XLV: The Capitol - Training Center.

Milo Poliadas, 18
District Two Male

The ache in his skull feels like the only thing that exists.

It ebbs and flows like a tide, retreating and lulling him into a false sense of security before it comes back with a vengeance each time. His temples throb under the weight of it, his eyes heavy in their sockets. The dryness in his mouth and his cracked lips only worsen with every breath he dares to take.

A sliver of light infiltrates his eyes the second he cracks them open, immediately regretting the action as they ache intensifies tenfold. Somehow worse than that is the pain that lights up in his hands when he moves to drag the blankets over his chest, each movement in every finger taking ten times the willpower it normally would. Milo curls up, instead, ducking his head back into the darkness where it hurts less.

His eyes begin to adjust to the gloom even as he wishes they wouldn't, revealing the neat curl of bandages tucked between his fingers and fastened at the beginning of his wrist.

Bandages…

It's not long before the blissful silence around him is interrupted in the form of the door opening. Milo doesn't dare move, keeping himself tight in his ball like that will solve all of his problems. He remains unsurprised, if not a bit perturbed, when the bed dips down to his right, signaling someone's weight and presence about to interrupt his peace.

"I know you're awake," Donatella says. Of course she does. "You didn't move all night. It's like you were dead."

No, Milo only wishes he was. Anything to escape all of the pain he's dealing with now.

"I have pills."

He lets himself wince as he uncurls his hand, wiggling it out from underneath the blankets until two pills are deposited into it. Milo shoves them into his mouth without thinking twice about it, still managing to be grateful when a glass of water is wedged into his hideaway moments later. His hands can barely stand to hold onto it, but the feeling is beginning to come back to them. After lying still all night they've stiffened, making each movement practically agonizing.

Her easy delivery has been accomplished, but Donatella has yet to take her leave. Milo takes his sweet time inching his head out from under the covers, braced for even the slight amount of light that comes. It still ends with him squinting, pressing his head into the pillow to try and ease some of the thumping in his temples.

Donatella sighs when she looks at him. "You look like shit."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, lips sticking together. That's what he gets, apparently. He knew the second she left him there last night what was due to happen, and yet he couldn't make himself stop. When the bottle had shattered in his hands he hadn't even realized how much pressure he was putting on the glass, his hands tightening until the shards exploded and caught in his palms. Just like everything else he went too far, too fast.

Once you did that there was no going back, as he knew well. Sometimes he wishes he could.

"You told him that it was an accident," Tella says before he can close his eyes once again. "Is that true?"

"What?" he mumbles. "Who?"

"Micah. Do you even remember him being here?"

Well, now he does. It sure had been Micah that had first appeared at the bathroom door, a practical specter in the middle of Milo's fog-ridden brain. Micah being so forceful in the kindest way possible, piercing him back together like he had tried to do in the arena. Milo could only hope it worked better this time than the last.

She had been there too, of course, after some time. He thinks it had been Tella who had pulled him up off the floor, bracing him against the wall until his unsteady feet were underneath him. If Micah had still been there at that point, he has no idea. He doesn't remember getting to his room, his head hitting the pillow, someone covering him up. It's all fragmented, bits and pieces of a puzzle that was shaken too violently and then spilled all over the place.

"I remember," he assures her. "Some things."

He had told Micah that. He had meant it, too. Perhaps Milo knew death would be easier, logistically speaking, but intentionally choosing to die was something else entirely. If that was his choice, it wouldn't have been at the end of a glass bottle he had just drained practically dry.

There were much easier ways. More difficult ones, too, but Milo wasn't sure which one of them he deserved, if any.

In the very least, it appeared Micah didn't want him to die.

It's as if Donatella reads his brain, too, looking at the far wall with yet another sigh. "He does a good job at patching you up. You might want to think about keeping him around."

"Because that'll be so good for him."

"He's not a baby—he knows what he's doing."

"And what is he doing, exactly?"

"Saving you, apparently." She shrugs, but it doesn't seem casual whatsoever. That's because there's more weight there than either of them would really like. "You said it yourself, and now I've seen it."

Except his bleeding hands wouldn't have killed him, not like Hale ripping his axe through Milo's side in the arena. He would have passed out on the bathroom floor, so he assumes, found whenever someone came back and decided to check on him. Whoever it was would have fixed him up, if Micah hadn't gotten there first. It doesn't mean anything. Besides, how can you even be saved by someone else if you aren't trying yourself?

