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

The Bloodbath

[whisted]

As the tributes stand on their podiums, the horn sounds.

Sparrow, Kelly, Turner, Cheng, Finch, G. Wall, and Clay run away from the Cornucopia. Neuville rips a mace out of Mallory's hands. Bonny grabs a shovel. Bracegirdle stays at the cornucopia for resources. Hales, Galante, and Gillette work together to get as many supplies as possible. Groves pushes Hepplewhite off a cliff during a knife fight. Read, O'Malley, and Seymour get into a fight. Read triumphantly kills them both.

Norrington scares R. Wall away from the cornucopia.

Hornblower finds a canteen full of water.

--

Horatio does mean to run.

He and James have a plan. The plan is to make as much space as he can between himself and the others--between himself and Jack Simpson. In the corner of his eye, he can see more than a handful of Tributes simply bolting, barely even looking at the Cornucopia. That's all he has to do. That's the only thing that needs to happen.

And he almost does.

It's just that one of the boys from District 2, clearly scrambling to gather supplies, drops a canteen of water. The object goes skittering along, just beyond Horatio's path. It will be a precious resource. It will help them breathe a little easier until they can find food.

Horatio diverts himself only briefly. He ducks to snatch the canteen up quickly. He's in a dead bolt before he's even certain that he has the object properly clutched in his hand.

But it's enough time for Jack Simpson to nearly catch up to him.

Simpson is just behind him as they near the trees.

Simpson's hand catches his shoulder as they pass into the thicket.

[all_at_sea]

James felt sick. It was an odd feeling, nerve-induced nausea. Barbara had forced him to eat something that morning, in between final preparations, but there was no way, no means, no possibility of trying to go and find Horatio. It was the only thing he wanted to do, and it was one of many that he was not permitted to do. The fact that Cutler is sombre for once does not improve matters.

James would have preferred to ignore the other boy all morning. He would have rather been alone, but that wasn't to happen either. They ate together- or tried to eat, they were dressed together, they had to endure Barbara's final words of advice together. And then there was the flight.

It was not long in real terms- at least considering the passage of the sun in the sky. But Cutler had decided to ignore James' unspoken desire for silence and started to talk about home. About the training grounds, they had both used, people they knew, their families. He missed them, he did not know if either of them were going to ever see it again.

James couldn't decide if Cutler's solemn reminiscing was genuine or a trick to unsettle him, and although he tried to harden himself to it, there was only so long he could do that for. Those words cut soon enough, stabbing into his heart and he knew that Elizabeth Swann and her father would be watching the Games, that they would see every move he made, every mistake and every success.

If he failed, he would not see her again, or her father. His own father. He would never see Horatio again, he would never get to see Horatio smile or nervously fidget. He would never get to reach out for his hand and offer him reassurance.

The landing and the final preparations happen in a blur. Before he knows it, he is getting onto the plinth and machinery begins to vibrate beneath his feet. All he can think of is home, Horatio. He has to push it all down, he has to focus, he has to pull himself together. Breathe.

For several long seconds, all there is is his breathing and the whirl of the hydraulics lifting him skyward. He has a few seconds once he emerges into daylight, and tries to take in what he can. Trees, thick and dense, deciduous with pine here and there. The Cornucopia is behind him, and beyond that, there are no trees. There's either a body of water or something else beyond.

It's not a huge distance to the Cornucopia. About the same as it is to the tree-line. He can see Horatio, several Tributes away from him. Simpson is closer than he is, but Cutler is several people away to his other side.

And then the horn blows.

James doesn't even think, but pushes himself from the plinth and runs as fast as he can towards the stash of supplies. There are others heading the same way, others who have hesitated, but James doesn't bother to look at them. He doesn't need to, not until his hand closes on the handle of a broad, sharp blade. It's more of a machete then it is a sword, but it will do. There are knives too, and he snatches at one before whirling around at the young woman behind him.

Her eyes flicked from him to the machete, and then back to the blade.

