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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[all_at_sea]

James knows he might look stupid, soppy and soft as he smiles at Horatio. He shouldn't be so utterly charmed, so happy while doing nothing at all. He should be training or thinking strategy, but actually, there's nothing he'd rather be doing than this.

"Do you still bake?" He asks. He doesn't want to ask about Horatio's mother, he doesn't want to churn up bad memories or unhappy thoughts. They'll have enough of those.

"Is it difficult? Baking?"

He knows that they won't have the chance, there's no kitchen or bake house in the Tribute's apartments, but learning what goes into making bread with Horatio sounds wonderful.

[whisted]

"It's not difficult."

It had been a good way for his father to murmur tidbits of science in his ear. It had been a good way for his mother to excuse the impulse to smooth protectively at his hair while they worked side by side.

"But I-- don't, anymore." It isn't a sad thing. It's a part of reality. His fingers pluck thoughtfully at the fabric of James's shirt. "There's more work, the older you get."

At least, there was in District 11. His head cocks slightly in consideration.

"What did you... do all day? Before this?"

[all_at_sea]

"I suppose that is true in every District," James says. Of course, life isn't as idyllic in District 1, he doesn't have a mother to do late-night baking with. His father doesn't kindly and gently give him advice. But the training gets harder, the expectations grow bigger and heavier.

He doesn't like the question much- no, that's not right. He doesn't like the answer. Horatio works hard, he finds food for his family, something that would have him beaten by the Peacekeepers if they caught him.

And that makes what he's about to say so much harder. He could lie, of course, or misrepresent the truth. But he doesn't lie, and he won't start.

"I was due to join the Peacekeepers in the spring. My father wanted me to continue my training ready for the trials." And join as an officer, as was fitting for the son of a retired, respected Peacekeeper.

[whisted]

It's honest. That makes it easier to breathe through.

Horatio still needs a moment. He still needs to breathe quietly through considering the young man holding him so gently, protecting him so fully; devoting himself so easily.

This is still James. This is still the boy who threw Simpson off him. This is still the boy who shifted carefully while they danced to be certain he wasn't asking too much. This is still James, who caught him from the crowd and curled him into the safety of an embrace after his interview.

"Were you... looking forward to it?"

[all_at_sea]

He is expecting Horatio to pull away. He wouldn't blame him for that either. He had grown up in the shadow of the Peacekeepers and the men and women all in white still made him nervous.

"I..." James begins but then stops. He never actually wanted to be a Peacekeeper but there was hardly any other options.

"No. My father was a Peacekeeper. It... seemed inevitable."

But he wasn't looking forwards to it. And now? Now one way or another, he doesn't have to worry about it. "The Games were something of a blessing, I suppose."

[whisted]

If he ignores the safety radiating through the moment, it isn't impossible to see. James is tall, strong; could be terribly imposing if he drew himself up properly.

If Horatio closes his eyes, he can call up the image of James slamming Simpson into the wall. If he forces himself, he can twist it faintly; imagine instead the paneled white uniform.

It puts a shudder in his breath as he forces his eyes open again. This is James. This is a man he trusts, who's holding him like a precious object, who's setting his life in the grasp of their alliance.

This is someone who's glad he might die rather than beat children for looking after their family.

"They aren't."

That bears saying all the same.

[all_at_sea]

James nods. Horatio is right, the Games are not a good thing. They aren't pleased and it isn't right but he would prefer to be dead than forced to kill people like Horatio.

"I know." He agrees, fingers tightening slightly.

"Would we need Peacekeepers if we didn't have Games, do you think?"

He probably shouldn't say it. There may be bugs and listening devices. There must be Peacekeepers listening in and patrolling. It's hard to imagine that in a few years he might have been one of these men, he might be stationed in a District and holding back some distraught parent watching their child be taken. He might beat a child for expressing the same opinion he has just expressed.

"Ignore me. It was an idle thought."

[whisted]

Horatio doesn't actually pull himself away. He simply tenses for a heartbeat, breath stuck in his throat.

It isn't something that gets said. It isn't something that gets even breathed, no matter how safe a place feels. It's the sort of thing that sits on the end of someone's tongue before they vanish completely from the lives of everyone around them.

