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]

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.