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Everything around is shaky as he walks, things moving without his permission, life out of focus. His clothes are heavy and hot around his body, uniform scratching his arms and legs, helmet choking him.
[Sejanus' eyes, bloodshot and open wide, are looking at him and asking why, why, why-].
It hurts, goodness, it hurts so much Coriolanus is surprised he didn’t just collapse right there when the stools fell over, when the ropes pulled taut, when the traitorous words in the recording were played aloud, when their bond screeched in absolute agony, in horror.
He wonders how he didn’t keel over in anguish, with that damned tree behind him and in front of the whole of District 12, with Sejanus' desperation screaming wildly inside his own brain.
The pain is slowly turning unbearable though, the hollowness of the bond unnerving enough to make goosebumps appear on all the expanse of his skin, but he keeps himself upright —head held high, dignified—, and forces his feet to move.
[One in front of the other, one in front of the other, one in front of-].
He only gives himself permission to fall when inside the flimsy privacy that the empty barracks provide, finally gives himself permission to clutch at his neck, to scratch and scream because the pain has been too much since the very moment it started, the burning sensation on his scent gland —in his heart—, too real, too intense
[And his instincts are crying, begging for comfort, for the other side of the bond to answer, why did you do it, why did you do it, why-].
He comes back to himself and to the agonizing pain in his neck while looking at a photograph. There is a mess around himself, Sejanus' clothes and belongings are all around him, on the bed, hanging off the chest, on the floor. Coriolanus lays on top of a pathetic nest fit for the pathetic mess he let himself be reduced to by his animal side, and the photograph in between his fingers burns almost as much as the bleeding wound on his nape.
"I’m sorry," he says out loud, and it sounds like regret but tastes like nothing more than excuses, "I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to-".
But the tears keep falling and the bond keeps quiet and the mark keeps burning.
And sometime in the future, when the grief doesn’t hang like a sword over his head anymore, Coriolanus will justify it; he will stand tall and proud as President Snow, with the sickly sweet scent of roses covering his natural one, with a scar on his nape that no one will ever have the courage to ask about.
[And loose ends, he will whisper at nights when the phantom pangs of longing —that are so similar to hunger—, make themselves known, loose ends, he will frantically repeat, trying to convince god, trying to convince Lucy, trying to convince himself].
Soon enough he will land on top, but right now, Coriolanus can only wallow on his own scent of misery, on the suffering he caused, and on the blood he spilled.