It's All for the Loss [kay]

This is my December, this is me alone, and I just wish that I didn't feel
Like there was something I missed

The beginning of the Games is always a whirlwind behind the scenes - or so Mace tells me. I've been very keen on meeting my nephew but that hasn't happened yet. It seemed odd to me until I realized that Mace wasn't ready to meet him. I didn't have the time, frankly, to sort through that little psychological hiccup. Instead I tried to quiet my worries, to reassure myself that somehow I would get to see the little Emberstatt before. Before.

Marva, my stylist, fussed over me endlessly, using her bejeweled fingertips to keep my copper waves in place. I smiled at her, even though she never met my gaze. I wondered how long she'd been working with Ten, and then I wondered how long prejudice could exist in a person's heart. Had the other male tributes from Ten been so bad as to confirm what she thought of the lower districts? Had Mace? She'd taken a brief pass at him but it was pretty clear that there was no affection between the two. He looked reasonably smart in a dark suit with silver lapels that almost matched the color of his eyes.

Me, though, I'm in the spotlight tonight. Marva has promised that we'll prepare the rest of my glittery cowboy ensemble in the stables, and I feel more nervous when she says that than when I was on the stage in Ten. I'm already decked out in a sparkling bastardization of a Randall's coat, all black and white and Capitol-studded bling. Mace is characteristically quiet as we make our way towards the lower stalls, but I know better than to wait for him to talk. I watch his face instead, note the way his chin tilts as we amble past Two's stalls, the way his gaze turns under his lashes.

"He'd forgive you if you asked," I say quietly, so quietly I'm not sure he hears, and then his jawline tenses. My gut flips and I have to actually remind myself twice that Mace won't hit me any more; I need to be unbroken to make it out of the arena. The prospect of the chariot ride is enough that I don't push my luck. Instead I turn my attention to the two Arabian beauties who will lead Miss Lyvers and I into the procession. Mace yanks Olive aside and I have to suppress a smile. I gather they've had a few run-ins in the past.

I'm looking for apples, or any sort of treat to provide my steed, when there is a flash of blonde and I am entangled in limbs. I know Julian's voice so well now; it is his good, clean scent that surprises me as I fold my arms and heart around him. "Hello to you too," I try for something light, maybe funny, but it's so soft and on the edge of my constricted throat, I don't think it helps. Certainly I feel worse for having said anything at all as now the emotions are gushing up out of me, and in no time I'm crying as well. "It's okay. You'll be okay," I say, because it's the only truth I can come up with.

And through the blur of my tears I almost think I hallucinate. But no, my brother really is that stupid. He's seen us, clinging to one another, and that look of grey fire and rage contorts his face into an ugly mask. I steel myself for the blow, my spine rigid as I tilt my chin up, trying to angle Julian away. But instead of hitting me, Mace punches one of the approaching camera crew, shoving the poor lad right into Olive. I suck in a breath and then whisper into Julian's ear, right against my cheek, "Mace just bought us a few minutes. Let's go around the horses, hmm?" I jerk my head towards the back of the stall, keeping a careful eye on the cameras.

It is one thing for Panem to see me cry, and quite another for anyone at all to see Julian.

This is my December, this is me alone, and I just wish that I didn't feel
Like there was something I missed

The smell of horses and hay is deceptively familiar. I try not to fall victim to it, to the memories it evokes, but as I venture into the shadows of the stall I'm reminded of home. Real home, not the victor house I keep crystal clean. The community home, full of rugrats and hand-me-downs and half-lived lives. The horses, when we had them, were a source of comfort for all of us, more than the cats or the chickens or the cows. I was very sad to see them sold off, but in the end finances were too tight for such an extravagance. I know Mace has missed them too, and we have both loved taking care of Whicker.

Tears spring anew as I settle behind one of the Arabians, thinking about the old stud, wondering if Mace will up for the challenge of caring for him full time, day in and day out, mucking his stall and checking his hooves. Tedious, simply tasks - just the sort he hates. But I feel a flicker of hope that old, resilient Whicker will be okay, even without me. Really it is very likely that everyone in Panem will be okay without me, even my brothers, even my best friend.

My tears are quiet as they chase each other down my freckled cheeks. "You have your own tributes to train. Congratulations, by the way. Worthy foes." A ghost of a smile forces my lips open, catching some of the tears. My mouth is full of salt, the prelude to blood. I can almost catch the tang of it in my tears as I wind my arms around Julian, holding him, keeping myself together in his arms. "Don't apologize. You should always respect your feelings." It was a plea and a little bit of my left over teaching of the little ones. Feelings are good - they are life. Indulge in them when you can.

