for all_at_sea : if I had a heart

[whisted]

Jack Simpson is enjoying this.

That, more than anything, is what has Horatio Hornblower feeling so painfully trapped. There had been a terrible sinking in his gut when his own name had been called during the reaping. There had been a heavy weight that lingered even after his mother's hand was dragged from his shoulder and his father's voice had vanished from his ears. For all that had ripped something from him, the odd inevitable hadn't been so terrible. A piece of him, even now, thinks he could manage to have properly accepted it.

But then, through the haze, had come the harrowing sound of Simpson's name. That had been far too much far too fast. That had been the worst sort of death warrant; the immediate shifting of hope toward dying at the hands of anyone but his District's other tribute.

None of the rest of it had helped, of course. Being dragged far from home was excruciating. Being poked and prodded and needled and explained to, by tense displeased voices, that he somehow didn't even stand and wear his clothes correctly was torturous. Even the odd comfort of being handed into the care of his mentor was undercut by the horrific fact of Simpson standing nearly constantly beside him, practically preening with a nauseating sort of pride.

In defense of the prep team, of course, Horatio apparently doesn't know how to stand properly. It doesn't matter that his fingers grip tight to the chariot, or that all he properly has to do in the Tribute Parade is actually stand still with the faintest bit of a smile. It's just a blessing, Pellew is certainly sighing to himself, that the Capitol seems to find a tribute managing to fall off the back of a chariot faintly endearing.

(Simpson will make his life hell for it later. Thankfully, Horatio doesn't anticipate having that much more life to have to suffer through.)

It will be better, he tells himself, when they can be separated in the Training Center. It will almost be enjoyable, perhaps, to have these few days of being able to make some small amount of space for himself before Jack Simpson thoroughly enjoys killing him.

Comments

[whisted]

"Other concerns."

What an odd reality, to know that there would be 'other concerns' on top of the fact perfect strangers would turn into known quantities would turn into the boys and girls ready to kill him.

"That's where--"

Other concerns, of course, were how Archie had nearly managed to survive. The children of District 11 might not have had years of practice with swords or tridents, but they could all find their way into food despite the arena's harsh conditions. It wasn't so far off from home, most of the time.

It had been such a perverse thrill, watching Archie. It had been the beginning of such a fragile hope for a district which so rarely saw victors.

Horatio's fingers twist unhappily on the handle of the axe, tugging it down far too roughly. There's the 'other concern' of fighting off ghosts, but that isn't exactly what James meant.

"--we stand half a chance, isn't it."

[all_at_sea]

James pauses, watching Horatio's face as the young man pauses for a moment too long, clearly thinking something over, and not something very pleasant either, from the way his face shifts. James doesn't ask, he doesn't want to make Horatio feel all the more uncomfortable, but does reach out and gently pat his shoulder. The movement might be slow, hesitant, in case Horatio decides to bring that axe down on him- it might not be sharp, but it would still cause damage. James does not want to go into the arena with a broken wrist because someone misinterpreted a kindly gesture.

"I think you may stand a better chance on that front than me." He says, honestly enough. He allows himself to pause then, considering the young man. It would be foolish, utterly foolish, to even consider forming an alliance. It is too early for that, he's got no clue how much work he would have to put in to keeping Horatio alive, and how much of a return he might get.

But he finds himself considering it, even so. He'll have to see, have to be sure before he even suggests it.

Lady Barbara will hate it, he knows. He won't even bring it up with her.

"I... I should go back to sparring." He says, aware that Horatio will have been expecting more than that. He should have said something more, but he can not make promises he may not keep, he can't offer hope and then take it away.

[whisted]

It's such a small thing. It's such an infinitely tiny thing. It's the briefest set of fingers against his shoulder, glancing as anything, barely noticeable if anyone hadn't already been looking at them.

It's friendly human contact. It's a huge thing.

Horatio's lips betray him briefly, twitching up at the edges with another flicker of relief. His head ducks quickly enough to hide the expression. He's sobered up before he glances up again.

"Thank you, James."

It's for the best. He can feel the sharp eyes of the District 1 mentor on them again, calculating something far beyond Horatio's contemplation. He can also feel the uncomfortable prickle of Jack Simpson's eyes lingering on him, the ugly sensation of the other tribute beginning to circle closer.

That's not something James should have to deal with, after being so kind.

To Horatio's infinite relief, it takes Simpson a moment to actually make his way over. There are, apparently, knives to examine and bows to test. There are inexpert snares being made by other tributes for Simpson to sneer at as if he'd ever done that much better. That gives Horatio a few minutes simply to breathe. It lets him test the axe he had pulled down by chance; to reject the premise and try his hand at a hatchet instead.