James has never killed a person. He didn't think the first person would be a girl he doesn't recognise. But there's something in her determined face that makes him think of Elizabeth, and suddenly he feels panic grip him. He doesn't know if he can. He doesn't know this girl. She looks about his age. The nausea is bad, but while his mind spins in circles and his stomach does backflips, the rest of his body knows what it's doing. The sword hand is raised, threateningly.

The girl backs off, turning on her heel and heading towards the forest, between a group of boys fighting and a body.

He feels his eyes drawn to it, but a noise behind him forces his attention back onto the more pressing matter of the living. And he's lucky too, because it's Cutler, and in his hand is a throwing axe. He doesn't look distressed, or unhappy. He looks calm and composed, far different from the boy James sat with on the journey here.

There are no words, just a lunge.

Cutler would have done better to throw the axe from where he was, but it's the only weapon in his hand, and clearly, he doesn't fancy his chances of delivering a killing blow if he did throw it. As it is, James ducks away just in time, feeling the kiss of air against his shoulder. He's turning even as he ducks, bringing the wide blade around and feeling it bite into flesh. Not a killing blow either, just a bite into the back of Cutler's leg.

But it's first blood.

Cutler wobbles, but the adrenaline keeps the pain at bay, and the axe sails around again, forcing James backwards. James is trying to swordfight with a weapon made for hacking and Cutler is trying to hack with a weapon made to be thrown. No wonder both of them are making a mess of it.

He takes another step backwards, the mouth of the Cornucopia now behind him, hoping that the movement from shadow into the bright light will blind Cutler. Maybe it does, but James is too distracted to use that advantage. To his side, he can see the thin figure of Horatio disappearing into the thicket, but right behind him is Simpson.

"Horatio!"

He doesn't even realise he's called out, not until Cutler snorts, bringing the axe around again and this time making contact with James' upper arm. The pain is sharp and sends a chill down his spine, but it's not enough to stop him bringing down the machete.

He was just striking out. Lashing out would be more appropriate, the pain in his arm making the blow far less smooth. The blade comes down on Cutler's throat, not his shoulder, and for a moment, for a single heart beat, both of them are in shock.

And then the blood drains from Cutler's face, seeps down and out through the horrendous rent in his neck, soaking his clothes and the blade and his mouth opens, as if to speak. No sound comes out, and then suddenly his knees buckle, and the machete is almost wrenched out of James' hand as the corpse slumps into the dirt.

[whisted]

Somewhere, Horatio almost hears James's voice.

For almost his entire life since they'd met, Horatio's body had simply shut down whenever Jack Simpson reached for him. There had once been an instinct to fight back--to kick and shove and bite and scream, but that had always made things worse. It had been better, for such a long time, to simply give up--to accept as inevitable the pain that would invariably come and the loathing that would well up against himself when he was alone again.

His heart is already pounding in his ears as Simpson's fingers catch into his shoulder. It would be so easy to panic, to forget all his new instincts; to break. But this isn't the same.

This won't just hurt if he gives in. This won't just break something quiet inside of him and leave him hating the world a little bit more. If he gives up to this, here and now, it will all be over. Simpson will win. His mother and father will watch, over and over, their son murdered on a giant screen.

Above the hammering of his heart, he almost hears James calling his name.

Fighting back is still new and inelegant in his limbs. Horatio spins with the tug at his shoulder, the canteen in his hand lifting at the last second and catching the other boy in the jaw almost by chance. It's a glancing blow, enough to slightly destabilize Simpson but not enough to stop the other Tribute from throwing his weight into both of them. The actual ground is harder than the mats they had been training on, and it takes a half-second of daze before Horatio can properly work out that, in the scrambling, Simpson's got a firm hold on his leg.

It takes another half-second to realize Simpson has a knife, and yet another to realize that, for the first time in nearly a year, Horatio actually wants to live.

Neither of them are experts with a knife, at least not on anything larger than a rabbit. Simpson's grip on the blade is too tight, little mobility in his wrist as he hefts himself over Horatio and lifts the knife. In his own awkward scramble, Horatio wrenches his weight to the side the other boy is balancing over, knee coming hard into Simpson's stomach as they both crash to the ground again. It isn't enough to loosen Simpson's grip on the knife, but it gets a satisfying sort of grunt from the older Tribute. That's a first tiny victory.

