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When Effie Trinket comes into his life, Haymitch thinks she's an explosion of colors, glitter, false eyelashes, and, of course, silliness. She has a ringing voice with a nasty Capitol accent, and her cheekbones are so defined that they can't help but stand out. They don’t look natural. They look like she’s got mud on her cheeks and can’t wipe it off.
When he finally gets a closer look at her makeup, he sees that’s not a mud, that’s a fucking real painting. She has flowers on her cheeks, writhing on bizarre lines, and in a certain light they shimmer like crystals hanging from her long — false, of course — lashes.
Haymitch says she looks like a disco ball. Trinket insists it’s haute couture or some other shit, but he doesn’t listen to her anymore. He dislikes her voice. He dislikes her at all, and when in Capitol Haymitch doesn’t notice decorated with silly flowers cheekbones, he’s sure that she lies, because that’s the way fashion works: it concerns everyone here.
He throws this remark in her face, pompous and confident that he has caught her, but Trinket looks at him as if he is a complete idiot. And she smiles so patronizing that he feels uneasy.
For a moment, Haymitch thinks he’s made a mistake. Was too drunk to clearly see Capitol faces or too angry to really pay attention. But he’s fucking sure. He was specially looking for mud patterns on their cheeks in order to be convinced or disappointed in his suspicions. There’s no place for a mistake.
“Well, well, Haymitch,” Trinket says too soft, and he wants to strangle her. “Haute couture exists to set trends, not to follow them. Don’t you know that?”
“And do you think you’re the one who sets trends?” he asks mockingly. “Because Twelve’s Escorts do not start fashion, sweetheart. You’re just a joke now. Calm down and humble yourself, finally.”
He knows this because he's seen enough naive Escorts who think they're now at the top of the food chain. But Twelve’s Escorts are not cultivated and cherished. They are pitied at best, humiliated at worst. Sometimes they are promoted, but, objectively, Twelve rarely comes across escorts who are good enough for the Gamemakers to move them up the career ladder, and more often than not they simply leave. Forgotten and becoming nothing more than a footnote in the books of the Hunger Games history.
“We’ll see it, right?” she says boldly and, Panem, Haymitch wants to strangle her again.
When Effie Trinket leaves with her chin held up, he laughs after her. But he can’t help appreciate the view. The dress matches her makeup. And it flatters her figure, making her legs look monstrously long, although the sequinned tights seem to be too much. But that’s what Capitol is, yeah? Too much at every turn.
Still, the outfit is good, he can admit that. Everything is almost appropriate except the tights and her ridiculous wig. Even the stones on her damn eyelashes.
And, remembering their conversation with a bottle of whiskey, Haymitch knows, he fucking knows that the wig has the exact shade of her lipstick.
He doesn’t even try to understand what this knowledge could mean.
He only swallows all of his twits when the next day every second one in this damned city has their painted cheeks — these are almost always flowers — and when Effie Trinket flashes him a smug smile. She says nothing like “I told you that”, because ladies like her don’t stoop to such triffles, but she shows it by the whole of her fucking appearance. That’s the first time he can’t find something to reply.
“Look at this!” she enthusiastically attracts his attention. “Caesar looks great today, don’t you think so?”
Even before he turns, Haymitch knows: it is not the host’s suit or shoes. He immediately sees bright red rose on his cheekbone and can’t help rolling his eyes.
“Disgusting,” he declares without any exaggerations.
“I would choose another shade, certainly, so as not to highlight skin unevenness. But I’m sure that’s not what you are talking about,” Trinket snorts and winces almost painfully. “Seriously, he should change his makeup artist. Wizzie Machreid is getting old and literally doesn’t know how to work with this face shape.”
Haymitch doesn’t care if Caesar’s face shows any unevennesses, but he squints his eyes to have a better look at his escort’s today makeup. Golden fake eyelashes, blue eyeliner, shiny lip gloss. She has white snakes wriggling across her cheekbones and perfectly matching the pattern on the cuffs of her dress — and, fuck, her eyes seem to be brighter than yesterday.
Haymitch knows that makeup can change any face beyond recognition. He has just never imagined it could be used so… elegantly. Because her eyes catch his glance, and he is sure this is not because of her attractiveness, but of a certain talent.
“Aren’t flowers in trend now?” he teases. Not as angry as originally expected. Not angry at all, actually. More like a joke. Almost friendly.
It’s… terrifying.
Effie smiles at the corner of her lips, and he pushes these thoughts. Fuck it.
“Flowers are yesterday.”
“And snakes are obviously at the peak of popularity.”
“They are not and won’t be,” she replies with a knowing look. “But we have to distinguish ourselves somehow, right?”
By “we” she means herself, of course. She just likes saying that they’re a team now. That they’re connected and have to work together to get to the top. What a stupid thought.
“Are you suggesting that I draw mammals on the cheeks too?”
“No. It would look terrible with stubble, so I'm happy with what I have.”
Trinket is apparently talking about the suit she forced him to wear by threatening to throw out all the alcohol. The light blue vest's pockets have white trim, matching her dress and makeup.
He had completely banned the red two-piece suit with flowers embroidered in silver thread, which was her first proposal. Now Haymitch realizes that he was fooled. His escort knew he would refuse and suggested a less flashy option. Almost ordinary for the standards of the Capitol — the only reason he agreed.
If Hemitch had known it would be a couples look, he would have chosen a red suit. But he didn't know. And he fell into a trap. Completely believed her irritation and desperate search for something else worthy of television.
Smart, he can admit. He won’t buy it anymore.
“I’m surprised your tiny brain didn’t boil over from such an adventure. You know, with all that varnish you polish it with.”
She humbles him with her gaze. And then relaxes.
“You will be surprised by many things, Haymitch Abernathy,” Trinket hums mysteriously.
And somehow, he doesn’t doubt that. Not with the way her eyes scan the people around and stop exactly at those whom he would might notice himself. Not with the way she softly tells Caesar that roses are classic, although commonplace one. Not with the way she declares to the whole Panem that she will help Twelfths to show the fangs.
No, he has no doubts. It should be scary, but all he can feel is excitement.
They’ll see it.