He turns his attention back to Tella, assuming her gaze is still on the far wall. When she immediately looks to him he's surprised to see bemusement written all over her face, though she shakes her head quickly as if trying to get rid of it.

"What?" he asks suspiciously.

"Nothing."

"What?"

"Figures you get left alone and you manage to corrupt an outer in such a short period of time."

"What, like you corrupted Casi?"

She stands, finally, and takes the glass of water that he's left teetering dangerously at the edge of the bed, depositing it on the table within arm's reach. "That's different," she says. "I think."

She thinks… what does she mean, she thinks? It hurts too much to stare at her for so long, or else he would. Even better, he would glare. Whenever the time comes for his eyes to stop feeling like they're on fire, he plans on it.

"You think," he echoes.

"I think," she repeats. "Whenever you're ready, they want a doctor to look at your hands. Make sure there's nothing wrong with them."

Milo manages a groan, this time succeeding when he ducks back down and drags the blanket back over his head. Now, that seems so unfairly like an unpleasant experience that maybe he rather would die. If Micah did such a good job, why does anyone have to look at his hands at all? They're already starting to feel semi-normal again. Whatever he did, though Milo doesn't particularly remember any of it, it worked.

He's not sure what to do now. The doctor is one thing, but everything else has him puzzled. Somehow he's tangled himself in something without even being aware he was doing it.

And, he thinks, someone else is aware, judging by the feeling of Tella's eyes on him through the blanket.

If he could stay under here forever and not think about anything, he just might.

"Take your time," she says. "But Dr. Jensen wants to talk to you as well."

He swallows an answering groan. "Awesome," he manages instead. He'll force himself up soon; it was only inevitable that they came to this point. He has to deal with doctors and the blood on his hands, from days and days ago and last night, too, and all of the people who seem to keep pulling him back from the brink of God knows what. Avoiding it all will only push him further into the black.

And he wants to get away from it, he thinks. He has to start somewhere. Hand-by-hand he has to crawl out of whatever personal hell he's forced himself into it.

No matter what it takes.

Callister Dechant, 18
District Six Male

His life here, in an odd way, feels almost no different than the one in Six.

In recent days Cal has built up a cycle, of sorts. He wakes up early, eats if he has the frame of mind, and then heads downstairs to the Training Center whether or not someone is there to attend to him. Now that they've noticed his consistent arrivals, a Peacekeeper is always there waiting to unlock the doors.

Cal is down there for most of the day. Licia is the one who had kept him company at the beginning, but Ilaria is increasingly around as well. He only breaks to eat and eventually shower at the end of each day, his muscles sore in that pleasant ache sort of way that says what he's doing is actually having an effect. Except it's not, not really. At least back in Six training gave him a purpose. He was always working up to the next fight, the next payment that would pay for his keep in the gym and keep him appropriately clothed. Here there's no rhyme or reasoning to any of it—he just keeps doing it because that's all he knows.

Life was already exhaustive before this, but it's taken a new, ugly shape. If Cal was any other person, he would stay in bed and let the fatigue carry him home.

He's not that person.

When he returns for his early lunch Ilaria is there waiting, seemingly whipping something up before anyone can volunteer to do it for her. He expects to see Emmi by her side, as he often does when they're both lingering here at the same time, but she's notably absent. He doesn't doubt that Ilaria appreciates the quiet, though.

"Didn't expect you back yet," Ilaria says without turning to him. She knows it's him, even if the timing is off. It's still like clockwork.

"Food break," he says, without further explanation. Cal's break is usually grabbing whatever he can first find, eating it in maximum three bites, and then disappearing once again. Everything up here is too… cozy, for him, you could say. Too plush and too relaxed. He's used to sleeping on a goddamn cot in the gym's storage room, a little corner cleaned out just for him that was hardly big enough to house him in the first place.

Downstairs just fit him better, is all.

Ilaria lets him root around in the cupboards for a minute before she speaks. "Cal," she says slowly. "I know you're probably about to head back down, but…"

Hesitance. It's unlike her, at least from what he knows. When Cal looks up her eyes are fixed firmly on the stovetop.

"What?" he asks. He can't say she hasn't piqued his curiosity at least a little, even if he won't show it.

"I asked someone to come up here—Emmi said they agreed, is all. There's nothing you can do or say, really, but I'd feel better if you were around. Unless that's weird."