For a heartbeat, paranoia sits in his bones. For a heartbeat, his entire body clenches with the consideration of whether or not this isn't actually something sinister. James could very much be a trap--a glimmer of hope, a chance to vent his frustration; a length of rope to hang himself by.

It hurts when he exhales.

[all_at_sea]

He knows he's done wrong. He can feel it in the air, in the way Horatio breathes and doesn't reply. He knows he has stupidly let his tongue run away with him. He should know better.

Even if they feel the same way, they can't say it. He shouldn't have said it. But it is too late to pull the words back now, swallow them like the poison they are.

Yet no Peacekeepers burst in. There's no alarms.

The uncomfortable silence is far worse.

"I'm sorry," James says. Part of him tells him he should go, run away. But he can't and he doesn't.

Clearly Horatio is a lot brighter than him in so many ways.

[whisted]

"It's..."

It isn't fine. It also isn't the end of the world.

"...just--"

His fingers shift carefully, pawing to find the spot on James's chest where he can best feel the taller Tribute's heartbeat. That helps. That pushes away the lingering nerves a little better.

"Tell me... the plan again?"

They just need to refocus. They just need to find the quiet safety they'd had a moment ago.

[all_at_sea]

James nods, letting Horatio's fingers clutch at his shirt. It seems to help Horatio find an even keel again, although for the moment James still feels he's in stormy seas. But maybe it will help. To go over it.

"When we arrive in the arena, you bolt. Get away from open ground as fast as you can and into cover. Put all those tracking and hunting skills to good use. I'll get rid of Cutler and Simpson, if I can. If Simpson follows you, you stay hidden. I'll find him."

He breathes then. It does feel better to go over, to discuss it. He feels more sure of himself, of them. He feels like he hasn't let Horatio down.

"And hopefully, I'll be able to tell the difference between your bird call and real birdsong. Then we'll set up camp. We'll be okay, once we're together. Find somewhere out of the way, somewhere we won't be bothered."

And then... well then they keep out of everyone's way. They don't have to kill people, and they can avoid the other Tributes. He's sure of that.

[whisted]

This still helps. This still feels like something's right in the universe.

The soft patter of James's heart under his fingers helps as well. This is a human being holding him. This is a Career, yes, but one who doesn't want to simply crush everyone else under his heel. This is James, the boy who smiled crookedly when he said he'd like to dance with Horatio again.

Slowly, quietly, Horatio folds himself back into place under the taller boy's chin.

"...thank you."

For the plan. For the uncomfortable moment of truth. For every moment since they'd met.

"Somewhere-- out of the way will work."

[all_at_sea]

"I was hoping we might find somewhere up a slope, with some tree cover." James said gently, once Horatio has settled again. "That way the canopy will disperse the smoke if we cook. And there will be shelter from the rain. There might be a fresh stream or a pool nearby and we can get water. It could be very nice."

He knows that it's not likely to be that easy. But it is nice to put together a wish list for their perfect campsite, somewhere that can be a little haven. At least compared to everything else.

"What do you think? Maybe some sort of springy moss? Would that work for beds?"

[whisted]

"The ground will work, you know."

Still, there's something sweetly protective about the little site James is describing. There's an obvious desire to smooth over the uncomfortable prickling between them; to find their rhythm again.

"Be nice to find soft ground, though." Horatio's lips twist briefly to the side, something soft like a sigh on his lips. "Be nicer if we could just sleep like this."

It wouldn't be practical, of course. James would be completely trapped under Horatio if he fell asleep. It wouldn't keep either of them remotely safe.

But it would be nice.

[all_at_sea]

James considers this. The ground might do, if it's soft and not cold or damp. But Horatio has a point, this is much nicer.

He murmurs a soft agreement, squirming slightly so they are pressed closer still, his fingers tenderly stroking.

"We could. Sleep like this here." Probably not in the arena but there's nothing wrong in taking a nap here.

[whisted]

That gets the faintest bit of a huffed laugh. That also gets Horatio's fingers shifting from James's chest to instead curl comfortably at the back of the older boy's neck instead, hesitant and slightly hopeful.

"You can, if you like."

Just for a few minutes. Just for a few heartbeats. Just long enough for this warm moment to be pulled into both their bones.

[all_at_sea]

The fingers at the nape of his neck are truly, wonderfully, relaxing. And he is exhausted; the training and the interviews and the surviving-the-Games lectures from Barbara are eating into the reserves of energy he had.