Horatio's breath comes in an uncomfortable hiss as he catches at Simpson's wrist. His entire torso is aching, radiating pain from where his spine had made sharp contact with rocks and twigs on the ground under Simpson's weight. His vision is swimming just slightly as he reaches to grab a handful of Simpson's hair, bitingly tight near the other boy's forehead. It isn't a plan so much as a bid at distraction; something else for Simpson to claw at while they struggle for control of the hand holding the knife.

Then he sees the rock.

It isn't a terribly remarkable rock, settled casually against the root of the nearest tree. It's more that it's a rock that had, at some point or another, had a large piece broken off, as if dropped from a great height or knocked badly during the arena's construction. The edge isn't sharp, but it's hardly dull.

In the heartbeat it takes to see the rock, Simpson's free hand is at his throat. The edges of his vision are already sparking with haze, and the sudden grip on his throat begins a proper darkening at the edges. It takes everything in him not to let go and start clawing at that hand. It's barely enough, as he throws his weight to the side again to set them rolling slightly. Somewhere beyond his blinding concentration, their hands with the knife sheer too close. Somewhere beyond his ability to think, his side becomes suddenly hot and oddly slick where the blade licks over his ribs.

None of that matters. What matters is that Simpson's body shifts with his, leg coming up to lock slightly around Horatio's knee. What matters is that the shift gets Simpson's head within range of the rock.

It would be better to lift the rock and smash down. There isn't the time. There isn't the safety. There isn't enough left in Horatio's mind to do anything but dig his fingers tighter into Simpson's hair. All his strength goes into dragging Simpson's head up from the ground and slamming it down, with all the weight he can muster, into the rock's edge.

The first blow gets a certain stillness. The second gets a deep, ugly sort of crunching noise. After that, Horatio stops counting.

The hand on his throat has slacked several moments before Horatio can force himself to stop slamming Simpson's head down against the protruding stone. The hand holding the knife is unresponsive as Horatio tugs himself free, both sets of fingers moving to pull the small blade from the other Tribute's hand. Horatio couldn't say for sure, as he took his grip on the knife, whether the body beside him were alive or dead. Somehow, it didn't matter. All that matters once he has the knife in his hand is that this is finally going to be over.

His breath is coming hard. His attention is narrowed down to the form he's hefting himself up over. If he focuses, two things can be true at once. If he forces himself to, the warm thing next to him can almost be a deer, already felled, needing simply to be fully dispatched. If he lets himself, the body beside him can fully be the only person in the world he's ever actually wanted to see dead.

They can't risk Simpson getting up again. That's the best thing to focus on as he makes another grab for the boy's pale hair, arching Simpson's neck like an animal. The blood that gushes from Simpson's throat as the blade sweeps along it is sputtering and impossibly red.

Horatio isn't certain when he stopped being able to breathe, but starting again is incredibly painful.

[all_at_sea]

James watches Cutler fold up, collapsing first at the knees and then the body and blade part company violently, and what had been the boy he'd grown up with, a neighbour, is no longer a person but a huddled, bloody mess on the floor.

As a canon booms overhead, James throws up.

He would have preferred not to, but no matter how many years of training he's had, nothing has prepared him for that. Nothing has ever prepared him for watching life ebb away from a body, or the guilt the washes over him.

He wipes his mouth, and then looks up, trying to get his bearings. There are other bodies out in the clearing, less than he expected to see. There are one or two figures disappearing into the woods.

Horatio is nowhere to be seen.

The adrenaline pumping through James is still going strong, and he manages to curl his hand around the machete again and head towards the tree-line. He runs across the clearing, towards the shadowy spot where he thinks Horatio disappeared, Simpson just behind. But he is not at home in forests. He's not completely sure this is the same place, all the trees look the same, and there's no sound beyond apart from the wind in leaves.

It's foreboding and dark, and there could be anything, or anyone waiting behind the trees on either side of the faint track. But Horatio is in there somewhere, with Simpson, and he can't hang back.

