Like Old Friends [VT/D3/Open]

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 torture on repeat, the victory tour. District after district he had to look into the faces of the families he had robbed of children, to lift his chin and shake the hand of Mayors and Peacekeepers and people he did not know - or like. At some point in the intervening districts he had started to absolve himself. Mace would never forget the tributes he had known in the arena, but he could not live with the burden of guilt, especially for those he had not actually slain. It was too much for one person; he could feel the regret and the agony pressing on his organs, on his mind, a heaviness that threatened to drag him down, down, down.

So he made up his mind not to carry the weight any more. He didn't feel instantly better, but day by day things were getting lighter. He hadn't killed anyone from District Three, so it should have been easy, or at least easier. But somehow, from the moment he stepped off the train into the sharp wind, he knew it would be worse. Because even though he hadn't killed the girl (who he remembered not at all), or Sawyer, he'd had a hand in their deaths.

Worse, he felt a certain degree of relief when he thought of Sawyer's death, because at least it had come by someone else's blade. That made him feel like a coward, because he should have been man enough to help Sawyer along, should have eased his passing. But he had not, and the tribute from Three had burned, ashes against the snowy afternoon light. Mace would never forget, but he'd been glad to carry a part of Sawyer along the tour.

He had the leather jacket in his hands now, a sweater in its place that was doing a poor job of keeping him warm. Nothing worked, really. It wasn't the fabric's fault. Still, the leather had been superior, and he would be sad to let it go for a number of reasons. He gripped it tightly, worn as it was, and waited for the usual speech, the apathetic congratulations. The families of the tributes were always easy to see, but they weren't always easy to recognize. He debated a little while until he decided that one family had more of Sawyer's physique, more of his confidence, than the other.

He waited until he deemed it polite to move, and then while the Mayor was still chittering away, Mace strode to the edge of the stage and held out the jacket in both hands. He considered dropping it so that the family wouldn't have to touch him at all, but he instead he tried to look at passive as possible, as broken outside as in. Mace had found few words since his voice fled in the arena, and he could drag up only a handful more, but at least he had that. "He was my friend, too."