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The air in District 7 smelled like pine and pride.
Effie sniffed it the moment she stepped off the train, chin tilted at a precise angle that said she was absolutely not letting the local humidity ruin her hair. Behind her, Haymitch lumbered down the platform with all the grace of a hungover bear, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a look on his face that suggested he’d already regretted saying yes.
They hadn’t spoken much on the ride over.
Now, inside the guest wing of a former Capitol official’s repurposed estate, Effie stood frozen just inside the doorway of their room.
It was… lovely, in a quaint sort of way. Polished wood floors, heavy velvet curtains, and tasteful paintings of evergreens covered in snow. Even the bed was elegant, sleek frame, linen sheets, perfectly plumped pillows.
One. Single. Bed.
Haymitch stepped in behind her, looked over her shoulder, and barked a laugh. “Well, this just got interesting.”
Effie turned slowly to glare at him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he said, dropping his bag on the floor and toeing off his boots like they were filled with Capitol poison. “Don’t state the obvious? Don’t enjoy the irony?”
“Don’t act like this is amusing,” she snapped, yanking off her gloves with sharp, angry tugs. “You know perfectly well what this looks like.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and bounced a little, testing the springs. “Looks like a married couple who forgot to confirm their room preference.”
She scowled. “They assigned us this room, Haymitch.”
He shrugged. “Must be a budget issue.”
But they both knew it wasn’t. Not really.
Effie looked away, lips pressed tight, and let the memory surface whether she wanted it to or not.
“Panem’s tired,” Plutarch had said, in one of his more-frequent-than-desired visits to District Twelve, waving his hands like a man conducting a symphony only he could hear. “We’re rebuilding, yes, but there’s still tension. Resentment. Fear. People need to see healing. Unity. The Capitol and the districts standing together.”
He looked at Haymitch. Then at Effie.
She sat with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap, perfectly composed. He slouched with his boots on the desk and a half-drained flask in his hand.
“In short,” Plutarch continued, “we want you two to play the part.”
Effie blinked. “The part of what, precisely?”
“A couple. A cohesive, charming, mutually respectful symbol of reconciliation.” He beamed like he’d invented something genius. “You’ll travel to a few districts, attend events, kiss a few times, maybe even hold hands. And share accommodations, of course. Can’t have the press thinking you’re on the outs.”
Haymitch snorted. “You want us to play house.”
“I want you to sell peace.”
“Then send Peeta,” Haymitch said. “That kid could sell hope to a corpse.”
“Peeta and Katniss are a little unstable yet and too worn out,” Plutarch said, waving that off. “But you two… You’re unexpected. You have history. You bicker, you banter and people eat that up. And if the Capitol sees Effie Trinket smiling at a district rebel like it’s no big deal, we might actually make progress.”
Effie had said nothing for a long moment.
But, at the end of the reunion, gave her piece. “There better be proper wardrobe coordination.”
Back in District 7, she rubbed her temples.
She’d endured a lot for Panem. The war. The reeducation. District 12’s laughable idea of coffee.
But this?
She glared at the bed again. It sat there like a dare.
“You take the floor,” she said finally.
Haymitch snorted, already reaching for the minibar. “We both know that’s not happening.”
“Then we build a wall. Pillows, blankets, whatever’s available.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“It worked in Thirteen.”
“Did it, really?”
Effie whirled on him. There was a long pause. Then Haymitch said, a little too softly, “No. It didn’t.”
She turned back to the window, arms crossed tight.
Outside, the evergreens swayed gently in the wind.
Inside, the air was still.
The silence between them stretched, soft and unbearable.
Then Haymitch cleared his throat. “I’ll take the left side. Don’t worry. I won’t even breathe in your direction.”
Effie didn’t look at him when she said, “That would be ideal.”
But neither of them moved. Effie’s fingers curled tighter around the windowsill as the silence in the room thickened.
It wasn’t just about the bed.
It was about what it meant. About the message it sent—and the message they were being asked to embody.
She closed her eyes for a moment and let herself return to that sun-drenched office in the new mayor’s house, two weeks ago. Plutarch had leaned back in his chair like a man pleased with the sound of his own brilliance, but beneath the theatrics, his tone had been sharp. Weighted.
