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.

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[whisted]

There's another rumble coming. Horatio can practically hear it in the air around them. Before they know it, the hall will be flooded again with District 3 moving into place and District 2 sweeping back into their dressing room.

His fingers tug slightly, something fretful in the gesture as he drifts forward half a step.

"You don't have to." They'll work together. They'll sort through how to survive the two definite violent threats aimed squarely at the back of the half less capable of handling them. "Can-- You can't come to our apartments, can you? Tonight?"

Surely, if anyone could find a way to manage that, it would be Barbara.

[all_at_sea]

James pulls Horatio away slightly, away from the press of people that disturb them and their conversation. He doesn't want Horatio to be pulled away from him again, not when he can feel the eyes of some of the escorts on them, sizing them up, glancing at their joined hands.

Do they, like Cutler, think this is some sort of act? Some popularity stunt? Why would anyone pretend to have a friendship? Why lie about a small fragment of happiness in such a horrible set of circumstances?

He frowns slightly at Horatio's question. They aren't meant to leave their own apartments after a certain time. But maybe after the interviews, there might be some sway. Maybe James can ask to take supper with Horatio.

He nods.

"I'll try." He promises. Barbara will let him. She has to.

[whisted]

"We should talk then. Or-- when we're working first thing."

Somewhere alone would be better. Somewhere quiet and without the constant threat of being overheard.

"About... all that."

How Horatio would try to keep safe with two killers on his scent. How James would make it through dispatching them as quickly as possible. How to find each other and keep each other safe once they were inside the arena.

"We'll work it out."