and all the fucking nonsense of Panem, she'd gotten a grip on herself. She was still Effie, with that scarf tied around her hair and as much makeup as she could get away with, but it was more . . . contained. More streamlined. Focused, and she'd actually started using her brain, leading instead of following. Barking orders for Katniss' sake, and sure, it was orders about clothing types and makeup options, but it was still--
Or maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was during that first Victory tour, when they'd finally had not one but two children to care over (and Katniss and Peeta, no matter what they've gone through, no matter how the Capitol dolled them up and tore them down, are still children). Maybe it was late night speech revisions and drawled out comments; half-eaten dinners on trains and anxious fretting about the most inane things, because there was nothing either of them could do about the looming problems that truly mattered.
Maybe it's been building up all these years, because there's only so long you can ignore the only consistency in your life, no matter what form it takes.
When had he looked at her and saw not something derisive, but desirable? It'd culminated in one easy night, one long look as everyone had slowly gone to bed, and Effie following him, heels clicking and voice just a little breathless, til they'd reached his bed, and gave what comforts they could, easy and unassuming. No promises, nothing so childish, but something recurring, and that's more than he'd had in years and years.
Kind of like Katy, he thinks, and runs an idle thumb against her hip.]
It was a lottery system, back when they picked the kids for the Games. She was the . . . I guess you could call her the showwoman. Picked the names each year, and then she and I would train them. She'd show em how to act, how to look good, impress sponsors while I taught em how to survive in the arena. I dunno if she ever thoughts about it, really. It was just a job for all of us. You did it because you always did.
[He keeps up his stroking pattern, tracing the line of her hip, staring at nothing as he speaks.]
After the revolution . . . she'd gone through it. We all had. She never talks about it, but I know what happened. They tortured her, cuz she didn't get out in time, and our last tributes were the stars of the revolution. It wasn't a good idea to be connected to them, you know? But then it was afterwards, all the fighting done, and it was just me and her a bunch while everybody figured out what the hell we were all doing.
Nobody ever talks about that: what happens after all the killing's over and we all figure out what we're doing now. It's dull and tense, all at once. Kinda like now, [he says, and laughs a little, in a despairing way.] You know you're not gonna die, but you don't know if maybe tomorrow'll be better or worse. So we . . .
She's an idiot. She used to be obsessed with all the Capitol crap, all the fashion and wigs and makeup . . . but after it all fell apart, you could see what she was beneath all that. And she's a good woman. Smarter than she thinks she is.
[God, but he misses her. He really does. But oh . . . he snorts at himself, talking and talking like this, but shit, he's drunk.]
She used to say that. They all did, when they picked the names for the next games. May the odds be ever in your favor.