It is weird, but likely not for the reason she thinks. Ilaria actually trusts him; he can recognize that when he sees it. For a girl who refuses to hand out trust to even some of the best people, a part of him is actually honored. Never in his life has Cal been anything close to a reassuring presence, but him being here means something. At least to her.

It changes the cycle just enough for him.

"Fuck, that is weird," Ilaria mutters suddenly. "Forget I asked."

"Who is it?" he questions, leaning back against the counter. Something like hope flares to life in her eyes, bright only for a split second but obvious enough.

"Ambrose." She swallows, stirring slowly at whatever she's got in the pot. Makes sense. She went to Nine already, which was arguably the easiest of them to deal with. Four is such a whirlwind that Cal will be surprised if Ilaria ever manages to nail him down long enough to have a conversation, and she doesn't strike him as particularly eager to talk to Two.

It's admirable of her. Cal may have done some awful things back in Six in the name of making a living, but he liked to think that he wasn't a bad person. Recognizing her effort makes that reality feel even closer.

"If it helps, the kid can barely talk," Cal says, boosting himself up onto the counter. It's not a spoken agreement to her request, but it's enough to make her aware of the fact that he's staying. Her barely-concealed smile is still noticeable.

"How is that supposed to help? I did that to him, remember?"

"Only via a technicality," he reminds her. Of course it still counts, but in Cal's eyes it was nothing more than a distant, unintentional mistake. Ilaria would never wish that much agonizing harm on someone she had no quarrel with. "Besides, what I meant was that at least he can't yell at you."

Predictably, she's not amused. He didn't expect her to be. All his words did was break some of the awkward tension that had been lingering in the air, from her request and also the prospect of them being joined soon by someone neither of them really know. Cal has never been good with people; he's lucky that he doesn't have to do any of the talking. He knows his roles—they involve bloody knuckles and theoretical war paint, the rings of a boxing arena and a cracked, brittle punching bag.

And, apparently, keeping someone who evidently trusts him company while they try to make headway in their newfound victory.

As much as it eats away from him, his failure stinging at every opportunity, he's glad it was her. If not him, it deserved to be Ilaria.

He sees her stiffen the second the elevator announces it's arrival with a quiet ping. Cal shuffles his way down the counter to pluck the spoon from her hand. "Go on," he offers. "And try not to get too trigger-happy with the mutts again."

"Fuck you," she fires back, but there's something light-hearted in her tone when she jabs her elbow into his side as she passes. It should be nothing, though the nervousness to her gait says otherwise. She won the fucking Hunger Games, after all. Talking should come as easy as winning a fight.

And even if he can't, sometimes, Ilaria's proven that she can do just that.

Veles Altobelli, 18
District Seven Male

"I'm sure you've heard the good news."

It's too much like last time, Tanis stopping him in his tracks and sitting him down like he was a child so that she could tell him quite the opposite of good news.

Everything is so fucking fake these days.

"We've both been cleared to return to Seven," he answers, just like he's expected to. After everything, after Varrik, he's working hard to regain some control over his mindset and his words, going back to the picture-perfect son his father would want him to be. The son that should have been rewarded for all of his efforts.

If he keeps it up, he has a much better chance of stealing everything back from right under Verbena's nose. She won't even see it coming.

There is no reaction from Lex's end—she already knew this, of course, and Veles had to fight harder than she did to get clearance. It didn't make any sense to him. He was stable, didn't have anything here worth caring for. She was the one with baggage labelled with a big, bold number four, if last night was anything to go by.

Veles should have been the first one they let go home.

"When will that be, exactly?" he questions. It's taking everything in him not to demand it, not to grab someone by their lapels and shake them until they give him what he wants. "Soon, I take it?"

"The end of the week," Tanis answers. "You all… well, most of you will be cleared to go on that date. They're publicizing it, everyone going to the station together so that it looks like everything's okay. A show of unity, I guess they're calling it.

A show of unity. What a fucking joke. There's no unity in this building, not a single damn shred of it. Even Lex doesn't seem to agree on that front, though it's not like she speaks up and says so. She's hardly said a word since last night.

Like he said—baggage.

"So I'm supposed to share a platform with District Four and smile and wave and pretend nothing is wrong?" he wonders, offering a truly fake smile just to show Tanis exactly what it's going to look like. "Fantastic. It's all I could have ever dreamed."