He takes a breath, the air under the canopy tastes different and as far as it's possible, green. But it doesn't smell like blood.

James heads in, trying to move as quickly and as quietly as possible. Barbara had said something about not being silent because woods were never silent. There was always the wind in trees, birds and insects. Move carefully, tread lightly, but not silently.

It was impossible to be silent in any case, impossible with so many twigs and dried plant matter underfoot. But there was no sounds of running, no noise of fighting. Not clearly. There might have been a scuffle some distance away, but there was no shouts or noises of pain.

They said they wouldn't call out. That was sensible. Horatio knew bird calls. But what if he was hurt? James cursed himself. He should have followed Horatio straight away, left Cutler till later. But he did not want to have to face Cutler and Simpson as a united front.

There's another boom of a canon, and it chills James' blood. He doesn't know who it's for, and it could be for anyone, but suddenly sneaking around the trees isn't worth doing. His grip on the blade tightens, and he quickens his pace, listening intently for the sound of anyone else near-by, for bird call.

But despite Lady Barbara's comments about birds, there's not a sound.

[whisted]

Jack Simpson is dead. It doesn't feel real.

It should feel real. The body is still sprawled before him, eyes slowly duller and duller with every passing second. The blood is still seeping from the knife-wound; still clinging red and gory to Horatio's hands. The stillness over the scene is genuine and deep, not remotely the sort of trick a person might hope to play to get an enemy to leave.

It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel real, and Horatio can't stop staring at the body.

His fingers rub a red tinge onto the canteen when, fumbling, unseeing, he finds it again. His body aches as he settles himself back against the nearest tree, dull pain turning warmer as the fight drains from his body. His grip on the knife is entirely unchanged as he tries to force himself to look away from what used to be Jack Simpson.

But he can't.

It takes a long silence to remember that he was supposed to be running. A jolt of pain from his side as he breathes gives him a moment's clarity, and his gaze is finally ripped up to the woods around him. He should be seeking cover. He should be listening for James. He shouldn't simply be sitting here, gripping a knife as if it would keep the thing in front of him from deciding to turn back into a human being.

His throat is strangely hoarse, so he lets himself take a faintly coughed breath. His fingers stay gripped around the knife as he lifts his hands to cover his mouth slightly. The sound that escapes him is barely the warble of a songbird, trilling low through the quiet of the forest.

Some of Jack Simpson's blood brushes clamily from his fingers to his cheek.

[all_at_sea]

He might have been over the same ground twice. He thinks he's going in a straight line, but there's no points to navigate from and while Horatio had told him a little about trees and how to tell them apart, to a greater and lesser degree it doesn't help. He doesn't know if this oak tree is the one he passed ten minutes ago. It probably isn't, but he doesn't have the time to stop and work out the details.

He will just hope.

There's still a nervous churning in his stomach. There's something, some small voice in him that tells him Horatio is alive, but he can't put his faith in feelings. He can't stop until he finds Horatio, even if his lungs are burning and the cut in his arm is now extremely painful. There's no point in stopping, not point until he has found Horatio, whatever state he may be in.

There's a small brook that he splashes through, and he tries to remember where it is, before common sense is back and he takes the machete in his good arm, scoring cuts in the bark of trees as he heads on. It might lead anyone following him straight to him, but without water they'll be dead anyway.

He's cutting a mark into the thick bark of a tall fir when he hears the low, long note. It's not coming from above, as one might expect birdsong, but from some way a little further down the slope to the right of where he's just climbed.

It's Horatio, he's certain of it.

He finds, from somewhere, some extra strength and makes his way towards the sound of the noise. It's faint, stopping and starting again and eventually, James is close enough to smell blood. There's a lot of it.

He forces himself to stay quiet, for a long moment, to listen to the breathing. It's Horatio, he has spent so long in the last few days curled up with him, close to him, he knows the pattern of Horatio's breathing like he knows his own.

"Horatio," He whispers, approaching from down the slope, up towards Horatio, because the last thing he wants to do is creep up on him.