And I am ever so indulgent as I rest my cheek against his, feeling the dizziness of emotions and dehydration. It feels good - really good - to actually physically connect with someone. I can't even remember the last time I was hugged. It is too much, though, the crying and the talking and the standing around. I'm not built for it. Without any sort of preamble I take Julian's hands and sink into the pile of hay, holding fast to that connection. The transition is not as smooth as I'd like it to be (but when is anything) but somehow, we manage. With my spine flush against the wooden stable container, I wrap one arm around Julian's shoulders and the other I leave loose around his abdomen, toying with his fingertips.

"You're my best friend too," I blurt out, even though I know it's a terrible thing to say, the sort of thing that lives in the bottom of your stomach forever. I want to take it back immediately, chew on my salted lower lip as the tears dry up. I can't leave Julian without a best friend; he has no idea what selfish truly looks like. Although with the red wig, he might be closer.

I smile, because it seems like the right thing to do, even though it burns my face. "You can't, and I don't want you to. I can do this. I mean I don't, you know, what to get your hopes up. But I'm ready. I think - I think I have been ready since the reaping for the 59th. And you do have a best friend, Julian. And it isn't me." I squeeze the hand over his stomach and then run it through my copper waves, looking between the horse's feet for Mace, who is still doing a damn fine job of distracting the camera crew, this time with an interview, which is a very refined sort of torture for him. I incline my head forward, the smile now genuine. "He misses you. He doesn't say anything, but he listens in on our conversations, and for awhile after everything in the house is peaceful."

Without realizing it I've closed my eyes, sunk back against the wood, into the hay, into the memory of some place safer, more familiar. And I can be there, just for a moment, my arm around Julian's shoulders, relaxed and content. And it is all I've ever wanted out of life.

This is my December, this is me alone, and I just wish that I didn't feel
Like there was something I missed

While the ruckus beyond the horses continue, I'm filled with gratitude towards Mace and our styling team, who haven't come looking for me. Instead, they're working hard to keep his hair gelled, his crisp, his nose free of oil while he interviews. I hadn't realized how desperate Panem must be to hear from him, because most of the calls requesting answers had stopped long ago. I probably should have encouraged him more, given the reporters a little tidbit now and again. But at this particular moment, all of that neglect was working out quite well for me, and no doubt Julian as well. I knew that as soon as they were done pestering Mace, they'd once again look for Panem's favorite victor.

I squeeze his shoulder, feeling the taut muscles underneath. It is such a simple movement, one that I would do to any of my brothers, and yet... and yet now it makes me want to blush. The feeling warms me as he talks about Mace and his perpetual inability to open up to anyone. Sometimes I wonder if that's my fault - our fault, the three brothers that followed in his shadow, never demanding anything of him, letting Mace order the world according to his own twisted view. We should have stepped in and said: look, emotions are not the enemy.

Although right now I wasn't about to give Julian an award for being particularly insightful, emotionally. I almost wanted to act like my oaf of a brother and snort, but I refrained, settling for a soft smile instead. "Mace isn't like that any more, trust me. You know how quiet our house is. And it isn't like he's so perfect either, Julian. I mean, look at him." I jerk my head towards Mace even though we're both already staring at him. When we aren't talking, it's almost too easy to hear what he's saying, how he's completely wrecking the interview, talking first about Whicker and then snapping when someone tries to turn the conversation to the current Games situation. I'm suddenly very thankful that it isn't me that has a camera thrust in his face, because I don't know what I would say. Something to my family, perhaps?

Julian interrupts my line of thought as he digs into his shirt. I sit up straighter, let my arm fall away so it's easier for him to get to the necklace. I recognize it immediately and wonder why he's returning it. Maybe he doesn't want to remember me, after. Maybe this is all I have left.

I try to swallow around the lump in my throat as I curl my fingers around the rough leather. "Thank you," I whisper, because any louder and I would start to cry again. It takes me a moment to find some courage to not follow that line of thought - the part that dangles after - and then I quickly knot the gift to my wrist. It suits, and I hadn't even considered bringing anything else from Ten. I stare at it, thinking of Cygnus and Icarus, of my Stromstatt sisters, of Ma. When I look up to Julian again I can barely see through the waviness of unshed tears.

"I may not be a monster, Julian, but you aren't either. I just - I don't know how to do this. How to not let you and Mace and Olive and everyone else down. But I'll try."