"Cut your shit," Tanis snaps. It would work better if she was anywhere near intimidating—Veles could knock her over without even trying. "It's not cute, and the cameras won't appreciate it either."

Right, he's not going to play nice on her behalf. The cameras have to see the best side of him, not that there are really any bad ones. Veles has to start saving face the second a reporter turns a lens or microphone onto him, morphing his object failures into something that seems naturally placed. He can lie, say it was all planned. He'll even shed a few crocodile tears for his father if they further his agenda.

Veles knows he still has people back in Seven that will support him. The people that work at the house and some of the men from his father's company. Iva, most certainly. Hell, even Sylvanus and Faunus will likely team up with him to take everything back from their sister if it means they have a chance at it in the end.

Of course they won't, but that's besides the point. His brothers will be none the wiser to it all like they always are, if Sylvanus isn't already halfway to death via alcohol poisoning. No doubt Faunus, too, had a fit trying to arrange everything surrounding the funeral proceedings with so little warning to do so. This is the first time he's really allowed himself to think about it, his siblings all gathered in black, a sign of faked solidarity around his father's coffin while they bided their time until the will was read. By now he's buried, a fresh mound of dirt concealing him in the rich part of town, a locked gate hiding the numerous tombstones so that vandals and thieves can get nowhere close to it.

Cursing out a grave is not an apt or even kind thing to do, certainly not to one's father, but he deserves it. He deserved everything he got.

"Well, if you need me, I'll be in my room until the end of the week," Lex announces, somehow managing to stand up with a flourish despite how unkempt she looks. She must hate it, such visible fragility—Veles knows he looks as perfect as he can possibly get, so long as you ignore the scars. He does a fair job at covering them.

He doubts, too, that Lex will be able to hold herself up for very long. The girl can't go a few hours without looking for validity like some crazed attention whore. It's not like Veles is going to give it to her.

Just like his father, she doesn't deserve it. They're all a waste of his time now.

"I'd ask what you're going to do once you get back home, but I don't think I want to know," Tanis says simply.

"Just as I don't believe I ever said I'd tell you, anyway," he throws back. She's no more important than anyone else; they're on the same level. Both survivors by some unnatural circumstance that they knew nothing about. If she was a true victor, maybe he would care more.

But he doesn't. Veles only cares about getting back home, at this point.

He cares about his takeover happening as soon as humanly possible.

Inara Brea, 16
District Five Female

If Hosea wasn't lurking to act as a mediator, Inara doesn't think she would ever have the courage.

It's funny, really. There are very few things in life that have existed to make Inara hesitate—she's gutsy to a fault, always getting down to the nitty gritty in order to get what she wants. Not only has it been ugly, but it's been less than desirable.

Really, she can count on two hands the number of things that have stopped and made her really think, the last one being when Micah laid prone on the ground before her, so close to death yet asking her to bring it on faster.

It made sense that her hesitation now went back to him as well.

When he stopped by this afternoon, Hosea was purposeful. Direct without being forceful, even if all he had likely wanted to do was toss Inara over his shoulder like he damn well could and carry her upstairs until everything was resolved. All he had said was that he was going to be with Micah, at least for some time. He'd asked her if she needed anything.

Inara does, of course, not that she would admit that to him. No one gets to hear her grievances aired just like that.

When the time comes, she all but throws herself into the elevator and slams down on a random button simply so she can't escape, only traversing towards the eighth floor once she's gone somewhere else entirely. Every single one of her nerves feels as if it's been lit, hands tingling, feet tapping nervously against the floor as the elevator hums beneath her. She doesn't necessarily want to do this, but she has to. For her, but also for Micah.

He's giving her space—yes, her, the true murderer between the two of them. Her, who slit his throat when there was no other option left.

She can still see it clear as day. The blood oozing up from his throat, his twitching and convulsing. His rasping and bubbling breaths, her eyes already so far gone yet eerily present at the same time. A part of her wishes that Two had come back sooner—Inara wouldn't have all of these awful, present memories if she had just taken off immediately without stupidly sticking around to watch it all end.

She hates that she has them. Worse, that she has to live with them.

Such images are still practically floating in front of her when the doors open and she's confronted with Micah—real, alive Micah, and not the hallucinatory, bloody one that exists in her imagination. Hosea doesn't look one bit surprised that she's chosen to show up. Of course he's not, the bastard. He knew what he was doing when he talked to her earlier.

Only once before has she ever felt so scared, and that was when Two dragged her free in the greenery and she knew. She knew.