That means passing the body. The body with most of the head caved in. It's horrific, but James doesn't glance at it for more than a moment. He's far too concerned about the boy sheltering against the three, sinking down to his knees, reaching out to cup Horatio's cheeks and press a solid kiss to his mouth, grateful that Horatio is there, alive.

But there's blood. So much of it, all over him, on his hands and face and clothes. How much of it is Horatio's?

[whisted]

He can't hold the note for long. His lungs burn with each breath, and the birdsong trills and sputters into silence until he can force another deep gulp of air. It isn't much. Hopefully it doesn't have to be. Hopefully it's enough.

Hopefully James isn't like the thing across from him, laid out somewhere in the woods or crumpled in the clearing with the others who had only had to suffer through the first few moments of the Game.

Reality still feels unsettled when he thinks he hears movement, somewhere beyond himself. It tenses his entire body, hands dropping from his face to find his proper grip on the knife again.

For a long moment, all that exists is the fact that Jack Simpson is dead. Then, miraculously, reality shifts. Suddenly, Jack Simpson is dead and James Norrington is walking past the body.

James looks different. As he moves closer, he doesn't even quite look like the young man Horatio had caught a glimpse of before he started running. As he murmurs, he doesn't sound like the boy who had caught his hand after the interview and told him he'd done well.

It's still James. It's still definitively James Norrington moving to sink down in front of him, reaching for his cheeks. It's a new James Norrington--a James Norrington clung to by something new, something that had shaken him, something that would haunt at the edge of his thoughts. It's a James who looks injured and already exhausted and faintly nauseous.

It's still James, alive and pressing a firm kiss to his lips.

The press of lips tastes just a bit like the hint of sick and the tang of blood. It pulls Horatio back toward the world as if by a hook in his chest, entire body slumping forward slightly. His fingers relax from the canteen, lifting instead to touch hesitantly at James's cheek, affirming the reality that this is a real, solid human being and not just a delusion.

He can't quite let go of the knife in his other hand.

Horatio feels painfully dizzy as he turns slightly away from the kiss. He feels abruptly sick as he sees the faint red spots his fingers have left on James's cheeks.

"He's-- dead."

It's real if James is here to hear it too.

[all_at_sea]

"He is. So is Cutler." James says. Simpson is dead, there's no doubt about that. Skulls don't look like that for living people, of that James is certain. He looks over Horatio again, to try and see any wounds, any blood that belongs to Horatio. There's a slice in his shirt, a cut across his chest but this is no place to examine it more thoroughly. Not with flies already landing on Simpson's body.

"This way," He says gently, wiping the smudges of blood from Horatio's face. "We need to move away from here."

Somewhere higher up, somewhere they can clean any dirt out of those cuts, somewhere James can wash his face and his hands and his mouth, somewhere they can both sit for a moment and exist. Horatio seems to feel as unsettled as James does, forced to kill and completely unprepared for it. Careers are meant to be able to handle this, to take it in their stride, to kill and reflect on it only insofar as how their sword technique could improve. He knows this, he's watched the Games. He's been impassive.

Maybe it's different when you have so much to lose.

He'll think on it later. There might not be any time later, but there's no time to do it now. The longer Horatio stays here, the longer that body will catch his attention and James knows that isn't good. He wants to get away from it, far away, and get Horatio cleaned up. It won't be back to normal, but with the blood scrubbed off, then a little bit of normality might return.

"Can you stand?"

[whisted]

James's fingers are smoothing at his cheeks, light and protective. James's voice is flooding his ears, forcing him to focus.

This hadn't been part of the plan, but they could get back on track.

It takes a moment, but Horatio manages to nod. His fingers catch nervously at the taller boy's shoulders, not trusting his own legs with the task of holding him up. A deep breath isn't at all enough to make him certain he'll actually manage if James moves even a centimeter away from him.

He's coming back to himself. He's not quite there, but he's at least focusing on the right place again.

"--you're-- hurt."