“Look, this isn’t just a publicity stunt,” he’d said, voice cutting through the sunlit space. “It’s messaging. Narrative. The Capitol is fractured. The districts are exhausted. Reconstruction isn’t just infrastructure, it’s identity. The war ended, but no one knows what peace looks like yet.”
Effie had sat straighter in her seat, smoothing down the front of her blazer, trying to hide the sudden pressure in her chest.
“Then maybe peace shouldn’t look like two people pretending to be something they’re not,” she said coolly.
Plutarch had just smiled, and for a moment, it was the old smile, the one he wore when Gamemakers made calculated cruelty into entertainment.
“You’re not pretending. Not really. You’ve survived. You’ve changed. So has Haymitch. And people need to see that it’s possible.”
His gaze flicked to Haymitch, who hadn’t spoken yet.
“Most of the Capitol doesn’t trust the districts. Most of the districts don’t trust the Capitol. But if they can see someone like Effie Trinket, the last remaining piece of the old world they knew, standing beside someone like Haymitch Abernathy, district scum turned war hero, well… maybe they can start believing the world will change, too.”
Haymitch had raised an eyebrow. “You really think seeing us tolerate each other will fix Panem?”
“No,” Plutarch said. “But I think it’ll help people breathe a little easier. And Paylor believes we could use more of that.”
Effie had opened her mouth to protest again, but Plutarch wasn’t finished.
“You’ll be visiting Districts Seven, Five, and One. All regions with mixed loyalties. District Seven’s still rebuilding after the rebel push through the lumber sector. They don’t trust Capitol faces, but they know you, Effie. And Haymitch—”
He had glanced toward him again, something sobering in his eyes.
“You’re still a symbol of resistance. Whether you like it or not. People believe you know the cost of the war. If they see you two standing together… maybe they’ll believe we’re not enemies anymore.”
“So we just smile and wave?” Haymitch said dryly.
“Hold hands at a lumber mill,” Plutarch said, grinning. “Compliment the local bread. Appear visibly fond of each other in front of the cameras. It’s all very straightforward. Unless you make it complicated.”
There had been a flicker of something like warning in his voice.
Effie had straightened her spine and said, evenly, “I can be convincing.”
Plutarch had nodded. “Good. And one more thing: logistics.”
He’d gestured toward the itinerary scroll.
“Shared rooms. Local accommodations. Budget’s tight, and having you two together keeps the optics clean. Cohesion. Unity. Don’t worry, the beds are likely very comfortable.”
And he’d winked. The bastard had winked.
Now, in District 7, that wink felt like a challenge echoing through the dark wood walls.
Effie opened her eyes and turned slowly from the window, watching Haymitch rummage through the minibar with the bored efficiency of a man used to scavenging for coping mechanisms.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.
He glanced over, unscrewing a tiny bottle. “You’re doing enough fussing for both of us.”
“I’m not fussing,” she said sharply. “I’m... assessing.”
“Uh-huh.”
He tipped back the bottle and drained it.
Effie crossed the room and sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, careful to keep her posture rigid, her knees angled together. She didn’t look at him when she said, “They think we’re a metaphor.”
Haymitch let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Then they’ve got worse judgment than I thought.”
She looked up at him sharply.
“Don’t,” she said. “Not now.”
His expression shifted, just a flicker. Then he walked over, dropped into the armchair beside the window, and stared out at the pines without speaking.
For a few moments, the only sound was the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint creak of settling wood.
Then, almost too quietly, Effie said, “You’re not an enemy.”
He didn’t turn around. “Neither are you.”
They both looked at the bed.
One bed. Of course.
A coincidence, maybe. A budget issue, maybe. But it felt heavier than that. Like an unspoken dare. A quiet echo of all the ways they’d drawn lines around each other for decades, lines that were starting to blur.
Effie rose, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “I’m going to change for dinner. Don’t sit on the bed with your boots.”
Haymitch raised a hand in mock salute but didn’t respond.
As she stepped into the washroom and shut the door behind her, she leaned her back against the wood and exhaled — long and slow.
