'bootch /mace+av

One thing Avriel noticed at Saffron's dinner– Mace didn't drink. Bottle of District Ten's finest mead sitting right there on the table, but Mace didn't even have a sip and he saw that. When a glass was poured for Avriel, he'd tried it– his dad used to let him drink a beer sometimes at the fire pit in the backyard– he didn't want to be rude.

He doesn't like getting drunk, every now and then is okay but not having control of himself is just uncomfortable. Drinking's more a nostalgia thing anyway, he just likes the feeling of a cold can in his hand on a fall day and the lingering scent of woodsmoke.

The mead was too sweet, he could feel honey coating his throat. 

Six months later, he's standing in front of the Emberstatt's apartment door on the tenth floor of the training centre. It's quiet, the tributes are all off getting ready for the bloodbath tomorrow.

Avriel doesn't know what he's doing. There's a bottle of Nine's fireweed and ginger kombucha tucked under his arm. The elevator dropped him off about five minutes ago but he hasn't moved forward.

Mace didn't talk much at dinner, it was mostly Saffron. She was nice, in a way that felt too good for someone like Avriel. It made him uncomfortable, he didn't deserve it. Mace mainly just looked at him every now and then and Avriel grew more curious with each glance.

Mace has been around a long time, longer than Avriel's been alive. He's seen so many tributes come and go, watched decades of victors get crowned. If there's anyone who knows what it's like, it's him.

He's not looking for approval, Avriel knows better than that.

He fiddles with the bottle for a moment, letting his thoughts settle. Last year, all he'd wanted was to go home after the games. He needed to be where he was understood, but something in him's shifted since then, Nine isn't the same or maybe he's just too different. Duke and Billie try and it isn't their fault but Avriel's had this tight feeling in his chest for months now.

The victors, even Colgate, feel separate from him. No matter how many of them he meets, the time spent always feels like some weird fever dream. Or, it's just the cold formality of a handshake, over in moments as soon as the cameras shut off.

Through the past year, his phone has been deadweight in his pocket, always silent. Avriel Baptiste doesn't belong but that's how he likes it, right? He doesn't need anything from Mace.

He rests his knuckles on the door to knock, brow furrowed. That's all this is then, a thank-you bottle of kombucha for a legend who Avriel assumes doesn't drink because he didn't touch the mead at dinner six months ago.

Or maybe Mace just doesn't like Mead.

"Shutup," he says, annoyed but it's too late, he's thinking of dark curls and eyes that knew him far too well.

Avriel knocks hard to push the ghosts out, then steps back a bit so he's not stupidly close when the door opens. "Hi," he says, "Here, to thank you for dinner." Avriel holds the bottle out, "It's kombucha, people say the mother was made before the dark days, supposed to be real good."

That's all he wanted to do. Avriel nods and then he turns to head back to the elevators.