A muscle flexes in Luke's jaw.

"Yeah, an' what're we supposed to do, Nick? Leave you behind?" Every word is tight, thrumming with all the frustrated helplessness that thrashes and foams and rattles its cage inside him. And that’s when Nick's body seizes against his and the coughing comes. Ragged and sickly, a sound that seems to go on forever, plucking at the loose threads of his composure. He closes his eyes for just a moment.

When he tries again his voice is quieter, carefully controlled. "No one's doin’ that."

Few things are more dangerous and infectious than a lurker bite -- and a sense of defeat is one of them. The body's useless without the spirit, the will to drive it forward, and he won't enable that all-consuming disease that has haunted Nick so much of his life. Won't let Nick take all the fight out of himself before it's over, even if his strength’s bleeding away. They've fought so hard for so much less.

There's a small hill ahead, a deep, wide hollow carved into its side. Luke crouches carefully, helped with easing Nick down and laying him onto his back in the alcove. From there Luke quickly unshoulders his bag and jerks down the zipper, rifling through its contents. No bandages, no disinfectant, no meds, no water.

"Fuck--" He hisses under his breath, his pulse thudding harder in his throat as he looks his friend over and mentally flounders for a moment at where to start before memories trickle back into his awareness. Steps from his first aid refresher with Sam. A second round of adrenaline jolts through the live wire of his body, the faint ozone-y taste of it in his mouth, and for a moment he thinks that, maybe, this is what hope tastes like.

There’s still time.

They could still try.

Nick’s remark is left unanswered for a long time. Just hushed breaths and the slithery rasp of cloth to listen to as he passes a strip of cloth under Nick’s back and around, over and over, until one of the gloves is secured.

“…Yeah, like that one time you fucked up that jump to the next roof.”

He can’t say what pushes the memory to the surface and wills him to talk about it, or what dredges up a small chuckle with it. Maybe it’s the brutal throb of tension in his chest so desperate for release. Maybe it’s to soothe Nick’s nerves and his own. All he knows is that he can’t – and won’t - hold onto anger forever. It’s like grasping at fire with his bare hands: no good can come of it.

They’ve hit bumps in the road before – more, maybe, since the world they knew burned to the ground and something new and ugly took shape from the ashes. But for all their differences, they’ve always made up. They’ve always been hopeful and willing to try.

“You jus’ about stopped my heart for a sec. Jesus…” He shakes his head, wrapping another wound diligently, as gently as he can make it. His frown softens. “And a’course, after a month an’ a half, we were pretty much back at it again.”

Amazing how as kids you could carelessly tumble around, scuff yourself up, and think nothing of it, screaming with laughter at the top of your lungs. As adults, you fell on your ass or twisted an ankle and the first thing that came to mind was ‘what did I break?’ or ‘how fucked am I?’. Of course, coming from a world now where hospitals and waiting rooms (those he didn't miss, at least) and easy access to medical supplies belong to a bygone era, and cutting yourself while roughing in the woods could lead to terrible infections, tetanus, gangrene, or even death, there's good reason to be a little anxious about your health from time to time.

It’s not like the movies, the ones where good, brave men collapse after a long journey or a mortal wound and have that chance to take someone fiercely by the wrist and choke out one last piece of advice, holding on until the last word’s made it out. Having the time for an entire speech, if they were lucky. Death in the world they come from is rarely so patient. So many people haven’t had the luxury of saying goodbye and so many others haven’t had the luxury of hearing it.

His heart stutters in his throat. “…Nick…” he tries, voice gentle but urging. Like he’s just waking him from a nap, like he used to, so they could catch one an impromptu party or some concert blowing into town.

Hey, c’mon, man. You’re gon’ miss out.

But Nick doesn’t mumble sleepily or shift or give him a half-hearted shove. He just watches him with a dull, faraway stare and Luke looks back for a long time, feeling his throat thicken, his lips trembling at the corners before he pinches them tightly. A fly lands on Nick’s cheek, skittering around before Luke waves it away, pausing to slide a blood-smeared hand down Nick’s face. Fingers gently closing his eyes. There’s a finality to it that drops like a rock into the pit of his stomach. Though he's not allowed to say goodbye this way, to have it easier.

He hates what he has to do. Hates that he only has a rock to do it, because these sticks aren't enough to punch through the skull and destroy the brain. They have to be sure. It’s become as much a ritual in the new world as burial was in the one that crumbled away. Sooner or later everyone dashes the brains out of someone they love and care for, another injustice towards the deceased. Only marginally less difficult for those who survived than leaving the infection to set in and watching it change parents and siblings and friends into miserable, flesh-eating things.

The rock hovers in the air for only a few seconds.

But it feels like forever while his hands quiver dangerously and he breathes in short, shallow heaves, aware of an anxious pressure building in his chest not unlike the way he felt in the last moments he spent in his world, on the wrong side of the ice.

There’s a wet crunch of bone on the first swing. Flecks of blood spray into his face and he flinches, twisting his head away and clenching his jaw as he brings it down again -- and again, with a strangled, desperate roar through his teeth and all the furious helplessness ripping him open from the inside. Hammering and hammering until Nick’s forehead collapses and his jellied eyeballs leak down his face like runny egg whites.

Luke's chest heaves with deep, shuddering breaths, his whole body shaking. Then something gives as his fury drains from him and his arms go boneless, the blood-slimed rock dropping to the ground. He shakily swipes at the blood on his face but all it does is smear. A noise escapes him, so weak and small, his eyes filling. He can’t look at Nick. He won’t. His best friend’s been living on borrowed time in the Capitol from the day he arrived and he doesn’t want this to be the last way he sees him.

So it won't be.

He just blinks hard against the burning sting and looks away and carefully slides Nick’s robe out from underneath him, shrouding his body with it. Then he gathers up his things and slings his pack over his shoulder, pulling in a long, steadying breath before turning to face the world. Before taking that first step away and towards an uncertain future, the bag feeling heavier than he remembers.