Just For Tonight, Darling // [Aranica]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

Mace had been drunk before, many times, even before the black hole had punched its way through his life. It was never exactly the same experience. There were similarities - the dizziness, the liquid cool in his stomach, the hammering headache in the morning, but it seemed to him that drunk - unlike other induced states - varied with the people he was with. At home, he'd been at turns hostile, violent, and hormonal. Well, before the Games, anyhow. Post-Games he'd mostly been a wreck and kept himself sequestered to his Victor home, so that only Whicker bore witness to his grief.

In the Capitol, though, surrounded by people who had survived - and seemed to be functioning fairly well - he was a totally different person intoxicated. He smiled, shit, he laughed. He played to enjoy the company, instead of to win (although there was always a tinge of competitiveness around the other Victors who, after all, had won). It was indulgent, and delightful, and he deserved it. He drunk conservatively but talked liberally, moving around the room of distractions. The one part of Mace that never quite came alive was, of course, his eyes. He mostly kept them on the cue ball, or the ping pong net, or the cups of beer in front of him. He was careful, conscious, of their emptiness.

The night had spun, expanded, continued even though it should have been dawn, day. None of them wanted it to end, he suspected. They would just have to face the morning, to meet the eyes of children who would soon be dead. Even though his thoughts spiraled in that direction, he couldn't feel the burden of it, not tonight. No. Instead he won games of chance, bowed his head when he lost, and even worked out a few hits with Arbor. It was all without point, without goal - he didn't need to win, to lose, to learn to fight. It was just a night out with his friends.

Friends.

It was as intoxicating a thought as the beer itself. He was heady with the stuff, dizzy and enjoying the way the world tilted left and right. He was not drunk, nowhere near the point where the world would slip from his grasp. But he was tipsy, felt the warmth radiating from his belly.

Mace was never one to keep track of time or circumstance. He had no idea whatsoever how he ended up in the hall with Aranica, he had no idea. He did, however, remember that it was his idea that they go and raid the kitchen. He trailed a little behind her in the hallway, boozy and a little confused. Ara was a girl, or at least that's how he remembered her. She had been, at the Games he had bothered to watch. But he hadn't tuned in the last few years because he had been out ranching, and the 58th... well, he saw no one but Larae through that.

And yet here she was, petite but womanly, soft edges and yet alive, in a way he still was not. This was not the little girl who won the games - this was a woman who had come so much further. He could see that, when he looked right at her, and she was definitely easy to look at. How had he missed her becoming a teenager, the curving of her body? Baffling. The blurred edges of his mind groped for any further information he had about Ara, to find something else to talk about.

When they reached the kitchen doors, Mace held one open for her, those hollow eyes a little slow to react. He stared down at her, at the soft fluff of her dark hair, the sharp outline of her eyes, before he checked himself and looked away.

The door closed without a sound, oiled to perfection. Mace was dumbstruck by the expanse of the kitchens, by the number of prep tables and the cutlery, that looked like instruments of torture, or things he might find in the arena. Mace blinked, the sort of long, slow fall that can only be achieved by someone inebriated. "Shit. I have no idea where to even start." He heard an echo of what he said, quite possibly from the length of the room, but more likely because of his current state. And it made him grin, right down at Ara. Without any hesitation he brushed her shoulder and then squeezed it gently, the way he squeezed Whicker's.

"What do you want? I can pretty much only cook beef, you know, since that's what we eat in Ten. Reckon I could come up with a sandwich of some fashion, too." He looked around Ara, trying to make good on his statement. The whole idea of large refrigeration was totally foreign to him, but he was willing to open all the doors, if that's what it took to find what she wanted.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[WT]

Considering how quickly she had agreed to raid a stranger's kitchen, Aranica's enthusiasm was quickly flagging. Truthfully, she just wasn't that hungry. For all her promises of moderation, it was so easy to keep drinking and drinking when those around her were, and the little lightweight had downed far more than she was used to. Odds were she probably wouldn't be hungry anyway—she rarely was, this time of year—but her increasing nausea did nothing to help.

