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.