back to the water [nixie/klaus, morning of 95th finale]

---

Klaus Goravich

---

There was no doubt that it was the least wonderful time of the year. 

You might think that in thirty-four years, a person would get used to it. In fact, a long time ago, a naïve boy named Klaus Goravich believed, himself, that he would get used to it. And yet thirty-four finales later, he still couldn't bring himself to celebrate. Maybe next year. 

His bones had hardened to it all - the soft, pliable skeleton frame had solidified, calcified, and was far less prone to crumbling. He no longer lost bits and pieces of himself in the eroding event of another victory.  He was fifty-one, and he was fossilised. A piece of history, preserved in rock. This fact did not make it any easier to front up to another showing of his least favourite form of entertainment, nor did it stop his heart from bleeding for the child that would die, and, even more so, for the child that would inevitably live. Poor kid. The thought of them, weapon in hand, fighting for the chance to succeed their opponent, and for what? They knew nothing of the weight of it. Maybe if they knew they wouldn't stand there with such desperation in their eyes. Maybe they wouldn't fight quite so hard at the end of it all.

To make matters worse, his usual routine was disrupted. Every year, he kissed his daughters goodbye in District Three (thanking God that they were old enough to be safe, now, every day amazed at the luck he had, to get to keep them, lucky, lucky, lucky) and boarded the train, next stop: his least favourite destination. An annual holiday of sorts. He enjoyed, in a way, his visits to the other districts; he was not against seeing the world, and yet the Capitol made him sick every single time. He couldn't shake it. Nonetheless he enjoyed the company of his team, and had come to feel somewhat safe inside the walls of the training centre, occupying the same suite each and every year, a home away from home. Not this year. The Champignon Élysées was the pinnacle of luxury, a generous concession for the removal of the Victor's usual quarters. Klaus hated it. 

At least the finale meant it was nearly time to go home. Just a few more days of viewings and dinners to get through with forced smiles and gritted teeth. Maybe once he was home he would finally be able to sleep. Even the whisky didn't really help him anymore. Just before dawn he had given up and dressed himself, headed up to the fresh air of the rooftop with his towel in tow. The finale would go on regardless, the axe would fall, as it always did. Klaus Goravich just needed to count down to the moment with the rest of them. 

He swam long, slow laps up and down the pool. The darkness eroded quickly; it grew light around him before he had realised the time had passed. Back and forth, back and forth, his arms stretched out in front of him, the water giving little resistance. His doctor had told him that swimming was good for him, better for him than running. Supports the joints, or something. Good for the knees. Klaus laughed at that, the thought of the water holding him together. He liked the cool of the water on his skin, though, and the repetitive motion of the strokes, a timeless place, up here, by himself. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

He paused at the shallow end to breathe; ran his fingers through his hair to rid his eyes of the chlorine. They were blurry with it; he rubbed them. It was only then that he noticed that he was not alone at all. Somebody had joined him up on the roof - a young girl, one of the newer Victors, still somewhere in that ten year post-games haze of partying and falling in love and other, more complicated Victor politics. Klaus squinted at her, trying to remember her name. It wasn't that he wasn't paying attention. He always watched, obligingly. He always cared. He was just running out of space for holding onto the details, when in the end all of the pain was the same. All of the stories were the same. All of the Victors were the good guy, the bad guy, the winner, and the loser. Why did it matter who they were beyond all that? No. Klaus corrected himself. It did matter. Nixie. Of course it mattered. Her name was Nixie Summers.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't see you arrive." He said, smiling at the girl. "I wasn't ignoring you. Just... distracted." 

He reached for his towel, an arms-length away, where he had discarded it, and rubbed his eyes with it again. They cleared somewhat, although they still stung.