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]

"That's a better idea," James admits freely, nodding in the darkness and then gently shifting, his head gently resting against Horatio's, trying to find a patch of the rock wall that doesn't dig into his back. "I suppose we want to be settled by dusk."

Settled and fed and watered, and ready to go on watch again, in turns. Although he has to admit, considering the scream that woke Horatio, sleeping in a tree might not be a great idea.

He licks his lips, wondering how to phrase the question, how to ask how they're going to stop either of them falling out.

"What... Are you going to be alright, sleeping in a tree?"

[whisted]

"As long as we find a good tree."

He should take over the watch. He should let James sleep. Despite that, Horatio lets his eyes drift shut a moment, breathing in deep to find his center.

"You find one with a few solid branches close together and-- fill it in a bit with fallen ones."

There hadn't been a huge call to build nests for the night back home, but it was a good way to stay hidden while hunting.

[all_at_sea]

James smiles sleepily, shifting a little closer, burrowing a little more into Horatio's side and into the wall behind them. "Like birds?"

That's what it sounds like they're going to do, build nests like birds do, and curl up and sleep. It would be nice, he supposes, if he wasn't sure he'd topple out in the night, or the branches would give way beneath them.

Maybe if there weren't people out to kill them, maybe if they didn't have to find trees with good vantage over the terrain, maybe then it might even be enjoyable.

"I think you might make a better bird than I do."

[whisted]

Birds is a nicer metaphor than hunters. It sets his shoulders loosening once again, deeper into a feeling of being himself.

"We'll be all right."

His fingers shake carefully to free his hand. His arm squirms carefully to pull from between them, arm pulling around the older boy's shoulders carefully.

"You should get some sleep."

[all_at_sea]

James doesn't protest.

But then again, he doesn't sleep well either, jumping awake every half hour, every sound outside jolting him into wakefulness and the nightmares in between hardly encouraging him back to sleep.

But he tries to at least doze until there's enough light to see by, to avoid falling over debris in their way. They shouldn't stay hidden- that doesn't make good TV and the Gamemakers should only a small mercy in leaving them alone overnight.

They won't be so kind again today, James is sure.

They squeeze their way out of the cave, and James feels utterly numb, sore all over. He stretches, grinning at Horatio as he does so, because he knows he looks silly.

"Shall we try and find our tree-house?"

[whisted]

The world looks less surreal when they pull themselves out of the cave now. Something seems to have settled. Reality seems to have found its way into the Arena, sharpening the trees and brightening the sky.

Horatio finds himself reaching for James's hand; for even the briefest contact with that grin.

"Mmhm."

They can't walk holding hands. They have to creep more subtly than that. There has to be stopping and starting, quiet breathless moments of listening to sounds just beyond them.

But, ultimately, it leads them to a sturdy tree. There are low enough branches that James should be all right. There are a few close together, that look like they might be easily made sturdy for the night.

His fingers catch at James's sleeve, tugging insistently as he peers up at the branches.

"--this is it."

[all_at_sea]

They can't hold hands, but that doesn't mean that they don't stay close as they move through the forest. James has the machete in hand, but his other hand periodically reaches out for to touch Horatio's hand or arm, when they stop and huddle together listening it's difficult to stop himself from entwining their fingers together. They need to remember that they aren't alone, and this is the best, quietest, way James can think of doing that.

He's surprised that they don't see head nor tail of any other Tributes, but he's also very glad of the fact. If they can keep out of the way as long as possible, that gives them more chance to get out. He only hopes that the Gamemakers are busy focusing on whoever else is left, otherwise this rather uneventful walk in the woods is going to become very unpleasant very quickly.

Honestly, he'd be lost without Horatio. He's watching Horatio creep through undergrowth without making a noise- James knows he sounds like a bull in a china shop in comparison. All the trees look the same to him, apart from the width of the trunks and their colours, but Horatio clearly knows much more about forests than he does. When the tug at his sleeve comes, it's at the base of a tree that, to James, looks just like a dozen others they have passed. Maybe the branches are thicker, the leaves are denser and will offer more cover but other than that? It's a tree.

"Alright." James says, looking up into the canopy. He has to learn how to climb this tree. He can climb other things. He has no concerns about rope ladders or walls, a tree should be no different.

He takes a breath, look at Horatio and trying not to seem nervous. "Shall we make sure I can get into it, before we look at getting new carpet?"