Why had she even come on this side venture? Without the noise of everyone around her, their laughter and footsteps and the almost-palpable sound of intense focus on something that wouldn't kill anyone, the hollow despair started drawing around her again. Without a cue ball or a card to focus on, she saw Aisely's bright eyes everywhere, and without laughter to mask her own thoughts, the old whispers were starting up again—Smokey's stunned "Hey," a volley of nasty cracks from cloud after cloud, older conversations with past tributes and Capitolites who entered her life for a single moment and then vanished. As it was, it was excruciating; without Mace, it would be unbearable.

Mace was, come to think of it, the reason she had left at all. Drunk on laughter and wine, feeling invulnerable, she had leaped at the idea of exploring this elaborate and mysterious building with someone else. It felt like an adventure, but the good kind, the kind she hadn't been on or even thought about in years now—the kind that called forth dim memories of running through the streets of District Twelve with Anani, seven years old and in love with a world that still returned her feelings.

Moreover, she wanted to spend some time with the District Ten victor, who she really knew next to nothing about. During the 59th Games, she had poured all her energy and focus into James and Charas, knowing that Arbor wasn't in much of a state to mentor and not wanting to dump it all on Heron. Once they were dead... well, there wasn't anything left. No hope, no energy, no reason to watch slaughter. She had curled up in her room and ignored everything she could, venturing out only enough to keep the people she cared about from worrying. When the boy from District Ten emerged on the stage to be crowned, Aranica had been presented with an utter stranger. She was curious about this person who, by luck and tragedy, had become an involuntary part of her social circle.

That, and she wanted to help him somehow. Even if his eyes hadn't dredged up every ounce of empathic pain that she had to give, she knew all too well how hard the first few years were. She didn't know what she could do, or if there was anything to be done, but she wanted to try.

Mace opened what seemed, from the smell that wafted out, to be the door to their destination. Aranica nodded to him and then to the door itself as she stole through, drawing her long hair close so that it didn't float over and get caught in the hinges. Her companion closed the door, then commented on the kitchens with a clarity of speech that Aranica had to admire. She couldn't possibly be as incapacitated as she felt, because she was only falling down at her normal rate, but she had lost any semblance of finesse with most of motor skills, speech included. How was Mace doing it, when he had to have drunk more than her?

Shaking her head to cut off her mental babbling, Ara glanced around the kitchen, which was far larger than her own or even the dining hall back at the Training Center. "Hell'f I know," she said, wrinkling her nose slightly at both her slurring and the insistent return of her queasiness. Her rock hummed comfortingly against her throat, but couldn't do much to calm her roiling stomach, so she distracted herself by breathing through her mouth and looking at Mace as he squeezed her shoulder. Unfortunately, he didn't help much; as nice as it was, his offer of meat sent her mind straight back to her nausea. She bit her lip and mumbled, " 'm a vegetarian."

And that, that, was what finally brought tears to the younger victor's eyes. She didn't know whether it was the idea of a cow dying, or simply the unexpected display of kindness in this harsh, unyielding city, but she had to turn away to hide the flood of liquid to her eyes. Desperately she fought to get herself under control. This was stupid. She was fine, Mace was fine, the other victors were fine, even the tributes were fine for now, and whatever animals had died to produce the food in this kitchen were already gone. Fine wasn't good enough, but it was as good as they were going to get, so she should be grateful for it. Tonight, for whatever strange reason, was a night to be happy.

They all deserved that. They did.

Aranica made a small noise and twisted not toward Mace, but into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and clinging tightly.

She buried her face in his shoulder partly to staunch any tears that made it past her barriers and partly to just bask in the feeling of being near someone. It was so hard to reach out to people these days, when every hug seemed to push people further away and deepen chasms that Aranica only wanted to close. For all she knew, in a moment Mace would shove her away, fed up with her clinging, but right now, the warmth of his skin was grounding.

"Thank you," she mumbled into his shoulder. Between the wine and his shirt, the words were almost incomprehensible, but she thought he would understand, at least in part. There were layers and layers to it that he may not know her well enough to understand—thank you for finding the game room, for standing here, for opening the door, for being alive, for offering to make food, for so much that I don't even know yet—but that was okay.

