The Ruler & The Killer // {Standalone; Embryze}

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 warm in the Emberstatt Victor's mansion, but it was never hot enough. He stood in front of the living room's fire place at dusk, stoking the flames higher and higher. [Elon had laid out his clothes this morning, including a vest and sweater, which were entirely outside of the norm for Mace. Not that he had a style, just that he had always worn the same clothes until they'd gone to tatters out in the fields. Now, though, he had new clothes for each season, all styled according to the Capitol's whims. The piece he had on was a pastel green, one of the lighter hues of those sent, with a chevron pattern that hurt his eyes. At least he didn't have to look at it, and hoped it would stave off conversations if anyone decided to drop by.

Really it wasn't even people coming by his house that bothered him anymore. It was the incessant phone calls. After he'd ripped the phone off the wall twice, Elon has set it to silent. He hadn't even realized that was possible, and it was so much more satisfying to send the technology skittering before his wrath. There were a few calls that he wanted to take, and Elon organized those in a notebook. Mostly from the other Victors, and sometimes from home. That's all he wanted to hear from.

As he swirled the poker through the embers, he heard Elon's light step on the stairs. No matter how much he polished them, they would always creak a little, and Mace would always hear. He pulled back from the fire, his face flushed, as he brother walked into the room, a slip of paper in his hand.

"It's the uh, well it's the reporters - hear me out!" And Elon so rarely raised his voice that Mace did, even as he twirled the fire poker. "They want a comment, anything, about the finale. There's just two left, and they want to know what you think about having another male victor."

Mace closed his eyes as he sat back into a golden armchair, the poker outstretched, just inches from the floor. "No comments. But, who?"

He could sense Elon's disapproval crackling in the air, but Mace had nothing to gain from appeasing the Capitol, and as long as he just kept his mouth shut, he was pretty sure they would stop caring about him soon. Soon. But Elon cared, about him, about their family name, and so Mace wasn't surprised at all when the younger boy flicked on the television above the fire place, and then drew the poker from his grasp. Elon knelt beside him, knees and calves on the floor, his arm hooked over the fuzzy golden arm of the chair. "You've got eyes. See for yourself."

Mace shuddered, the cold making his joints ached, his eyelids heavy. But what did he have to lose? He would wonder now, wonder so much that it would keep him awake until he checked. And so Mace looked, zeroed in on the television to the endlessly repeating scenes. Reyes Moreno and his axe, the bodies of two girls, and finally him. In a graveyard.

He almost laughed - the feeling tickled his throat. Why did he always want to laugh around Julian? But it was ironic and strange and perfect. He'd warned Julian, and even if he only carried their lives for one more night, he was sure the tributes were haunting Julian Bryze. Which ones, though, Mace did not know because he had stopped watching after the last District Ten tribute succumbed and he'd been sent packing back to his district. More lives to add to the weight he carried around his back, across his stomach, in his heart. He had known them not at all, because he hadn't wanted to, and perhaps he had served them badly and he deserved to feel such guilt.

But he knew Julian, and that was the problem.

They watched in silence for awhile, mirroring Julian. And then the clip of him asking was played over and over, int he background, in the forefront, while Capitol heads chattered. After a time, Mace muted it, so that the fire was the only sound, flames rising towards the flickering arena. "Do you like him?" Mace said, not suddenly, but uncomfortably, his hands wrapping around the remote.

Elon looked up at his brother, at the television, and back. He chuckled. "You mean do I want to sleep with him.

Mace snorted. "Sleeping's got nothin' to do with it." He squeezed the remote, and then forced himself to relax before he shattered the damn thing. He didn't care; no reason to damage more output from Three.

Elon was back to watching Julian, his blond hair dirtied from the arena, his eyes still crystal clear. "Not really my type, I guess. Not bad though. You've certainly done worse."

Without warning Mace had dropped the remote and wrapped his left arm around Elon's neck, bicep flaring. For a moment both Emberstatts held their breath, until Mace remembered he was in a fiercely warm house, and not an arena full of ice. And then it devolved into something better, with Elon sticking his fingers into Mace's side until he yelped and released him. Mace gave him a shove, and as Elon massaged his neck, he scrambled into a violet armchair, just outside of Mace's reach.

They both panted, Elon staring at Mace, Mace staring at the screen.

"So do you? Hate him?"

Mace touched his tender side, remembered a smiling wound, and forced himself to be there, in that moment, in the graveyard. It would be glorious to be bronze, to be immune to temperature, to be always holding the longsword of Charas. He couldn't hate anyone there, because he was invincible. It was the opposite of the diamond world, the every day lull he'd become accustomed to. It was a better world, maybe, surrounded by those fallen. He blinked, surprised to find tears lining his eyes, although they evaporated before they fell.

He shook his head very slowly, reached for the remote and turned off the looped image of Julian and his immortal statue. "I don't know how to hate someone who's only done what I done. I couldn't hate Julian anyhow, just ain't in my blood."

Elon nodded, a spark of recognition glinting his eyes, highlighted by the fire. Mace had seen that look before, and it was more intolerable to think that even possible than to watch more tributes die. His grey eyes slitted, rough palms coming together, upper arms flexing. And if Mace had disliked the knowing in Elon's eyes, Elon feared the tensing of his posture. The younger boy cleared his throat, made his excuses, and left Mace to stare at the flames that would never warm him.