Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness {Mara}

[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 thought of Aranica often since their sojourn in the Capitol. So often that he had marked the change, the intensity of his focus from the dead to the living. He was used to thinking solely about women; before the fifty-ninth he'd obsessed over Larae, and then Verronica. After it had been Alexander Phoebe - Phoebe Alexander, and he'd carried her daily, willingly, hopefully and hopelessly. He'd grown comfortable with her ghost, the way one does with someone after a lifetime of living together. He knew so little about Alexander, but he stretched each bit, spun it out as thin as a spider's web.

It wasn't like that with Aranica. Whenever he wanted more, he could go to the vids, pull up her days in the Arena or any of the interviews before or since. And even though he had hours and days more time of Ara, it wasn't enough, not even close, because it was all manufactured. He'd studiously avoided all of the videos himself, but he could see the veneer, the Capitol's glaze that made everything a little smoother than it really was. The Capitol's Ara certainly wasn't the girl he'd slept with on the plush couch, hands in her hair, around her neck, gripping her thighs.

He regretted only that the night had been blurry from the beers. He'd expected to feel other things, but there was nothing but the desire to see her again and do better, prove that he was more than some drunk avoiding the morning. He'd called a few times, right after the Games had ended, when it was easy and obvious to talk about them and the tributes they had lost. But he'd stopped, and he couldn't remember why. It wasn't like he had more pressing issues. Whicker just didn't demand that much attention.

And he was still fairly sure he wasn't in love with Aranica, which was its own kind of relief. He still felt entirely mixed up over Verronica, and could hardly imagine dealing with anyone else taking up residence in his chest. But still, he wondered about Aranica Petros, and wanted more than anything to see her again. So when the summons from the President came to report to District One, he had not asked when or why, he had only asked if other Victors would be there. Elon had packed for him, promised once again to attend to his old horse, and seen Mace onto the train. He'd watched his little brother's long face fade into the dirty haze of Ten as he sped towards the disaster in One - a disaster that meant absolutely nothing to him. He spent the train ride in a near coma, sleeping deeply for the first time in years. A handler from the Capitol woke him and showed him to a styling compartment, where part of his old team made him look like the boy who had gone into the icy arena.

Shaved and dressed, Mace emerged into the shaken mountain world. He felt much the way he had on the plate, and took the same course of action. Mace counted out sixty seconds on the platform, even as his team urged him forward. He used the minute to deconstruct the scene, to try to understand how the world had gotten so jagged. But it was futile; there was no explanation for something so pointless disastrous.

Unless Snow had orchestrated it, as a distraction between Games.

Mace's flat lips pressed together as Peacekeepers cleared a lane for him. He was not so loved as he had been; that honor belonged to someone else now. Still, he was young, and in his flared lapel suit, he looked like more than he was. He tugged at the collar as he wound his way through the crowds and dust and stone. They lead him into the Mayor's house, or the remnants of it, and into another large building which had somehow miraculously survived the tremors. While there were fewer people inside it was by no means empty. He wondered how Ara - who, like him, preferred to keep to himself - felt about half of Panem being in one tiny district square.

He was deposited in a room which had once been a library and now had entirely too much clutter to be anything other than a storage unit. Mace didn't stay there long after his styling team left. He had no interest in sitting on his ass until Snow wanted his face on the television. He wandered. It was the superior nature of his nose that led him to the kitchen where his presence produced only a small flurry before the staff went back to preparing meals for thousands of people. He picked among the offerings, munched on dried turkey as he slipped outside into a hallway just big enough for two people.

And found exactly the person he'd wanted to see. "Ara," he said, surprised, and not quite in the way he had that night before he'd covered her lips. A twitch of his lips upward, not quite enough to reveal teeth before he shoved the rest of the turkey into his mouth and then wrapped his arms around her. He hadn't planned to hug her - and it felt more friendly than anything, but it also felt right. He stood there a moment before he realized that he must smell like meat, and how that much disgust her.

When he pulled away, Mace made sure to wipe his hands on the sides of his black slacks. "So, I found you." Because it was painfully obvious to him that he'd been looking. And now that he was seeing, there was something different about Ara. He reached forward, put his thumb to the dimple in her chin, his fingers curling beneath it. His brow furrowed, darkening his ghost-eyes. "You look good," he said finally, focusing on the bright pink of her cheeks, the glow of her skin.