That feels more natural. That feels, almost, like he could make his instincts take over with the weapon.

And then Jack Simpson is at his elbow. Then there's the familiar unpleasant warmth of breath at his shoulder and fingers catching at the small of his back. This, at least, Horatio has gotten good at looking blank about.

"Careful, Hornblower." His fellow tribute's voice is low, painfully close to his ear. "Don't want to get a reputation."

Something shuts down in Horatio's ears, although the other young man keeps talking. He doesn't need to hear to be directed into standing across from the slightly older boy, into watching Simpson heft down a much heavier axe from the wall.

Maybe it won't be so bad in the arena. Maybe he'll just shut off like this, and barely notice when the tribute from his own district kills him.

[all_at_sea]

James doesn't want to actually leave Horatio alone, but there is only so long left in the training room today, before the guards will lock it down and Lady Barbara will herd them out so they can get ready for the ball at the President's Palace. Frankly, James would rather had lingered a little longer in Horatio's shy but blossoming company, rather than be fawned over by the Capitol's rich and powerful. He had no stomach for it, although he supposes Cutler will be looking forwards to a chance to show off.

He wanders off a little way, not far though, before he realises he still has the axe in his hand. It's not something he feels any need to carry around, it's hardly a weapon he feels any affinity with. Horatio might like them, but he's probably practised with them more than James, the handle and sharp blade must feel like an extension of his body. James possibly could handle one in a push, if he had no other weapon at hand, but it would not have the finesse of his word with a sword.

He sighs and turns on his heel to put the axe back where it belongs. And not to see if he can catch a glimpse of Horatio, perhaps even trying his hand at one of the axes himself. He'd like to see what Horatio looks like, although not to calculate his weaknesses and spot openings in his defence.

That naive and eager hope dies a swift death in his chest when he sees what is actually happening. Horatio looks like an animal trapped by a predator, willing the end to come or some sort of escape to present itself.

James knew he hadn't liked the look of the other boy from Horatio's District. He looked like a thug, someone who enjoyed killing, enjoyed taking as long as possible to wring the life out of something, and it made his grip on the axe tighten. He didn't even realise his feet had taken him right back to Horatio.

"You, Eleven." He says, and at that moment he doesn't much care that he's addressing the boy like the smug Career he is. "Are you too scared to fight with anyone your own size?"

He gestures the vile boy forwards, moving to the wall and reaching for another axe, pulling it free and then tossing it over for Simpson to catch.

There's a sudden hush from the rest of the room, even the guards have stopped their patrols to watch. James doesn't notice as he shifts away from the wall, circling the other boy. He'd so much rather have anything but an axe, but he knew the type of boy facing him, and if something was not done now, Horatio would never be free of him.

[whisted]

What feels like a lifetime ago, Horatio had been able to throw himself on Simpson's mercy to protect Archie. Archie had been able to do the same. It hadn't been a plan so much as a desperate bid for survival in the face of what felt like an unstoppable force of nature.

It's a different sensation, now, to have a still-strange voice appearing close at hand instead. There isn't an instantaneous flood of relief. There isn't a rush of appreciation. This is still too uncertain.

It's enough, for now, to send Horatio skittering back toward the wall, away from whatever is happening. It's enough, for now, to get an ugly grin blossoming over Jack Simpson's features as he catches the offered axe. The older boy looks much more capable with the weapon in his hand than Horatio had.

There isn't any warning. Simpson brandishes with a ruthless sort of speed, throwing a heavy swing. It would be enough against the youngest Tributes here. It would be enough against someone already petrified like Horatio.

But, at the end of the day, it's the swing of a young man used to wielding a scythe, not an axe.

[all_at_sea]

James sees the swing before it begins, in the way Simpson's body shifts to one side, to put all his weight behind it as he rushes forwards. It's a bad first move, although James won't deny that the other boy is clearly strong. And fast.

He steps away from the blow, watching the heavy head of the axe sail through the air several inches from his side. He's still not familiar enough with the weapon to attempt to strike back; the long handle feels alien, requiring both hands. He feels off balance, and he realises that the footwork he knows from sword drills will only get him so far.

Still, if Simpson charges around like a bull, James will find an opening soon enough. He's moving away again, bringing the axe up now, trying to work out the best way to use it against the brute.

"That was fairly poor, Eleven, even for a provincial. Try again."

Perhaps goading the boy isn't the wisest choice. But keeping his attention on James gives Horatio time to get even further away, back towards Pellew and Lady Barbara.