The two situations aren't even comparable, and yet she feels it anyway.

"I—"

"Inara—"

Her jaw shuts with an audible clack at the same time as Micah's does. Well, that started about as well as she could have predicted. Now they're both just staring at each other, silent, while Hosea looks between them almost in… amusement?

He really is a bastard sometimes.

"You know what?" Micah asks suddenly. "I just wanna know one thing—can I give you a hug?"

Her throat closes up abruptly. Nope, he absolutely cannot do that. One, Inara doesn't deserve it, and two, she doesn't know how she'll react if he does. There's no way she's going to risk crying like a little girl over something like this. Inara, somehow, needs to move back into what she was before—bold, a risk-taker, someone who looked just about anything in the face without even flinching.

Even she knows that's not possible.

Inara swallows. "I'm not much of a hugger."

"Bullshit," Hosea fires back. "You hugged me when you woke up. And don't tell me you don't hug those kids back home, either."

"Yeah, well those are exceptions," she snaps, already knowing full well that she's losing the battle. If she had known Hosea was only going to be here to toss her onto the tracks in front of a speeding train, she would have made him leave. Not that she could, of course, but a valiant effort would have been put forward regardless.

Plus, her biting words mean nothing, not when her eyes have a healthy sheen to him. And still Micah stands before her, not quite racing forwward but arms open all the same.

Inara knows she's going to cave before she eventually does.

Micah doesn't move when she steps forward, doesn't smother her or infringe on what she thought was a carefully crafted bubble. But when she wraps her arms tight around him and he holds on back, just as fiercely, something breaks in her chest. Not the tears, not any alarming sobs, but a dam that was holding back everything she so desperately wanted to feel—relief, progress, freedom.

"I'm sorry," she manages, hands still shaking no matter how desperately she tries to stop them.

"Me too," Micah says, like he could sense her ramble coming up and chose to stop it ahead of time. He doesn't complain about how she's squeezing him so tightly that he can't possibly be getting any air, how it's so unlike her that she's sure Hosea is staring at her as if she's grown a second head. Even the hug she gave him can't compare to this.

They're not so bad, really. Maybe she should do this more often.

"Just think," Hosea cuts in. "You could have done this days ago."

Inara pulls back only enough to give herself enough room to send a glare his way, no matter if her face is slightly blotchy and her limbs refuse to still. "Shut up," she requests, but deep down she's only grateful for his presence, his words.

She wouldn't be here without them.

It was so much more simple than she thought—no declarations, no babbling, no endless apologies. They're both alive, they're all alive, and that seems to be good enough.

And she feels better, so much more than she thought she ever could.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," Hosea says. Inara is too, but truth be told she knows that's not the end of it. Though she doesn't voice such tribulations aloud, she knows there are still things left unsaid. Things she has to do. It won't be easy, either—in fact, she knows it will be the hardest one yet. Making progress with Micah makes the possibility of tackling it less daunting, though she knows she won't ever be rid of her fear.

She has to do it, though. There's no going back now. She's taken enough wandering steps forward, and now it's time to make the final one.

One she has to unfortunately take alone.

Oriol Heliodor, 15
District Twelve Male

The culmination, when it finally arrives, is not something that takes him by surprise.

He's been thinking about it for days—since the moment he woke up, really, as if somehow plummeting to his death had lasted only a moment. It was as if on impact, Oriol had suddenly opened his eyes once again. Darkness to light, just like that.

Since his reuniting, if you could call it that, with Hosea, Oriol knew it was inevitable. The lies he told himself every night before he laid his head on the too-plush pillow got tougher to swallow until they refused to go down at all, sitting in a lump within his throat that was present at all hours of the day. Even now he could feel it, that sharp nervous pain inside him that made focusing on anything else futile.

The quietude had been nice, even if it wasn't something he was used to. It gave him time to ruminate on his thoughts, which ones were true and which weren't. Oriol had time to think about the bigger picture, faded as it was.

He was going to go back home to a family that would never understand, to people that make poke and taunt and laugh at him for such failures that he had displayed in the Games. And maybe that was what he deserved, too. Everything catching up to him, at long last, deserved a laugh or two from the people that had always been waiting for it to crumble. They would ask him about Hosea, about Inara, about what he felt and how he had operated since.