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

[WT]

Seventeen years ago, Aranica fled this city with her family under the cover of night and blankets. Too young to remember any of the buildings she might have grown to love, she cried not for loss but for hunger. Five years ago, she returned and promptly fled it alone, too wrecked to recognize anything but stones—the gravestone she sobbed over, the necklace she clung to, the street that caught her when her legs gave way and her arms tried to swim. Two days ago, racing heart trapped in her throat, she set fully aware eyes on the District of her birth for the first time and knew exactly why she cried.

District One was beautiful. Or it had been, rather; now it was largely rubble, lit by fire instead of electricity, its concrete mazes cracked. And its people—god. Aranica had thought herself used to seeing bodies, but there was something entirely new in seeing corpses dragged from collapsed buildings, combined with something heartbreakingly familiar about watching family members hover near the rescue crews, desperation and hopelessness mingled on their faces.

Knowing that she would be no use in that state, she forced herself to calm down quickly. By the time she gave her address that night, she was calm, her eyes haunted but dry—and also determined. As soon as they let her off the cameras, she had argued Bellezze into helping her get away from her handlers. Since then, except for the few hours she had taken aside to visit Dru's (thankfully unharmed) grave, she had spent almost every waking moment in an infirmary, patching up wounds and administering medicine while she murmured away in the same soothing voice the cameras had wanted—only there, coming from a warm pair of hands instead of a cold pair of speakers, it might actually do some good.

She thought of this now as she watched a boy two or three years younger than her test his leg gingerly. He didn't remember it, but she had been with him yesterday as they switched tourniquet for stitches; her fingers had almost broken under his grip as sensation flooded back into his leg. Now, using the same encouraging tone she had spoken to him with then, she coached him through his first few steps. "There you go. Almost here, two more—steady!"

If he had fallen, she wouldn't have been able to catch him, but he managed to right himself just in time and clung to her arm, panting and laughing. Aranica smiled, but couldn't quite bring herself to share in his glee. "Good," she told him. "Sit down for now, all right? Catch your breath. You haven't been in that bed for too long, but you've been through a lot." Looking halfway between rebellious and relieved, he nodded and lowered himself back onto his cot. Aranica gave him one last smile and dashed away, scanning the crowded tent until she found the person she was looking for. "Caese!"

The doctor looked up from his clipboard. "Aranica?"

She didn't bother with preamble. "Caese, he can't go home yet."

For a moment the man looked confused. Then his face cleared and he exhaled sharply. "The boy with the leg wound?"

"Him. I know Roisin said he had to leave, but he can't. Yes, he's walking, but he shouldn't be—just come watch him, you'll see what I mean! And I'm worried about—"

"Aranica." Caese looked endlessly weary. Not for the first time, Ara felt a flash of worry for him that rivaled that she felt toward his patients. With his coarse manner and dark humour, the man made her uncomfortable, but he obviously cared deeply about the people whose treatment he oversaw. "If he's mobile and uninfected, he has to leave. Maybe when we get more people in, we'll be able to keep people like him, but for now we just don't have room."

"What if he does get infected?"

"Look, Aranica, it's—"

"I can't let you—"

"Which one of us is a trained doctor?"

Aranica closed her mouth on the rest of her sentence with a strangled noise of distress. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You're an idiot,"Caese snapped. There was nothing soft about his tone, but when Aranica looked up, shocked, his eyes were more concerned than angry. "How long have you been here?"

"I... I don't know?" Long enough that the clouds were cracking through her walls again. (This wasn't us, little cloud who wishes to be a rock. This was your precious earth, heaving your people into their deaths. This is the work of your kin, whom you aspire to emulate. Good thing you're already on your way, isn't it?) Not long enough to make a dent in the endless line of injured refugees.

"Get out. Get something to eat and rest for a while."

"But they need every—"

"—hand they can get, yes, and if you collapse we'll lose your hands and those of whoever has to treat you. And don't forget that stress is bad for you right now—yes, don't look so surprised, did you honestly think I wouldn't notice? So go. Eat. Doctor's orders. I'll see to the boy."

He's right, Aranica. If you decide to carry it to term, you will both need health. And I, for one, would like a while away from the clouds.

Suitably chastised by her temporary boss and spewing mental apologies at her rock, Aranica threaded her way out of the tent. Automatically she headed for the district square, her identity carrying her through checkpoints and Peacekeeper lines into the building she had been brought to from the train. Outside of the cemetery and the makeshift infirmary, this was the one place she knew, and it was the only place where she knew she could find food.

