whisted | for all_at_sea : if I had a heart

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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From:

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.

From:

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?"

From:

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."

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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.

From:

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?"

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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.

From:

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."

From:

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."

From:

all_at_sea

James' fingers curl with Horatio's, holding tight. There's no noise around them save the wind in the canopy, a few birds. If the birds stopped, it was probably because something was around that shouldn't be. There were safe, for the moment.

"We can wait." He says gently, his voice confident and quiet. He needs Horatio to recover a little bit before they do anything more, they both need time. They've lost blood, they've had to fight and run and adrenaline isn't enough. They need more than that, they need time and a moment to breathe and rest. "I need a few minutes too. And then we'll find somewhere to stay overnight. "I need a few minutes too. And then we'll find somewhere to stay overnight."

He reaches for the water canteen again, taking a small sip, and then moving a little closer to Horatio, squirming a little closer in the shelter of the tree roots. It's not a bad little place, if there weren't people looking for them, wanting to kill them, he could stay here with Horatio, curled up close around each other.

From:

whisted

James sounds certain. It's a small thing; likely even a forced thing. It doesn't matter.

Trusting James is just as easy here as it had been when they first stepped together for a dance.

Horatio's breath comes a little easier as James shifts closer. His fingers find a more comfortable position settled between the older boy's, less desperate and more steady. His entire body slumps just slightly, leaning back against the mass of tree roots for support as his attention darts briefly skyward toward the canopy.

"Can... Can they see us? A-At home?"

Do his parents know he's alive?

From:

all_at_sea

James nods. He's certain of it. He's certain every single second since the plinths rose up through the clearing's floor has been captured. Every second for every Tribute, probably from multiple angles.

"There's cameras everywhere, I should think." After all, he's seen enough footage of the previous Games. It's clear that the Tributes can't always see the cameras trained on them, but they're there all the same.

He doesn't care. His father might be watching, Elizabeth Swann will be watching, the rest of his District. But he knows Horatio is thinking about his parents.

"They'll know you're okay Horatio. I'm sure they know." He says softly. "They'll have been watching. They'll know you patched me up, and you're safe. They know we're keeping each other safe, just like we said we would."

From:

whisted

They'll know he's alive. They'll know that he patched James up, and that James did the same. They'll know that, at least for now, the promises are holding.

They'll know he killed Jack Simpson.

Horatio's breath comes tight in his chest for a moment. Maybe it's best not to think about it. Maybe this just has to be shut out like almost everything else happening to them.

After one last moment. After one last heartbeat of looking around them in uncertainty and briefly, purposefully, tugging their joined hands up over their heads.

It helps his breathing to know they'll have seen this piece of the day.

From:

all_at_sea

James lets Horatio tug his hand in the air. It's a symbol of their success and defiance and partnership, it shows that the Games haven't yet beaten them. It's important that the Capitol see that.

But there's something else behind it too, something else in Horatio that he'd only seen in momentarily flashes before. When they were training together and Horatio had him pinned, when they had to walk out in front of those cameras and be interviewed. Just now.

Horatio is a quiet boy. He's sweet and thoughtful and smart. But he's also brave. Much braver than James.

He leans back against the tree once their hands go back down, letting his shoulder press against Horatio's, and lets his heartbeat calm down. It's very easy to be utterly in love with him.

"That will be on the front of every newspaper in Panem in the morning." He says, laughter in his tone. "Caesar and his flair for the dramatic must be rubbing off on you."

From:

whisted

For the space of a breath, Horatio's vision swims. The papers had been full, last year, of pictures of the last moment of Archie Kennedy's life; of the tall figure of the Career just before--and just after.

"Better-- that than s-something else."

There would inevitably be photos of the two of them. That much had been painfully clear from the final interview. It would be far better for his parents to be confronted with this flicker of defiance than the terrible image of their son killing a boy he had grown up alongside.

A piece of him also hates the idea of his parents having to cope with the image of James killing Beckett. He's not completely certain where the impulse comes from, but it's terrible to think they might imagine James cold and ruthless.

This is better.