The air in the room was too still. The space between them too small.
And the bed, impossibly large for one, and far too intimate for two, waited in silence.
The dining hall was carved out of old timber and very determined optimism. Polished beams overhead, linen napkins folded like pinecones, a harpist in the corner doing something vaguely melodic with a folksy tune. Effie was impressed. Or at least pretending convincingly enough for Panem Weekly’s traveling correspondent at the far end of the table.
She gave the woman a smile that implied warmth, confidence, and absolutely no interest in being photographed mid-chew.
Haymitch sat beside her with his tie undone and the permanent slouch of a man whose soul had long since departed. He hadn't touched his wine. Yet.
The same rascal he played for years.
“You could try to look pleased,” Effie muttered between polite sips of water.
“I am pleased,” Haymitch said. “I’m not in a sewer. Or a death arena. That’s growth.”
“Plutarch will be thrilled you’ve embraced emotional development.”
He shrugged. “Plutarch can write another speech about it.”
“Funny you should mention that,” said a soft-voiced attendant, appearing beside them with suspicious timing. She handed Effie a cream-colored envelope. “Mr. Heavensbee requested this be read aloud before dinner.”
Effie opened it with careful fingers. Inside, gold script declared:
Dear Friends of Panem,
Unity is not born—it is built. Tonight, we celebrate the bridges that hold. May Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy stand as symbols of what peace can look like when we choose understanding.
With hope,
Effie & Haymitch
“Did he forge our signatures?” Effie asked, incredulous.
Haymitch glanced over. “I didn’t sign that. Did you?”
“No.”
“He forged them, then. That’s... bold.”
“Illegal.”
“Charming.”
Effie let out a long-suffering breath and stood, lifting her glass. “If I may, before we dine…”
Haymitch gave her a lazy salute from his seat. She resisted the urge to hurl the wine at his head and read aloud, hitting every rhetorical beat with practiced flair. She had once announced twenty-four tributes’ deaths with less sincerity. But here she was, offering unity over soup.
Johanna Mason, seated further down the table and nursing something suspiciously strong in a teacup, snorted loud enough to be heard across the pinewood paneling.
Effie did not look at her.
The speech received a smattering of applause. Haymitch clapped twice. Possibly sarcastically.
Dinner began.
The food was hearty: wild mushroom pie, rye bread with something called “sap butter,” and a dessert that looked like someone had attempted a Capitol tart and given up halfway. Effie kept her smile fixed and her posture perfect.
Haymitch kept making comments under his breath.
“They serve that at interrogations in Four.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I said that once about Tracker Jacker venom.”
Across the table, Johanna raised her glass and called, under her breath, “So how’s married life, newlyweds?”
Effie smiled without showing teeth. “Lovely. We’re having a mural commissioned.”
“Of what?” Johanna asked. “Effie strangling Haymitch with a silk tie?”
“Oh no,” Effie said sweetly. “That was just the engagement party.”
Haymitch, to his credit, didn’t choke on his wine. “Can I at least pick the tie?”
Johanna laughed. “You're going to get murdered in your sleep.”
“Wouldn’t be the first attempt,” he muttered.
Effie rolled her eyes and turned back to the mayor, launching into a conversation about local youth programs like she hadn’t just been mocked by her traveling companion and one of the few people in Panem who’d seen her cry after Snow fell.
The rest of dinner passed in cheerful fake harmony. Effie brushed Haymitch’s sleeve when she leaned in to laugh at something he said. He refilled her wine glass with all the elegance of a man handling radioactive materials. Plutarch would have been thrilled.
By the time dessert was cleared and the officials began rising for post-dinner remarks, Johanna leaned over the back of Effie’s chair and said in a stage whisper:
“Tell me again how many pillows are between you two tonight?”
Effie didn’t miss a beat. “Five. Plus a chair, a strategic curtain, and divine intervention.”
“I give it three nights.”
“Until what?”
“Until one of you snaps and kisses the other or burns the room down.”
Effie calmly dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Please. Two nights, max.”
Two hours later, Effie emerged from the bathroom in a silk robe the color of champagne and a matching satin sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead like a tiara of resentment. Her makeup was gone, but not her composure.