Right now, everything was okay.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

He was ready to dive in. If all the metal and shiny surfaces had been intimidating when he'd first walked in, he'd gotten it over quick enough. Probably was the beer talking - and Mace checked himself as the thought came into focus. It was one thing to actively decide to do something stupid, like root through sharp blades in the hope of food, and quite another to stumble over the thought, to just act and react. He'd done enough of that for one lifetime.

The doors along the edges of the room seemed like the best bet - more than pantries than anything else. He was certain he could scare something up for some there. He was ready to suggest the plan, a fine one if he could say so himself, when Aranica spoke again. A vegetarian? Well yeah, he'd heard of those, on the television. They pretty much didn't exist in Ten. He was too drunk to be skeptical, or react in any way. Mace was simply stupefied. That was not an obstacle he'd expected to encounter, much like the first taste of that icy cold arena.

When she turned away, Mace had the sinking feeling in his gut he always got when women cried. Well, when Cygnus cried too. He didn't know any other dudes who cried, but he might feel it then, maybe. Mostly he felt it when his sisters cried, and he'd almost gotten comfortable with it, in the weeks that followed Larae's death. It was a memory of a feeling, something through a lens, until that moment.

He deflated. A more composed, less intoxicated Mace, would have turned to ice, tightened his muscles, strained against the awkwardness of the situation. But not tonight. Tonight, he simply felt the weight of the stone in his belly, his lack of social skills. He debated saying something to comfort her and squashed that idea in a nanosecond. That was a skill Cygnus and Denver had possessed, not him. It was almost too far a stretch to touch her shoulder again, or her downy hair, but then Aranica solved that problem for him.

She was so petite in his arms, and yet so there, in the way the women of the last year had never been. It took him a moment, not more than two seconds, to fold his arms around her, so that his palms rested at the small of her back, his biceps outlining her torso. He could have squeezed tighter - wanted to, just to see how far he could wrap his arms around her. He restrained himself, but it was a struggle against the alcohol coursing through his veins, that whispered, just go for it.

"Any time,

[/b]" he said, because it was true. He would be there any time for the Victors. He wouldn't bother with things like "it's okay," because it never was, not any more. No one had understood that until now. Not his brothers, not Ma, not even Verronica and her bewitching eyes. Maybe Larae would have. Or Charas, or Denver, or Aesop, or Alexander. No one living - and that, there, was the core of the problem. He only ever looked to ghosts for guidance. He needed to look to the living.

And so he gave Ara a squeeze, like he'd wanted to, so that his hands reached across, hip-to-hip, hid her against his chest. "Forget it. I'm not even hungry. Just for tonight, forget it." It was a hope, and a promise to himself - for tonight, he would forget about everyone else but the six. It was good, so good, to be holding her close. It wasn't quite right though, not in the kitchen, which was so sterile and full of sharp edges. It was also cold, and that was no longer something Mace could tolerate.

"Let's go," he whispered, relaxed his stance but not his hold on her. Very carefully he drew one hand out to reach for the door they'd just come through, and the other his tangled around her elbow, her forearm, and finally reached for her palm. "I bet there's a hundred rooms in this house we haven't even been near. Ready?" For the next room, the next step, the next adventure.[/size][/blockquote]

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[WT]

She hadn't meant to make him uncomfortable. She never did, and yet she managed it all the time, crossing lines she couldn't see. As good as she had gotten at reading when she had done it—Mace's silence and slight change in stance were her tip-offs now—she had no idea how to stop it, any more than she knew how to build barriers to keep out the clouds' voices. It just happened, as much a constant for her as befriending rocks or breathing or being unable to save the people she loved.

Yet she must be doing something right, because he returned her spontaneous embrace. His lacked her anxiety, but its sincerity flooded her with a warmth that she could hardly have dared to hope for. Smiling into his shoulder now, Aranica allowed herself to relax against him. He wasn't going away. Any time meant any time, and while such a promise was as transient and unreliable as Anani's Forever, I promise, nothing had come to force him to break it yet. Perhaps someday, perhaps even tomorrow, but not tonight.

