every atom of me, and every atom of you. mickey & max.

M I C K E Y

A moment's pass was eternal; seconds felt like minutes and Mackenie was frozen in an arena somewhere, laying there and waiting for the end to come. Even after he'd woken up and seen Jacinta smiling down at him, even after he'd taken the stage next to Ceasar and the crowds cheered his name, he was frozen.

Everything on the outside was so much... cleaner. The windows of the train were so spotless that it was like they weren't even there, and his clothes— he lifted his wrist to smell the cuff of his sweater and enjoyed the piney perfume that wafted from it, but it didn't feel real. Nothing had since he'd woken up. He half-felt like he was in a dream, and he worried he would wake up at any moment and be back there with Akira's glaive swinging right at his face before he could move.

Everything was slower and he tried not to watch the clock; Jacquelyn said it would only make things worse and she was right. She had a way of being right about things, he'd noticed.

But everything was so quiet. Jacquelyn was busy behind the scenes and Jacinta was trying to give him space. He didn't want space. He didn't need space because the fact of the matter was that he was fucking terrified and being alone was not something he could handle well. He looked over at her while she pretended to be interested in the book she held. The air was thick with looming questions, an unease that was intangible but it might as well have been. He could practically feel it clouding up in his lungs, sticking to his teeth with each breath like it was some kind of smoke.

"Are we almost home?"

There certainly seemed to be more and more trees passing by outside, a blur of green and a reminder of what used to be. He bet there were people out there somewhere living, thriving, raising their children without the fear of losing them to the games. They were lucky and reckless, and he knew all too well that those two things were practically the only way to survive in a world like this one.

"Soon," Jacquelyn called, sacrificing a single second away from the documents in front of her to look at him. She was beautiful, in a sort of artificial way. A paid-for kind of beauty. Plump lips and too-tight skin around her cheek bones, he thought at least the majority of the dark hair that easily reached her mid-thigh had once belonged to someone else. She didn't look like the type of person who bothered with paperwork, as much as someone who would pawn it off on someone else while she got a manicure and sipped cocktails by some lavish pool. Mackenzie guessed she was aware of this, though, because she currently sported a pair of reading glasses though they, too, were likely not real.

She smiled at him, trout mouth thinning as the ends of her lips curled up on the ends.

"How soon?"

She sighed, checked the watch on her wrist.

"Within the hour."

It couldn't have come soon enough, but it was also something he dreaded. He kept thinking that maybe, maybe getting home would wake him up from the hollowness of whatever purgatory he'd slipped into. Maybe seeing his family would awaken the parts of him he was forced to put to sleep before. But the dread, the fear was that even his mother's kind eyes and Maxine's familiar voice wouldn't be enough. He worried that the tree house in their front lawn would've seemed more colorless, drab compared to the environment he'd spent so many sleepless nights in, that the floorboards would notice he was different and squeak differently somehow than they did before.

It all hinged on that one moment, and he was terrified of that. But he wasn't sleeping, and the restlessness was maddening. The first couple of days after the games, they'd kept him drugged half-out of his mind. He wouldn't have been able to stay awake even if he'd wanted to. Now, he almost found himself wishing they'd sent him home with a prescription. Not that it mattered; growing up poor meant meeting other people who were doing everything they could to get by. If he needed the drugs, there were ways of getting them.

He went to his quarters, a lush, overly soft bed, a vanity, a wardrobe, and a private bathroom, and changed his clothes three times. None of it really suited him. He made a mental note to ask Jacinta's stylist, Colt, to make his clothes for public appearances from now on. A flamingo-pink suit, a latex jacket which made him look like some kind of high-tech condom— it was like his stylist was trying to make a mockery of him.

Finally, he just put the clothes he had before back on: a knitted forest-green sweater and a pair of black pants and some boots. Jacqueline wouldn't have approved with something so casual, but she was going to have to learn to deal with it.

He styled his hair, then restyled his hair, then sat quiet while his prep team styled his hair the correct way, then continued to sit quietly when Jacquelyn begged him to put on the condom outfit until she eventually gave up and left the room.

He felt the train begin to slow down, and time instantly felt faster. Every moment counted and every step brought him closer to the exit. His heart hammered against his chest and his throat tightened, and he stood with the rest of his team in front of a pair of unopened doors.

Inhale, exhale.

The doors opened, and he smelled home again. God, he never thought he'd smell this again: the food, the mills, the forest. There was nothing like it, and his feet felt lighter as he descended the stairs onto the platform. His palm was itching; he resented the Capitol for leaving the scar for aesthetic reasons. And before he had time to look for his sister, she had already crashed into his arms.

"Mickey," she sobbed. She had thought he was going to die too, hadn't she?

She sobbed, his name repeated time after time on her lips as if she couldn't believe he was actually standing in front of her.

"I'm back," he whispered, his mouth next to her ear as he returned her hug. Mackenzie and Maxine, Mickey and Max. One, two, a duo from birth til death or something like it came along.

"I'm back, Max. I'm—" he felt the weight lift from his shoulders, and he willed himself not to cry. His mother joined them and they didn't speak. They just wept, and he stayed strong. At least for now. At least until they were alone, and there were not cameras to capture his tears and use them for a new article.

"Let's go home."

It wasn't until after he said the words that he remembered his home was no longer his home. His stuff was probably already moved into the Victor's Village, right next to the Salazar family. His home was not his home anymore; the tree house and the floorboards were alone, doomed to stay that way as long as his family survived. Technically, it was still theirs, but there were very specific guidelines for victors to adhere to; apparently, living in a specific area was one of them.

"Our new home, at least."