And here is safe, and warm, and with Horatio. Id there anything more he could want than that?

"What about you?" James murmurs, his own fingers sleepily stroking over Horatio's calf, up towards his knee. "Simpson can listen to us nap if he likes."

As long as he doesn't try to join in.

[whisted]

"I'm all right."

This is a better truth to fumble through. This will be good for James to know--but speak to the pieces of himself that need sharing.

"I don't... I don't really sleep much."

But this is restful. Having James holding him warm and snug, having his own fingers curled protectively over the nape of the taller boy's neck; it's better than lying fretfully awake on his quiet pallet.

"You ought to, though."

[all_at_sea]

James frowns, despite the call of sleep. It would be nice to nap, but Horatio's words do make him worry. There's not going to be much time for sleep once everything starts, there's certainly not going to be much restful sleep. Horatio should get what he can while he can.

But there seems to be something more to his words, something yet unsaid.

"Simpson?" He asks, not sure exactly what the cause is, and not willing to just shrug it off and close his own eyes. That's not fair, it's not what you do to your partner. Not when you're both in the same mess.

[whisted]

Of course James knows. Of course James understands, in a quiet instinctive way. Of course James wants, despite the easy with which Horatio himself tamps everything down, to protect him before they're even in the arena.

His fingers shift fretfully, smoothing against the soft hair and warm skin at the back of the taller boy's neck.

"Not always. Not usually, here."

[all_at_sea]

James takes that in, quietly accepting, his fingers still gently holding Horatio close to him. He wants to keep him safe, that is true. There's no one else that can help them as much as they can help each other.

"What can I do to help?"

Horatio will tell him what is bothering him, if he wants to. James can only be there, offer his help and a friendly ear, and do whatever is in his power to make Horatio relax, to make sure he is in the best state he can be to go into the arena.

[whisted]

"Don't goad him. Please."

It's too vulnerable. It's not what James needs to hear right now.

It isn't much better when he spins toward the other thing keeping him awake, of course. "And..."

How does he explain that being here, in the comparative safety of these apartments, is like a punch to the gut in its own right?

"...the apartments are-- the same, aren't they? This is where the Tributes from District 11... always stay, isn't it?"

[all_at_sea]

"I won't."

It's an easy promise to make. He shouldn't be provoking Simpson anyway- they have enough on their plate without making more work for themselves. It's just so hard not to push Simpson's buttons, not to take him down like he deserves. He shouldn't be allowed to treat Horatio like he does- he shouldn't treat anyone like that. He's too cocksure.

But Horatio is right.

The next question makes him frown, his tiredness fading away as he shifts gently, trying to look at Horatio without disturbing him.

"I think so." He says, and for a moment he's not sure why this is a concern. Then he realises that Horatio will have known some of the past Tributes from District 11.

And James knows that none of the Tributes from District 11 has gone home for a long, long time. Not since Pellew was a young man.

"I'm sorry."

[whisted]

Horatio can't imagine it isn't difficult, in its own way, for the Careers. Even recent victories from District 1 had been only one of a pair of friends coming home. Even growing up with the intent of possibly being sacrificed to the Games couldn't completely stop the hurt of losing other young men and women who had held a real space in one's life.

It's just that Archie had gotten so close. It's just that Horatio had foolishly started to hope.

His breath comes shaky. There's no help for that. Having James's arms tight around him does, at least, keep him from getting completely lost in his own thoughts.

"It's just... I-It was only last year."

[all_at_sea]

There is, unfortunately, a simple understanding in District 1. Whoever you go to the Games with you will have to kill, or be killed by. You might have been friendly before, but once the Games start, there is no friendship, even between children who grew up across the street from each other. They're trained and taught to accept this, to know that friendships are fleeting things.

James is sure that for everyone else in Panem this isn't the case.

He has to cast his mind back to last year's games. He had watched it- everyone had- and in District 1 they dissect it too, every move, every fight, every death. They tried to do it dispassionately, and it helped to try and be removed, to not see each body as a person, but a thing.

Now he knows better than that. He can remember what happened. He can remember the boy, not any different in age to Horatio.

He pulls Horatio suddenly closer, his hand moving from his shoulder to the back of his head, soothing as best his can a hunt that he has no means of healing.