Seemingly sensing her own discomfort, Mace told her to let it go. "Y' sure?" she asked, brow wrinkling as she glanced behind her at the kitchens. If he was hungry, she didn't want some brief emotional fit of hers to take him away from food. But it occurred to her as he squeezed her close, eliciting a tin squeak of surprise, that food might not be what he meant, at least not entirely. Maybe he meant all the thank yous and everything they represented, all the obstacles and tragedies that had ruined both of them and the four they had left in the game room.

Forgetting was a painful idea. Despite endless hours of searching for the missing links, Aranica had so many gaps in her early memories that she didn't know what was missing; how could she deliberately let go of more recent events? Yet just for a little while, as long as the dual buzz of alcohol and friendship soothed her fright, it actually sounded okay.

Ara glanced up at Mace's face as he untangled their limbs, trying to decipher his intentions. The inside of her eyebrows lifted slightly in concern, then settled down as he spoke before her addled mind had time to finish constructing its web of assumptions. Less for comfort and more out of habit, her artificial hand traveled to her rock and rested there, fingers absently tracing the aging nicks on one side of the cold acorn. "Sounds like a plan," she said lightly, lacing her real fingers through Mace's. Her spindly hand was almost lost inside of his, but she found an angle that allowed them to hold hands properly and settled into it comfortable. Happily, even. "Ready."

They didn't go into most of the rooms they passed. Occasionally one of them would see something that piqued their interest and step in for a closer look, but they never stayed more than a few seconds. There was too much to see to settle down, libraries and sitting rooms and rooms for which Aranica couldn't decipher a purpose, each more extravagant than the last. On any other day she would have been horrified at the display of wealth that could feed her entire District. Tonight, though, she had rewound—or rewritten history, rather, because although they shared the same sense of wonder, she certainly wasn't the seven-year-old exploring with her brother anymore. She wasn't even the twelve-year-old stepping into new territory with her sister. She was seventeen, bigger and wiser, but she wasn't the Victor anymore. She was just a teenager in the Capitol with her friend, giggling at the absurdity of ceiling-high bookshelves and walls devoted entirely to paintings.

It was in one of the rooms that Aranica couldn't quite name—some sort of library, only it had several chairs and a sofa—that something caught her foot, pulling her to an abrupt and unexpected halt. Under the best of circumstances she wouldn't have been able to compensate for the shift; unsteady as she was, she stood no chance. With a small "Oh!" of surprise she toppled over, losing Mace's hand on the way. Her left elbow banged the floor and the entire weight of the rest of her body crashed down after it. For some reason the whole ordeal didn't hurt quite as much as she felt it ought to. Her immediate thought was that her left hand couldn't feel pain as well, but that didn't make sense. Much to her frequent vexation, she had cut the thing open often enough to know that the Capitolite doctors had made her prosthetic as real as they possibly could.

Ara flailed on the floor for a moment before remembering how to orient her limbs properly. This accomplished, she stood carefully, only to overbalance herself and fall onto Mace. Deciding that was quite enough, she pressed her eyes shut to still the spinning room and clung to him. Touching him didn't make the dizziness go away, but his solidity, the simple fact that he was there, made it easier to deal with. When she opened her eyes again the world was only swaying a little. "Well, that was fun," she said absently, doing her best to focus on Mace because he moved a little less than things that were further away. "Hi."

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

It was a little surprised when Aranica agreed to go with him, agreed that she was ready for the next thing. He shouldn't have been shocked; she was a Victor, after all. But in the last year he'd only dealt with a specific subset of women - either his sisters and Marcelline (who essentially qualified) that attempted to improve him and therefore often challenged him, or the few night time comforts he'd found, who neither had any brains or any spine. If he'd suggested an adventure, he would've gotten a lecture from Elida, his sister, or a blank stare from one of the Victor groupies.

But it was only this night that made him realize what a pathetic existence it had become. There was never any warmth in his world, no matter how many fireplaces he kept constantly burning, no matter how many blankets he layered on his ridiculously large bed. It was all cold, cold, cold, and that was something Mace could no longer stand. Why hadn't he been able to see that the company he kept was contributing to this winter of his life?