After such hysteria, the relative order of the kitchens felt wrong, out of place. Spooked, Aranica snagged a peanut butter sandwich and some fruit from one of the workers and slipped into an abandoned hallway, where the silence gave the frantic echoes space to fade. In time she even managed to relax, sitting against a wall with her legs tucked up next to her and her eyes closed as she conversed amiably with both her necklace and the wall. It was nice to let go of all the stress for a little while—not to forget it, exactly, because she couldn't relax, but to hold at arm's length the pressure of lives she couldn't save and decisions she couldn't bring herself to make.

And then she heard her name.

Ara scrambled upward, whacking her shoulder into the wall twice and yanking her dark hair in her haste to get up. "Mace!" She laughed a little at the sandwich in his hand and the way he shoved it in his mouth. Was he always hungry? "Hi!"

As he embraced her, the smile morphed into something quieter and sadder. Trying not to make her clinging too obvious, she burrowed into his shoulder. There was no way he could know what it meant to her for someone to reach out and deliberately hug her, but she knew, and she poured all her gratitude into the tight squeeze of her arms around his torso. When he started to pull away she released him as though he had shocked her, terrified that she had pushed her friend away.

But he stayed, even reaching out once more to brush her face with her hand. She focused on the feel of his fingers, cool against her fatigue-warmed face, evidence that he had not left and wasn't going to.

You are letting yourself get distracted, cousin.

I know. Just give me a minute. I can't just blurt it out.

As soon as you saw him. You promised. The rock had an unusual edge to its voice, an unusual glimpse into the indomitable will that bruised offenders and withstood centuries.

Aranica held still, but flinched mentally. I know.

She was spared the rest of the argument by Mace's voice. "Do I?" she asked, tilting her head a little and lowering her eyebrows. She didn't feel better. She felt worried (about District One, as well as the smaller worry that had plagued her since she left the office of a Capitol doctor), anxious (because of the clouds), confused (about Mace, among other things), and vaguely sick (probably from the worrying). But she supposed she had been both eating and sleeping better, the past few days aside, so it made sense. "I—thanks. I think? Yeah." Good grief. She needed to get herself together. Determined to come across as calm and collected, Aranica took a deep breath. "We need to talk. Wait—I mean, it's good to see you. Shit." Shaking her head, she brought one hand to her necklace. "I need to sleep, don't I—I'm sorry, Mace. It is good to see you. Very. And we need—I give up." She tried to smile and got a breathy laugh instead. Nervous, but unsure what else to do, she bumped her forehead against his shoulder, hoping physical contact could convey the good intentions she didn't have words for. "Sorry."


((I genuinely cannot express the level of apology I want to give to you.))

[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 only after Mace had claimed Aranica's attention that he realized he'd cut into something. Not that he cared, especially, since Ara seemed interested in talking to him. His sense of etiquette had been piqued following the 59th, as his stylists lectured him relentlessly. He knew what they would have said - he should wait until an appropriate conversational pause, and then ask to borrow Ara's attention, being sure to return her when he was done. But he wasn't sure that he return Ara anywhere, and so that would have been a lie.

Of course her reaction was confusing but then, women were always confusing. Mace let his hand drop back to his side, grey gaze steady on hers while she struggled to find the right words. He knew that feeling - knew it to the expanse of his toes. It was both frustrating to wait for another apology and at the same time he realized it was worth it. He would wait to hear whatever Aranica had to say, or not say. When she leaned into his chest, he automatically wrapped one arm and then the other around her, his chin settled lightly on the crown of her head. It was comfortable, and strange, all at the same time.

And it was certainly easier to hold her than to speak. What to say, when her thoughts were already scattered? "Don't matter, whatever it is, you don't need to apologize for nothing," which perhaps wasn't the most eloquent way of expressing the sentiment, but you work with the tools you're given. And Mace had always been a proponent of living life the way you wanted to live it, even before the Games, even before the unbearable guilt that threatened to drown them all. He didn't want any Victor to ever apologize to him, not for anything. And really if any of them were, he'd nominate Arbor, or maybe Heron. Definitely not Ara.

He was content to stand there, arms wrapped around one another, for as long as needed. He sensed, though, that Aranica wasn't just craving comfort. She had actively been trying to tell him something, and that would be hard to do, with her mouth against his chest. He took a deep breath, let it out long and slow, focused on keeping his heart beat and exhales steady. All tricks he'd learned while ranching. And then gently he leaned back, his hands which had been on her spine moving out until they rested, cupping her elbows and triceps. He was careful not to actually step away from her, lest that be misconstrued as him wanting to leave. He simply wanted to see her face again.

Mace squeezed her arms gently, waiting to see her eyes. "Something on your mind?" He asked, the words twanging, drawing him back to Ten for just an instant.

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