There was only one thing he had been confident in recently—since the day Hosea had come to see him up on the terrace, Oriol hadn't returned there. Outside of Licia, it made finding him harder. No one knew about his space, his little safe haven of sorts. He knew, though, that once he left the Capitol that was all over though anyway. Twelve wasn't going to be any safer than it was before, all gray and misery and lies caught in the coal trails that still led away from the dwindling mines. The terrace couldn't protect him forever.

Oriol starts parking himself on his own floor, easily accessible. Waiting.

When she does finally arrive, he forces himself to act as human as possible.

Humanly nice, that is. Any other human would yell and scream and shove her, demand answers and chase her right back to wherever the hell she came from. A part of him still wants to, even if that's not who he is. He can be… rational. He can think about this from her perspective.

If he had the leg up, Inara would have been dead, too.

Her footsteps are soft as she pads up behind him, not even bothering to sit. He knows it's her because he can hardly see her, small as she is, and Licia barrels around with all the force of a freight train.

Oriol knows that he'll never truly forgive her for what she did. He'll never forget it. Some sort of bitterness or resentment will always thrive in his veins whether he's comfortable with the feeling or not. It's the same as all of the lies finally knotting up inside him.

If he was any more of a terrible person, Oriol would think of some way to ruin her. He'd come up with something so twisted that she wouldn't be able to tell the truth from the numerous lies, a web weaved so thick that once you were ensnared in it there was no hope of escaping it. For once he would be the spider, and he would catch someone alive.

But he's not. Or, at least, he doesn't want to be.

"I want to be honest with you," Inara starts. Oriol feels himself bristle, but forces it down as he leans back into the couch, searching for some ounce of security. "If you'll be honest with me back."

He has to. No choice. A part of him and his lies died in that arena, something they weren't able to bring back. "Shoot."

"I'm not sorry I did it." Though he doesn't turn, Oriol can sense how she stands taller, squaring her shoulders. Not that she needs it, but he doesn't voice such a thing. Inara doesn't need a boost to her ego—if anything, Oriol needs one of those, and he needs it stat.

"I'm not sorry," she continues. "Because I know if I had been a second slower, you would have done the same thing to me. At the end of the day one of us would have been dead regardless. And I don't know what would have happened if both of us had lived, but I know what happened as a result of me choosing what I did—I lived. I almost made it."

That she did. She almost made it. She almost got to the finale. She almost won.

But almost isn't good enough in the Games.

"Was it worth it to you?" he asks, genuinely curious. "Fourth place?"

She snorts. "If I was still dead, that'd be a no. But considering we're all alive now… I guess it has to be. I get to go home, fix everything I left behind. That's worth it."

As well, she's reminding Oriol that he has the same opportunity. If he can untangle the mess he made, he can start over. Tell the truth and own what he knows instead of fabricating every other little thing. For a while, it seemed like it was worth it.

Now he knows the truth—it wasn't. His lies got him killed.

If he doesn't stop, it will only happen again. He'll live a young, fast life, and it won't even necessarily be good. No one will have anything nice to say over his coffin. His siblings will remember how he abandoned them to run off to the Justice Building and all of the kids will school will think about his cheerful smile when he stepped on the stage, how stupid he had looked, and that's that. No one will care.

Oriol wants someone to care.

Finally he peers over the back of the couch, daring to look her in the eye. "We were never going to be friends, were we?"

"I don't think so."

He nods. "But I don't have to hate you. Not… not forever."

"That's your choice. It's not a decision I can make for you. If you want to, I wouldn't blame you for a second."

Hating her would be the easiest course of action. Oriol knows dislike and distrust, two of the only real friends that he's ever had. Doesn't it sound exhausting, though, even the mere prospect of it? When Oriol goes home, he doesn't want to spend every waking minute of his life wondering what if. Re-building himself doesn't entail such a thing.

There's more he could say. Oriol always has so many words to offer.

But for now, it's just this. "Get home safe."

Inara's face softens, hardly noticeable. It's a look he can imagine her so easily giving to someone else—not to him, not ever again, but it's appreciated in the brief second he sees it. "You too."

When she leaves, he doesn't immediately feel stricken by the need to escape to the terrace, to find some solace. He sinks deeper back into the couch, exhaling once again into the silence of the penthouse. It's not over. To all of them, this will never be simply over.

No, this is just his beginning.

Mazzen Sylstina, 17
District Three Male

This world is not big enough for all of the things it currently holds.

It's a stupid expression. Doesn't make any sense, he knows. It's the type of thing Otto would have laughed at him for if he ever dared to say it aloud.