He wanted to hug Ara again, or rather keep hugging her, but they were on the move. Mace saw less of the extravagance (he had no idea how much more one light could cost from another. And all that shiny stuff? Crystal or glass, of course, obviously. It just looked crowded). What he saw instead was the emptiness, the amount of space he would have to heat up. He figured, in the end, he'd just end up torching whole rooms, whole wings, in an effort to keep himself warm.

Which wasn't altogether an unpleasant thought - burning down the house of a Capitolite who had watched Alexander die and done nothing about it at all. Then again, so had he, so maybe he deserved to have his house burn down as well. He could almost see it through the smoky haze, the inside orange and red, flames snaking up through the windows.

Mace shook his head just once to clear the image. It was no good to be in love with fire either; it wasn't likely to reciprocate in a way that was good for his health. In that moment he lost his grip on Ara, let her slip through his crooked and worked fingers. One moment she was there, and in a blink she was on the floor, working herself back up. By the time he reached to help, she was falling into him, bracing herself against his arms. He drew her in, more fluidly this time than last. His arms found the already familiar contours of her, locked her securely to him as the library spun 'round and 'round.

He felt quite suddenly drunker, further away from himself, and yet somehow simultaneously closer to Aranica. He smiled, puffy lips stretching out wider than they'd gone in months. "Howdy," he said quietly, just over her head. They were so unevenly matched, height to height, but if she had been any taller, he wouldn't be able to hold her as he did now. He liked that. "I'm thinking we should sit down for a minute. Nothing feels broken, right?" And as Mace maneuvered them back into one of the overstuffed sofas, he took a moment to look down into the dark of her eyes. He didn't know her well enough to tell if she was lying - if she would lie - but he'd gotten pretty good at recognizing pain over the years.

He wouldn't stand for an ounce of that in Ara's eyes.

Mace sat first, in the crook of a gaudy navy-and-gold number. He kept his hands around Aranica's waist, holding rather than guiding. At the last moment he lifted the far one so that she could learn against him, if she wanted. He laid it casually along the back of the couch, felt the awkwardness of his posture. For all his experience, he very rarely went through these sorts of motions, and found himself a little out of his depth. He turned his grey blue eyes up to Ara, the grin smaller now, pushed sheepishly to the right .

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[WT]

Still slightly dazed, Aranica blinked in confusion at Mace's words, then giggled a bit as they sunk in. "Oh, I'm fine. That's perfectly normal." She tried to walk on her own, but nearly stumbled again. Grateful for Mace's support, she gave up and allowed herself to be led to the nearest couch. "I'm always falling over. Usually breaking things, too. Objects, I mean, not bones, except for that one time that Anani told me about, but I don't remember that. Bones might be better, because I hurt but I heal. Objects don't feel, but they don't fix, either...." Aranica trailed off, frowning into thin air. Couldn't that apply to humans, as well? Flesh and bones repaired themselves, bodies adapted, but hearts, minds... there were things about humans that were so heartbreakingly fragile, things that once broken could never revisit their intended course. But at least they always remained shadows of themselves, whereas a broken plate would never—

That didn't matter right now. Those were the kind of thoughts she'd promised to leave behind for tonight, and up until now had been doing a fairly good job of ignoring. She was talking too much, anyway. "Sorry," she murmured, returning her gaze to Mace. He wasn't smiling as broadly anymore. She couldn't be sure whether it was because of her rapid, tangential ramble or some internal discomfort of his own, but either way, that was unacceptable.

This time, Aranica didn't give herself time to waffle over what to do. Half on impulse and half according to plan, the young woman kicked off her shoes, tucked her skirt around her, and pulled her feet up so that she was less sitting on the couch and more half-lying on it, propped up by its back and Mace himself. It took a second of squirming to find the right position—head on his shoulder, one arm tucked between them, legs angled so her feet were just dangling off the edge of the couch. Once finished fidgeting, she gently wove the fingers of her free arm into the hand sitting on the back of the couch and tugged on it until Mace's arm slipped across her shoulders.