[all_at_sea]

James wishes he had a belt, somewhere to shove the machete away while he used both hands to steady Horatio. But he doesn't. There must have been a sheath for it, he thinks he may have seen it down at the Cornucopia. He could head down there tonight, under the cover of darkness, and pick up whatever other supplies are still there.

He disregards the idea fairly quickly. There won't be much left there, and he doesn't want to go out on any fools errands. He'd be better placed staying with Horatio.

He settles for winding his good arm around Horatio's middle, getting them both slowly to their feet. It hurts, to have some of Horatio's weight pressing down on his injured arm, but it's only momentary. As soon as they're stood, the pressure isn't quite so bad, and having Horatio lean against him makes things feel better.

"You're hurt too." He points out, well away of how painful a blow across the ribs must be. "We'll get away from here first, bandages second."

His arm stays around Horatio, holding him gently. He doesn't want to let go. Letting go means he's alone, letting go means Horatio is alone. That's not what he wants. The closer he can stay to Horatio, the better they'll both feel. He's certain of that much at least.

[whisted]

Standing is terrible. All the nerves in his body move from his stomach to his throat to his head, the world swimming slightly even as he leans against James. There have to be a few seconds of simply finding his balance--simply breathing through the fact that he's on his feet again.

That he's walking away, and that Jack Simpson isn't.

Nausea sweeps through his system, but there isn't time to acknowledge it. Another deep breath lets him trust his own feet, slightly stumbling but able to follow along beside James.

They'll get away from here. They can't get properly away, but they don't have to be here. The rest can come when they've gotten away.

[all_at_sea]

James leads them back up the slope, back towards the narrow track he'd been climbing. It's not a path, as such, just a winding gap between brambles and bushes, probably made by animals but if he can follow it, other people can. He glances at Horatio, who still seems dazed. They have to be somewhere safe, away, before either of them can really think.

Instead of following the path, he crosses over it, and pushes through the undergrowth. Thorns catch at his legs, low branches try to hit him in the face, but he supposes that the harder it is to get through, the safer it is.

He keeps going, just a little further. There's a hollow in the base of a tree, it's thick roots forming a little shelter.

"Let me have a look at that cut," James says, dropping the machete onto the leaf litter.

[whisted]

Following James is, somehow, easy. His body is barely responsive, his vision is barely settling, but following the warmth of James beside him is already a deep instinct.

The cut on his side is slowly beginning to hurt properly. The shock is draining out of him, and the injury is radiating painfully. Still, it can't be terribly deep. It certainly can't be deeper than--

"--you're hurt."

He's unsteady as he tugs himself away, fingers numb and fumbling as he finally drops the knife to reach for the other man's injured arm.

[all_at_sea]

James has been ignoring it. Not very well, but he's still had adrenaline working in his favour, and getting Horatio somewhere safe to focus on. It's meant that while his arm throbs, while blood still oozes from the slice into muscle, it's been... bearable.

Now the adrenaline has worn off, and his breathing has settled, and Horatio is with him and alive, his arm feels stiff and heavy, his fingers tingling. It isn't a normal feeling. It isn't a good feeling.

He'd much prefer to look at Horatio's wound first, to assure himself that there's nothing serious to it, that there's nothing he needs worry about for the next few hours.

Horatio doesn't seem keen to let him look though, at least not at the moment. He shifts, trying to loosen up the tension in his arm, and then nods.

"Would you look at it?"

He should have taken the time to look at it himself, to work out how deep it was, but there has been no time at all.

He shifts, sitting down and trying to steady his breathing. Now he's thinking about the damn arm, it hurts. It really, really hurts, and the fabric of his sleeve is unpleasantly sticky.

[whisted]

This is good. This is helping. This is going to get blood all over his hands as well, but it's going to be for the right reasons.

Horatio's fingers shake slightly as he drops to kneel beside James, but they find their steadiness as he rubs most of the remaining gore off onto his shirt. There aren't clean bandages. There won't be a good opportunity to kneel by a water source and clean out the wound properly.

It still feels good to have something to focus on--something helpful; something with James.

Ripping a scrap of fabric from his sleeve is quick and instinctive. Spilling just a bit of water from the canteen on the fabric is obviously old practice.