She looked at the bed like it had personally offended her.
Haymitch was already sprawled on the right side, half under the covers in an ancient T-shirt and flannel pants, reading something that was probably a District 7 forestry manual, but could’ve easily been a takeout menu. His hair was damp. His smirk was not.
She paused in the doorway. “You're on my side.”
“Nope.”
“But I need the outlet.”
“You can charge your tech in the morning.”
“My curling iron.”
He gave her a long, unimpressed look. “For what? We’re in lumber country, not Capitol Vogue.”
“Even lumberjacks appreciate a polished finish,” she said, crossing the room.
Haymitch didn’t move. “You’re welcome to reach over me.”
She froze. “I’ll live without it.”
“Tragic sacrifice.”
She yanked back the blanket on the left side and slid in, careful to keep exactly one Capitol-issue pillow between them. It was a symbolic pillow. A boundary. A treaty.
Haymitch went back to his book.
Effie adjusted the blanket. Then the pillow. Then her mask.
Silence.
He flipped a page.
She sighed.
He flipped another.
“I can hear your blinking,” she said.
“You’re imagining it.”
“You’re doing it louder just to annoy me.”
He grinned in the dark. “You say that like it isn’t a lifestyle choice.”
Effie flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “I should’ve taken the floor.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I once slept standing up on a hovercraft. This bed is practically luxury.”
“And yet here you are. With me.”
She made a strangled noise. “Please don’t make it sound like a choice.”
“I didn’t.”
They both went quiet for a beat. Somewhere outside, a late train passed. Floorboards creaked. The heater sighed.
Effie reached over and fluffed the pillow between them. “You better not snore.”
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“Of course you do. Like a tiny, furious cat.”
“I’m going to smother you with this pillow.”
“Great. I’ll die on the right side of the bed.”
Effie let out a short, reluctant laugh. Then, quieter, said. “You know this is ridiculous, right?”
“Sleeping next to you?”
“All of it.”
Haymitch folded the corner of the page and set the book on the nightstand. “Yeah. But it’s a good act.”
She turned her head toward him. “Sometimes I can’t tell when we’re pretending.”
He didn’t look at her. Just pulled the blanket higher and mumbled, “That’s the fun of it.”
She didn’t respond.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t peaceful, either.
She turned off the lamp. The room dimmed.
The pillow remained between them. Barely.
The silence between them had stretched again. The pillow was still technically there, but it had become less of a wall and more of a suggestion.
Effie broke it softly.
“We’ve never done that, have we?”
Haymitch didn’t look at her. “Slept together? Please.”
“I mean actually sleep.”
He considered it. “Of course we have.”
“When?”
“We slept together plenty in the penthouse.”
“No,” she said, turning her head. “We had sex. And then either you or I left before we could even take a nap.”
“That was smart. Prevented us from getting attached.”
“Except it didn’t.”
He exhaled through his nose. “That first night. Cecelia’s Games. When we first…” He trailed off.
Effie rolled her eyes in the dark. “You mean when I took your virginity?”
“You’ll never let that go, will you?”
“I will when you do,” she said, and he could hear that smug, flirty smirk in her voice. “And no, I was drunk. A little high, even. I left when you started talking in your sleep. Felt guilty.”
“You shouldn’t have,” he said, quieter. “I asked. And I’m glad it was you. And not anyone else.”
“I guess.”
Another pause. Softer, sadder.
“What about Thirteen?” he asked. “When I was in the med bay. You were there.”
“On your bedside, not in your bed. Doesn’t count.”
“When you brought Peeta back?”
“That was your couch. You passed out halfway through yelling at Plutarch after I told you about the trials. Still hadn’t slept”, she said.
Haymitch turned toward her. “Do you ever, really?”
“Not much.”
A pause.
Then, more hesitantly, she murmured, “You know, it’s strange. How we kept ending up in the same bed, but never in the same place.”
Haymitch turned slightly, his voice low. “We were in the same place.”
“Not really,” she said. “We were orbiting each other. Talking like enemies, acting like strangers, touching like… like it didn’t mean anything.”