"Better." The entire world seems to whisper it all at once: her own muted voice, breathing the word almost without her awareness; the sofa, so often deprived of company to fill it and give it purpose; even the light layer of dust they stirred, dancing to the unfamiliar and exhilarating rhythms of new people with new movements. This felt, if not quite safe—because there was no safe in Panem, not for children or victors or teenagers with brand-new histories—then secure. Comfortable. Not quite good, but so much better than she could imagine hoping for.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

It was a little hard to follow her, not because Aranica didn't speak well, but because he was drunk. In fact he rather liked the way she spoke, the way she joined thoughts and sentences. It had a nice rhythm to it, and her voice, though a little quiet, was even and articulate. Yes, he could listen to Ara talk as long as she wanted to, even if he wasn't paying strict attention to what she was saying. It was odd to like the way someone talked; he couldn't remember ever having done that before. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he preferred to think that it was simply Ara.

He got the jist of it though - objects bad, body good, or something like that. He had always thought of the body as sacred, even when he was slicing open tributes. Mace never once disturbed the dead once they had fallen, so he had to agree with her, there. Bodies could mend, bodies were incredible things. He wasn't quite sure how to put that thought into words that didn't sting and remind them both of the arena, and so he just set the conversation aside, locked it up in the back hallways of his mind.

It was easy enough to forget about as Aranica curled up beside him, and then insisted that his arm go around her. That grin came back, full force, as he complied. He marveled at how tiny she was, at how well her body molded to his own. He was careful to keep his arm along the length of hers, so the weight would not be too much, and this put his palm at her hip. It was a reasonably safe spot, although he couldn't quite tell if it was appropriate. The buzz in his head informed him that it was better than the other options available to him, well maybe not better, but definitely more civil.

And then they were together, on the couch, sitting comfortably side by side. Mace realized he hadn't said anything in response to her explanation, nor to the better she breathed out. What to say, what to say? This was ever the predicament. And yet the low thrum in his veins, the haze of drunk, told him to relax - to get over it. Because words most often betrayed him, and he didn't want to screw this up.

He shifted just a little so that he could turn his outer shoulder towards Ara, to see her from a more front-facing angle, instead of side to side. And they were so close together, their bodies and their faces. If he had needed an opportunity, this was it. A quickening his heart, his neck as he reached over to push her long hair back from her face. He saw it out of the corner of his eye - just the vaguest flicker in his pinky. He was not about to let the trembling ruin his evening, but he also recognized it for what it was - plain old nerves. And he'd never been the sort to give into butterflies before, but then he'd never been nestled on a couch with another Victor.

"Ara..." he spoke in the same tone she had just used, quiet and sure. Mace met her gaze, his eyes tending towards blue from their usual hollow grey. He held the moment, waited another breath to see if she would pull away. His hand had settled at the base of her neck, palm resting along her shoulder, as he leaned into her. The kiss was not spot on; Mace aimed a little too high, so that his lower lip hit her upper. But he pressed into it, both arms around her, and let the kiss do the talking for him.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[WT]

Take a chance on me tonight
Baby, it'll be all right

Aranica was used to words. A constant flood of them surrounded her every day, helping her float above the incoherent thoughts in her own mind. The idea of answering one long, rambling sentence with anything but another one was foreign. She knew others didn't always speak as much as she did—her own rock was relatively reticent, as things went—but for some reason, she always expected them to keep going anyway. When sentences cut off and questions were left unanswered, she instinctively looked for the rest of the words, trying to fill holes that may or may not exist.

So when Mace said her name and then nothing else, Aranica was momentarily confused. Without thinking about it, she opened her mouth to fill the silence—but suddenly she couldn't speak, because she didn't have the breath to speak anyway. Stunned, her heart racing and her eyes wide, she jolted away from Mace and opened her mouth again to speak. There were no words, though, not even in her own mind or in the suddenly hushed room. Before she had time to realize what she was doing, she was answering in the only way that made sense, leaning forward and touching her lips hesitantly against Mace's.