"D-- D-Deep breath, James."

He moves carefully as he cleans, looking for the edges of the wound delicately with the damp cloth. It's just like any other injury. It's just like someone's arm got snagged on a sickle or an axe went glancing oddly off the wood to bite into flesh.

It's solvable.

[all_at_sea]

James is breathing slow and deep, trying to keep his attention fixed on Horatio as the younger man works, Horatio's face intense. He's so handsome when he's focused, and right until he begins to lean the wound, James face is full of adoration.

Once the way cloth presses against the wound that changes. He hisses, tensing and his other hand clenched, the knuckles white.

It could be worse.

"Once, in training-" James murmurs, mostly to try and distract himself, biting back a sharp curse, "There was an accident with a blade. Someone sliced open a thigh. We had to hold him down while they stitched it shut. He was out cold at the time. I don't think you could be conscious for it."

He sucks in another breath, but with the blood removed, the long cut doesn't look so bad.

[whisted]

Slowly, the wound looks less terrible. Carefully, bits of cloth and dirt can be smoothed away. The progress is incremental but deeply reassuring.

Horatio's free hand shifts briefly to James's shoulder, kneading softly as he simply holds the damp cloth against the wound.

"Try to relax."

Tensing makes this worse. Tensing shocks pain through a body infinitely more violently.

"And... tell me about-- something else, hm?"

Something happier. Something to keep James distracted as Horatio leaned back to begin ripping more of his own sleeve into strips of cloth.

[all_at_sea]

"I am relaxed."

He's not, no one would believe that, but he does his best. He lets his muscles unwind gradually, a knot of tension easing with each breath. The pain is bearable if you don't focus in on it.

The difficult thing is finding something to talk about. Horatio's expression, despite the deep concentration, is sad and there's so many good reasons for that. But James isn't much use while his arm is being seen to, and so it's his job to draw Horatio away from those thoughts, from whatever is making his mouth press into a thin, unhappy line.

"I wasn't expecting you to kiss me." He says, clutching at the thought that has been in his head for the last two days. His voice is soft, head dipped towards Horatio, the words personal, private. Perhaps he shouldn't be saying this at all, but it makes his heart sing and he can think of no happier thing in all the world, nothing that he wants to share with Horatio more in this moment.

"I had wanted to kiss you when I went to your rooms- but it wasn't the right time or the right place and I had no idea you shared any of my feelings towards you, and I didn't want to make anything harder than it was already. But it was the most wonderful thing in the world, Horatio. You can't know how happy it made me."

[whisted]

Every breath of relaxation is good. Every breath means James is in slightly less pain. That's something good to focus on.

It's solely concentration that keeps his fingers from fumbling and the tips of his ears from turning red. (Some piece of him suspects that the latter part is actually at least partly due to the blood he's been slowly losing from the cut over his ribs.)

"I'm... glad."

The damp cloth goes briefly to James's arm again before he sets to wrapping, the torn lengths from his sleeve winding tight around the taller young man's arm.

"I wasn't-- sure."

But it had felt right to let that be private. It had felt important that their first kiss not be for the cameras.

[all_at_sea]

"Are you sure now?"

It's not easy to ask. Horatio can't be blamed for expecting the worst, for expecting to be betrayed by James at some point. He can't be blamed for expecting to be murdered by the end of the Games, because after all only one of the Tributes can win.

If you call surviving the Games winning.

But he wants to know, he wants to make sure that Horatio trusts him now. He isn't going to hurt him, he's not about to let Horatio get hurt by anyone. In their interview the word love was thrown around, and while James might have put that word to his feelings privately, he's certain it's not a word he can say to Horatio.

He winces, as the fabric is pulled tight over the slice in his arm. It hurts only for a second, and then it fades into a dull ache that is far more bearable. When Horatio has tied the makeshift bandage, James tests his arm, stretching his shoulder.

"Thank you," He says gently, reaching out and letting his fingers catch on Horatio's wrist. He is grateful, he wants Horatio to know that.

"Now will you let me have a look at you? Please?"