He didn’t answer at first. Just sighed and shifted to face the ceiling.
“It was easier that way,” he said finally.
“For who?”
Another pause.
“For both of us.”
She waited, eyes on the sliver of ceiling lit by moonlight.
“You think I could’ve stood it if we made it real, and then it fell apart?” he said, voice low. “We were barely surviving as it was. Bantering, keeping it sharp, that’s what we knew. The rest…” He trailed off. “The rest scared the hell out of me.”
She turned her head toward him.
“You think it didn’t scare me?” she asked quietly.
“No,” he said. “I know it did. That’s why we kept it in the lines. Even when it wasn’t casual anymore.”
The quiet came again. And settled this time.
Haymitch shifted, the blanket rustling, and the symbolic pillow slid further down between them, no longer separating anything.
He felt her hand brush his arm as he settled. Not deliberate. Not hesitant, either.
She didn’t pull back.
He didn’t move.
Eventually, he said, so softly she almost didn’t catch it, “Maybe tonight’s the first.”
She turned her head slightly. “First what?”
“To just sleep,” he murmured. “With you. No speeches. No running. No guilt.”
Effie let out a quiet breath. She didn’t say anything else.
A few minutes passed.
Then her fingers, resting near his, curled just enough to touch.
And this time, he didn’t pull back.
Their breathing evened out in time, like a truce being kept without anyone signing it.
By the time the hallway clock chimed softly for midnight, they were both asleep.
Effie woke slowly.
Not with a start, not with a scream or the edge of a bad dream, just… awareness. Of weight. Warmth. The steady sound of someone else breathing.
Haymitch’s arm was slung across her waist, his face pressed into the curve of her shoulder, their legs a tangle under the blanket. One of them had moved closer in the night, maybe both.
For a moment, she let it be what it was: quiet. Uncomplicated.
Then his breath hitched, uneven, and he mumbled something into her skin.
She didn’t catch the words, but she did feel it.
“You’re drooling on me,” she said softly.
A pause. Then a gruff murmur: “Be grateful. That’s affection, where I come from.”
She smiled. “You always this charming in the morning?”
“Only for you.”
They didn’t move.
Effie let her eyes fall closed again, just for a few seconds more. It wasn’t perfect, her neck hurt a little, the room was dry, and she’d probably ruined her hair. But still, it felt oddly peaceful. Grounded.
“Do you sleep like this with everyone?” he asked.
“No. Just the ones I like to argue with.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Exactly.”
Then, to disturb their peaceful little bubble: a knock. Three short, measured taps at the door.
Johanna.
Of course it was Johanna.
Her voice came through, casual, but unmistakably amused. “You two planning on showing up for breakfast, or should I tell the delegation you’re caught in... diplomacy?”
Effie didn’t open her eyes.
Haymitch muttered, “Does she have some kind of sixth sense?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
They listened to Johanna’s retreating footsteps.
Effie turned slightly, just enough to see his face. His hair was worse than usual. His eyes were soft, maybe still half asleep. There was no mask on either of them right now.
“I should get up,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Neither moved.
He brushed her wrist lightly with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed her. The softer he has ever been.
When they parted, she said, “We should probably talk about that.”
“Eventually,” he replied, voice low.
She nodded once. “Later.”
He nodded back. “After coffee.”
They both smiled. Quiet. Undecided.
Effie settled back against the pillow, watching him, her eyes clearer than he remembered seeing them in a long time. There wasn’t a plan yet. No script. Just this.
For once, they weren’t dodging it. Not hiding behind banter or Capitol polish or drunken convenience.
Just two people, side by side, tired and tangled and oddly calm about it.
She reached up, brushed a piece of sleep-mussed hair off his forehead. “You snore, by the way.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You do. It’s soft, though. Almost endearing.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She let her hand rest lightly on his chest. “Don’t get used to it.”
Haymitch looked at her, really looked, and something in his chest ached a little. “Guess we’re not very good at casual,” he murmured.
“No,” Effie said. “We never were.”
She closed her eyes again, and he stayed where he was, listening to her breathing, steady and close. No speeches. No pretending.
And for now, it was enough.