Under the haze, something squirmed, holding back as she tried to reach out. The old terror lurked somewhere, begging her to get out while she could. If she did not flee now, her remaining heartstrings would tangle like her arms and lay like that, unnoticed, until he took his warmth away and they constricted with the sudden cold. There was no way to tell when this would end, or why, or who would end it. This was unfamiliar territory, and all her feelings meant as little as the hope that she allowed to spring forward each Games.

But... she couldn't be afraid. For once, she not only tucked her worries away but banished them completely. It was more than the alcohol, more than even the simple connection of skin on skin that represented everything she feared about and longed for in human company. It was the fact that she was so tired of being afraid—of her past, of her future, of the clouds, of the Capitol. It was her yearning for the days when she knew how to express how much she loved the world and its inhabitants, animate and inorganic alike.

More than anything, it was how natural this felt. She wasn't scared or even anxious. Kissing Mace sparked no fireworks and no earthshattering realizations, but it made her happy. Months had passed, perhaps years, since the last time Aranica felt this kind of pure, bubbly warmth. Touching other people was usually a way for her to assure herself that they were solid and real, but tonight, having abandoned the doubt and fear, Aranica could create new emotion instead of wasting energy on staving off what she already had. She could lean into Mace for the sake of the moment—and she did, shifting her hands to his hips to stabilize herself as she adjusted so that they were aligned, tilting her head up a few degrees and uncurling her torso. Inexpertly but intuitively, she moved one hand to the small of Mace's back and pulled them closer together, wanting to do all she could to melt into the moment, this person, this incomparable warmth.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained
Nothing lost but all the tears and pain


(("If You Want It" – Orchestral Maneouvres in the Dark))

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

He was very, very aware of her, in the moment that their lips met. Mace knew that she kissed him back, felt the force against him. It was good, because he'd swung and miss with girls before, and rejection was one of those feelings he'd like to stab in the back. It was pretty much always worth the risk, though, and tonight doubly so. Ara drew him forward, put her hand to his hip, and suddenly it was on fire. He let his hands inch out, grasp her hips and then move around to her slender spine. Mace not going on instinct, but by what he knew of the female form. But Ara was just so petite but also so present that he found himself at a loss. He couldn't fall back on his usual know-how, and so he let her take the lead.

Control - that had been exactly what he had been searching for in the arena, and what he had been trying to give up since. He didn't want to have to decide what to do with his winnings, or where he should live, or who he should house. Because control, in the end, meant responsibility, and he just wasn't ready to be responsible for anyone else - not even himself, really. He wanted to find someone he could trust, someone to take control, and then there was Ara pulling at him, folding and unfolding around him.

Mace took a deep breath in one of those hesitations between kisses, and then tucked one palm beneath Ara's knee. When he was sure he had her weight, he used that leverage and the steadiness of his hand along to her spine to swing her onto his lap. It was much easier to hold her there, to be held, to fall into her with abandon. He felt certain for a moment that it was the alcohol, or the cloying grandeur of the Capitol. But then that doubt went away too when Ara kept pace, responded to his movements.

They were more than just Victors, just teenagers, more than just the night.

Mace brushed her fluffy soft hair back from her face, ran his calloused fingers along her jaw and then over her neck. He felt the quickening of her pulse, and his set to match. It was only then, heartbeat to heartbeat, that Mace realized this was definitely more than some warm, drunk make out session. They had hours yet until dawn, until someone needed them again, and it was all he and Ara ever wanted - to be lost, elsewhere, gone from the harsh reality of living minute to minute.

His hands slipped to her shoulders, along the blades, down her ribs, tracing the smallness of her inch by inch. It was all of Aranica that he wanted, not just bits and pieces. He settled back into the cushions, and then leaned down until he was on his back, beneath her. When Mace broke the kiss again, he opened his eyes to find her own, one hand at her cheek and the other somewhere along her stomach, underneath her shirt. He stared at her a moment, at the sharp frame of her eyes, and when he reached for her, there was no more hesitation, no more doubt, no thoughts of anything but her and this night they had all to themselves.

[ Fade to Black. ]

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