Just For Tonight, Darling // [Aranica]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

He was ready to dive in. If all the metal and shiny surfaces had been intimidating when he'd first walked in, he'd gotten it over quick enough. Probably was the beer talking - and Mace checked himself as the thought came into focus. It was one thing to actively decide to do something stupid, like root through sharp blades in the hope of food, and quite another to stumble over the thought, to just act and react. He'd done enough of that for one lifetime.

The doors along the edges of the room seemed like the best bet - more than pantries than anything else. He was certain he could scare something up for some there. He was ready to suggest the plan, a fine one if he could say so himself, when Aranica spoke again. A vegetarian? Well yeah, he'd heard of those, on the television. They pretty much didn't exist in Ten. He was too drunk to be skeptical, or react in any way. Mace was simply stupefied. That was not an obstacle he'd expected to encounter, much like the first taste of that icy cold arena.

When she turned away, Mace had the sinking feeling in his gut he always got when women cried. Well, when Cygnus cried too. He didn't know any other dudes who cried, but he might feel it then, maybe. Mostly he felt it when his sisters cried, and he'd almost gotten comfortable with it, in the weeks that followed Larae's death. It was a memory of a feeling, something through a lens, until that moment.

He deflated. A more composed, less intoxicated Mace, would have turned to ice, tightened his muscles, strained against the awkwardness of the situation. But not tonight. Tonight, he simply felt the weight of the stone in his belly, his lack of social skills. He debated saying something to comfort her and squashed that idea in a nanosecond. That was a skill Cygnus and Denver had possessed, not him. It was almost too far a stretch to touch her shoulder again, or her downy hair, but then Aranica solved that problem for him.

She was so petite in his arms, and yet so there, in the way the women of the last year had never been. It took him a moment, not more than two seconds, to fold his arms around her, so that his palms rested at the small of her back, his biceps outlining her torso. He could have squeezed tighter - wanted to, just to see how far he could wrap his arms around her. He restrained himself, but it was a struggle against the alcohol coursing through his veins, that whispered, just go for it.

"Any time,

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 a little surprised when Aranica agreed to go with him, agreed that she was ready for the next thing. He shouldn't have been shocked; she was a Victor, after all. But in the last year he'd only dealt with a specific subset of women - either his sisters and Marcelline (who essentially qualified) that attempted to improve him and therefore often challenged him, or the few night time comforts he'd found, who neither had any brains or any spine. If he'd suggested an adventure, he would've gotten a lecture from Elida, his sister, or a blank stare from one of the Victor groupies.

But it was only this night that made him realize what a pathetic existence it had become. There was never any warmth in his world, no matter how many fireplaces he kept constantly burning, no matter how many blankets he layered on his ridiculously large bed. It was all cold, cold, cold, and that was something Mace could no longer stand. Why hadn't he been able to see that the company he kept was contributing to this winter of his life?

He wanted to hug Ara again, or rather keep hugging her, but they were on the move. Mace saw less of the extravagance (he had no idea how much more one light could cost from another. And all that shiny stuff? Crystal or glass, of course, obviously. It just looked crowded). What he saw instead was the emptiness, the amount of space he would have to heat up. He figured, in the end, he'd just end up torching whole rooms, whole wings, in an effort to keep himself warm.

Which wasn't altogether an unpleasant thought - burning down the house of a Capitolite who had watched Alexander die and done nothing about it at all. Then again, so had he, so maybe he deserved to have his house burn down as well. He could almost see it through the smoky haze, the inside orange and red, flames snaking up through the windows.

Mace shook his head just once to clear the image. It was no good to be in love with fire either; it wasn't likely to reciprocate in a way that was good for his health. In that moment he lost his grip on Ara, let her slip through his crooked and worked fingers. One moment she was there, and in a blink she was on the floor, working herself back up. By the time he reached to help, she was falling into him, bracing herself against his arms. He drew her in, more fluidly this time than last. His arms found the already familiar contours of her, locked her securely to him as the library spun 'round and 'round.

He felt quite suddenly drunker, further away from himself, and yet somehow simultaneously closer to Aranica. He smiled, puffy lips stretching out wider than they'd gone in months. "Howdy," he said quietly, just over her head. They were so unevenly matched, height to height, but if she had been any taller, he wouldn't be able to hold her as he did now. He liked that. "I'm thinking we should sit down for a minute. Nothing feels broken, right?" And as Mace maneuvered them back into one of the overstuffed sofas, he took a moment to look down into the dark of her eyes. He didn't know her well enough to tell if she was lying - if she would lie - but he'd gotten pretty good at recognizing pain over the years.

He wouldn't stand for an ounce of that in Ara's eyes.

Mace sat first, in the crook of a gaudy navy-and-gold number. He kept his hands around Aranica's waist, holding rather than guiding. At the last moment he lifted the far one so that she could learn against him, if she wanted. He laid it casually along the back of the couch, felt the awkwardness of his posture. For all his experience, he very rarely went through these sorts of motions, and found himself a little out of his depth. He turned his grey blue eyes up to Ara, the grin smaller now, pushed sheepishly to the right .

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 a little hard to follow her, not because Aranica didn't speak well, but because he was drunk. In fact he rather liked the way she spoke, the way she joined thoughts and sentences. It had a nice rhythm to it, and her voice, though a little quiet, was even and articulate. Yes, he could listen to Ara talk as long as she wanted to, even if he wasn't paying strict attention to what she was saying. It was odd to like the way someone talked; he couldn't remember ever having done that before. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he preferred to think that it was simply Ara.

He got the jist of it though - objects bad, body good, or something like that. He had always thought of the body as sacred, even when he was slicing open tributes. Mace never once disturbed the dead once they had fallen, so he had to agree with her, there. Bodies could mend, bodies were incredible things. He wasn't quite sure how to put that thought into words that didn't sting and remind them both of the arena, and so he just set the conversation aside, locked it up in the back hallways of his mind.

It was easy enough to forget about as Aranica curled up beside him, and then insisted that his arm go around her. That grin came back, full force, as he complied. He marveled at how tiny she was, at how well her body molded to his own. He was careful to keep his arm along the length of hers, so the weight would not be too much, and this put his palm at her hip. It was a reasonably safe spot, although he couldn't quite tell if it was appropriate. The buzz in his head informed him that it was better than the other options available to him, well maybe not better, but definitely more civil.

And then they were together, on the couch, sitting comfortably side by side. Mace realized he hadn't said anything in response to her explanation, nor to the better she breathed out. What to say, what to say? This was ever the predicament. And yet the low thrum in his veins, the haze of drunk, told him to relax - to get over it. Because words most often betrayed him, and he didn't want to screw this up.

He shifted just a little so that he could turn his outer shoulder towards Ara, to see her from a more front-facing angle, instead of side to side. And they were so close together, their bodies and their faces. If he had needed an opportunity, this was it. A quickening his heart, his neck as he reached over to push her long hair back from her face. He saw it out of the corner of his eye - just the vaguest flicker in his pinky. He was not about to let the trembling ruin his evening, but he also recognized it for what it was - plain old nerves. And he'd never been the sort to give into butterflies before, but then he'd never been nestled on a couch with another Victor.

"Ara..." he spoke in the same tone she had just used, quiet and sure. Mace met her gaze, his eyes tending towards blue from their usual hollow grey. He held the moment, waited another breath to see if she would pull away. His hand had settled at the base of her neck, palm resting along her shoulder, as he leaned into her. The kiss was not spot on; Mace aimed a little too high, so that his lower lip hit her upper. But he pressed into it, both arms around her, and let the kiss do the talking for him.