If Otto was even still here.

With every-day that passes Velcra's proximity gets worse. Perhaps not in the physical sense, but in every other. She creeps into the edge of his vision even when she's not there, thrives in his dreams and nightmares alike. She's there when he wakes and there when he goes to sleep. Mazzen finally begins to believe that he's never going to be rid of her.

The only way was death, and even that hadn't worked. The first time, anyway. If he died again Mazzen would be free from her—even the black, unending void of death would be better than living with this.

So he thinks he's decided, anyway.

The thing is, Mazzen's a coward. Didn't know it until right now until he's hovering over the sink, drawer pulled half-open so he can stare at the knives instead. Once upon a time he had run after Velcra Leight without a care in the world, so convinced that he could put an end to her that he hadn't thought twice about what he was running into.

He hadn't been scared to try. Hadn't been scared to kill her.

Apparently he was only scared of trying to kill himself.

He would be just like Otto. His parents would hold each-other and cry and beg for answers they would never get as to why he did it, what went so wrong that he couldn't come back. Somewhere out there yet another unfortunate soul would pick up the torch and carry on, so convinced of what they were doing that they would never be convinced otherwise until they died too. On and on it would go, but he would be too far gone to ever watch it happen.

If he could pick up one of those knives. But he can't. His entire shell has cracked, his purpose gone.

Mazzen has no idea what's left in its place, only that it's not good.

"Mazzen?"

He blinks. The voice warps closer, familiar but somehow far away. He takes a breath so deep his chest aches—in through the nose, out through the mouth. All of the knives in the drawer become crystal clear, each one displayed in stark quality.

"Mazzen?" Ren asks again. Of course it's him. Always is. No one else cares. He can only force himself to breathe, eventually reaching over to slide the door shut, and—

Ren's hand locks around his wrist, fingers white in their intensity. Mazzen stares down at him, trying to find something other than alarm and worry in his eyes but coming up blank each time. It doesn't matter how long he looks—Ren only gets more anxious, grip still equally as tight.

"I'm fine," he says, before Ren can ask. "You can let go."

"Mazzen—"

"What did I just say?"

"You," Ren starts, swallowing deeply even as he releases him. "Were you going to…"

He knows. Ren's not an idiot. His eyes flicker down warily to the drawer as if afraid Mazzen is going to tear it open and slit his wrists apart while Ren watches. If he was too cowardly to do it on his own, he could never do it like that. The next I'm fine queued up on his tongue refuses to come out like he planned, lips pressed so tight together he's sure they're nearly as white as Ren's fingers were not so long ago.

"I haven't seen you in a few days," Ren explains, though he doesn't recall asking. "I was worried."

Rightfully so, apparently. Mazzen turns away only for Ren to grapple at his shirt-sleeve again, not unlike that of a much younger child.

"Go back upstairs, Ren," he says firmly. If that's how they're going to play this, Mazzen will start sounding like a disapproving parent without reservation. "You don't need to babysit me, alright? I said I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me," Ren says. "You're not fine. You can talk to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"You're not going to understand—"

"So help me understand," Ren cuts in. "Talk to me. Say anything you need to. Scream at me, if that makes you feel better, but don't tell me to go because I won't."

Mazzen was worried about this. Someone caring, that is. Tarquin has tried, even Ria, but they're both trying to give him space while he sorts his own head out. Now that someone is worrying, and so blatantly at that, he's feeling himself crumble. A part of him wants to sink to his knees and cry right here in the kitchen even if Ren is watching. It's not like it matters. Nothing does, anymore. It's not as if he has a purpose in life.

"Talk to me," Ren whispers, a desperate plea. He's not going to leave—he's not going to stop. And if Mazzen does talk…

"If I talk," he says slowly. "I have no idea if I'll be able to come back from it."

"If you talk," Ren echoes. "I'll make sure you do."

This isn't something Mazzen is deserving of—Ren has no reason to give him anything, to help. Mazzen abandoned him without a care in the world, and he deserves to be abandoned back. Maybe even deserves to die.

In the very least, it doesn't appear that either of those are happening today.

That, if nothing else, might be worth living for.

I'm no stranger to slogging along through a mega-lengthy post-Games and a lot of people struggling to maintain consistent interest, but I promise we're actually going to get somewhere eventually. Until then I hope me building more on all of the kiddos is good enough for you.

Until next time.