[whisted]

Watching, thankfully, isn't useless. Watching is something Pellew had actually told his younger tribute to do--a boy with more brains than innate skill, with a better chance at watching and replicating than stumbling through it alone.

Watching James and Simpson feels important. Watching where Simpson moves on instinct, where he understands the heft and swing of the other boy's body, is a primer in what he'll need to fix. Watching how James reacts, how he shifts through an unfamiliar weapon with constant little adjustments, is a goal to set immediately.

Simpson, for his own part, isn't learning quite as quickly. He takes his feet and swings again, nearly the same way, but followed by throwing his shoulder hard toward the Career's chest.

Easy to rile, apparently.

[all_at_sea]

James has no chance to step away from the force of the impact, but he knows not to try and right himself as he goes down. Maybe it will throw Simpson off balance, but if it doesn't, it hardly matters. James already has his own axe in hand, sending the heavy blade into Simpson's knee.

He doesn't wait to see of the blow knocks the other youth over. He rolls away and is back on his feet, wonder but not in too much pain.

"Better. Did your grandmother teach you that?"

He gestures Simpson forward again. The wall is not far from his back, and as Simpson dashes forwards, James doesn't bother to move out of the way
He just ducks the axe and grabs Simpson as hard as he can by the collar, slamming him into the solid concrete wall. There's a reassuring crack which he hopes it's Simpson's nose. The clatter of the axe to the floor is just as musical.

"You, sir, aren't worth my time or attention. Do not insist that we do this again," James growls, his grip unwavering, forcing Simpson into the wall again., to reiterate the point.

[whisted]

It isn't a good sign. It isn't a good sign at all that Horatio only feels himself gasp in a soft suck of breath when James is the one being struck toward the floor. It isn't a good sign that he exhales with relief as James rolls lightly back to his feet.

Beyond Horatio's attention, Pellew is shifting toward Barbara. Beyond where he can focus, the District 1 mentor is letting her head cant slightly toward the District 11 mentor as he begins to murmur quietly.

Horatio doesn't have time for that. All Horatio has time for is the odd sensation in his gut as Simpson goes slamming into the concrete wall.

There's an unpleasant gurgling in the way Simpson moans, arms scrambling against the wall for relief. There's bound to be blood dripping from his nose and down his throat. There's nothing the tribute is going to be able to do but go lick his wounds for a bit. Horatio wishes, for a moment, that it could simply let this continue--that this could be the end of at least this small part of his troubles.

"James." His voice is surprisingly steady as he slips into place beside the taller boys. His fingers are light and plucking at the arm holding Simpson to the wall. "He won't. Let-- Let him go."

It isn't at all what Horatio wants. It isn't at all what's going to be best for him, in the long run. It's still what's meant to happen, when one's fellow Tribute is being beaten.

[all_at_sea]

There is no satisfaction in the gurgling noise, or in the realisation that every face (aside from the one pressed into the wall) is turned in his direction. He'd much rather have sparred quietly, stretched and taken his leave of the room without any fuss, but if that meant leaving Horatio, or any of the others, to face Simpson then he could not.

He could hear footsteps closing in, soft, light footsteps. Not those of an armed guard, or a mentor come to break up the scuffle.

It was Horatio. He knew it even before the gentle, hesitant hand touched his elbow. He would have blushed, if the adrenaline and the anger were not still rushing through him.

Horatio was right. There was nothing else he could do anyway, short of maiming or killing the other Tribute, and that was going too far. At least for the moment. So he let go, stepping back, one hand still holding the axe, just in case. There were people who knew when a fight was over, when to stop, but James couldn't count on Simpson being that sort.

"Very well, Horatio." He says, his own voice measured. His ribs are hurting, but not a great deal. His chest will bruise where Simpson barrelled into him, but otherwise, he was unharmed. "Perhaps someone would be so kind as to help Mr Simpson clean himself up?"

[whisted]

Horatio ought to reach out for Simpson. He ought to help the other boy from his District to his feet again. He ought to preemptively start to hold Simpson back before the boy got it into his head to do anything stupid.

His fingers instead linger on James's arm, not quite daring to squeeze in gratitude but not quite able to abandon the contact immediately.

"I-- I will."

Simpson begins to sway from his slump, clearly ready to find his way back into foolishness. That finally drags Horatio away entirely, plucking delicately at Simpson instead to get the older boy's arm over his shoulder. Maybe James will find comfort in the clear stumbling as Simpson is slowly moved toward Pellew--or the obvious mark on the wall where Jack's nose had clearly been broken.