[whisted]

Horatio can't help holding his breath slightly as James winces and tests the bandaging. This has to work, after all, at least until they can get better supplies. This can't fall off. This can't immediately turn dark red with too much blood still seeping out.

James seems to be moving well enough. He seems to be out of terrible pain enough to think of other things. Horatio's fingers squirm to catch briefly at the ones on his wrist, taking a heartbeat to just breathe.

James is going to be all right--if only for the next few minutes.

"...I'm sure."

Shifting from kneeling to sitting is an oddly cumbersome thing. Having nothing to concentrate on brings the dull pain in his side into sharper focus again.

[all_at_sea]

James offers him a gentle smile. They're hardly in a good position, they're hardly out of danger, but maybe things aren't as bad as they might be. They've survived the bloodbath, and the two biggest threats to their continued existence had not. They had a plan, and so far they are keeping to it.

He can see the pain in Horatio's face clearly enough, and keeps his hand close to Horatio's, letting the other boy's fingers tighten as he settles down. Bandaging Horatio's chest probably isn't going to be easy- even James' longer sleeve isn't going to be long enough to go around his torso. Still, the important thing to do is clean the wound, and then hopefully something will present itself.

He takes the sleeve from his own uninjured arm, easily enough to rip at the elbow and then tear into strips, using a little more water from the bottle.

"It was smart of you to pick this up," James says, trying to distract Horatio as he pulls the fabric of Horatio's costume away from the cut across his ribs. Thankfully it's shallow enough, but it's long and bloody, and James gingerly begins to clean it. Whatever rolling around Horatio has done in the leaf-litter has meant there's already dirt around the wound, thankfully there doesn't seem to be any it in.

"There's a stream a little way down the hill. If we need to get more water, we can try there."

[whisted]

Holding James's hand for a few heartbeats helps. It isn't quite the same as it was during the week. It isn't as infinitely reassuring--it can't be, with the strange semi-silence of the arena pressing around them.

It still helps to cling for just a moment.

Horatio's breath comes slow and quiet as he can manage. There's no stopping the brief tensing as James begins pulling fabric clear and dabbing at the wound. Another few breaths brings his heart rate back down a few pegs, attention focused as best as he can on James rather than his pain.

"You think... we can... s-stay here? For a bit?"

Pushing through the pain in his side wouldn't be the end of the world. Sitting until this ache is a little easier to breathe through would be better.

[all_at_sea]

Horatio is much better at this than James is. James has always been taught not to get hurt in the first place. Getting hurt means you get slowed down, slowing down means getting killed. Or at least, that was District 1's opinion as a whole. They trained you to fight, and be very, very good at fighting, but there was so much more to it that they never actually bothered to tell anyone. What to do with wounds. How to find food and drink. How to know if the food you'd found was safe.

On those aspects, Horatio is far better off than he is, and James is grateful. He does know a few things about survival. About tactics. Not staying in one place too long is part of that.

"We can stay a while. Get our breath." He agrees. He knows Horatio needs some more time. Probably more time than they have, but he'll do what he can to try and look after him. That's what he promised, after all.

The gash in Horatio's chest is just about clean now, and another strip of clean cloth is pressed against it, just to make sure that it's protected, that there's not so much blood oozing thickly from it. James can shift, move to sit close to Horatio, picking up the machete and shoving the blade into the dirt. If someone does turn up, he doesn't want to be scrabbling around in the leaves for it.

"We will need to move, in a little while. But I think we're okay to rest here for an hour or so. We just need to be somewhere safer before nightfall."

[whisted]

Horatio is fairly skilled at getting hurt. He hasn't had much practice at fighting, but he has years of experience at taking punishment.

This is worse, admittedly.

It gets easier to breathe once the bandaging is somewhat in place. It gets easier still once his hand can grope to the side and find James's again.

"I don't need an h-hour."

(He needed several. He needed not to be here at all. He needed somewhere quiet to let the bile up into his throat. He needed to cry for longer than he possibly had left to live.)

"We c-can keep moving. Just... I just need-- a minute."