He isn't the sort to make jokes, but it does at least give him something else to focus on as he hands over the machete, and then starts looking for hand- and toe-holds in the bark, pulling himself up until the first sizable branch offers a better grip. From there he could glance down at Horatio, but it's easier not to. Just focus on the area ahead of you.

The only problem with dense leaves is that they block what is above you. He doesn't hear the buzz of the nest until too late, until he's no more than a few feet from one of the insects resting on the branch he's holding onto. He's never seen one in person, only heard of them. It's huge, eyes dark and reflecting his terrified face as it washes its mandibles with its forelegs.

For a second, just a second, he wonders if it's seen him. But of course it has.

Suddenly the hum of the nest becomes a roar, and the Tracker Jacker on the branch leaps into the air, it's stinger pointed directly at him.

"RUN!" James shouts, letting go of the branch as the creature narrowly misses his head. Falling several feet to the ground is preferable to being stung, but hitting every branch slows down his decent, and knocks the breath out of him. When he does hit the ground, he's already winded, and there's a mass of the insects right behind him.

[whisted]

It's going to be all right. It's not going to be easy, but it's going to be all right. Horatio can believe that while James takes a deep breath. He can believe it if James can make a small joke and heft himself up into the unknown.

They'll make camp here. They'll drag branches together and create a place to settle properly. They'll be able to actually breathe in a small space together. He'll be able to sleep again, pressed in safe and secure against the older boy's side.

It looks promising. It looks like James will be fine to make his way into the stable branches just above where anyone will think to look for them.

And then, suddenly, it changes.

The orchards in District 11 had been more or less safe, but there were more than enough trees that had been nested for the sliding roar to send ice down Horatio's spine. His fingers move by complete instinct to his side--for the pouch of herbs he doesn't have strapped there, because he isn't at home. He's here.

He's here, and James is shouting for him to run.

"--James--"

He can't run. He can't do anything but duck closer to the tree, reaching to tug at the taller Tribute's slightly crumpled form.

"James, come on."

It's one thing if they lose each other briefly while running. It's another thing entirely if James is stung to death.

[all_at_sea]

James can't believe that Horatio hasn't run, that he's dallied and even come back towards the cursed tree, and as he gasps for breath he tries to push Horatio away, to get him moving. But it's clear from the beginning that Horatio isn't going anywhere alone and there is no time to discuss the matter. James pushes him again, beginning to run even as he does so, trying to keep Horatio in front of him and away from the insects.

But it's too little too late.

The sting gets him on the back, almost exactly between his shoulder blades, and it feels like he's been stabbed. The force of it is enough to send him stumbling forwards again, but he keeps his footing somehow, crying out even as he keeps running.

He has to run. He has to move. He has to get Horatio away.

His vision is swimming only a few steps later, and he can barely make out trees and the shape of the younger boy in front of him. His limbs feel heavy, sluggish, and either they are heavier, or they are running through air as thick as syrup. He doesn't know which is true, but the air burns in his throat. The buzz of the Tracker Jackers is mixed with the whine of the Peacekeeper's sirens, and he sees the flash of white out of the corner of his eye.

"Peacekeepers!"

Somehow he manages to move faster, grabbing Horatio and tugging him away from the armed patrol, tumbling down a slope that he hadn't seen. The leafmould is slippery, damp and thick, moving beneath their feet as the earth slides down, but he doesn't dare to stop running. He can't stop. His father will be angry, so very angry, if he's late home.

[whisted]

They just have to run. They just have to get away from the hive and find some new shelter. This is a known problem, after all. This is solvable.

And then James, who had been stumbling slightly behind him, shouts and catches hold of him.

He's stumbling before he's even properly understood that he's being tugged along with James. His breath comes sharp and just a hint terrified as he tries to keep himself upright.

"--James." He can run and gasp out words, hopefully. "James, just-- k-keep running. It's-- It's o-okay, just-- run."

[all_at_sea]

James knows he has to run. He knows that running is the only chance to get home before his curfew, he knows that the Peacekeepers right behind him hurt him if he's late. He knows that he can't let go of the thin hand that's in his, no matter what, because he has to hold on. The whys and hows and whos are hazy, the pain in his back and in his burning lungs makes any thought apart from run impossible.

The ground evens out, running is easier. The hum of the Peacekeeper's ships is still right behind them, the electric whine of their weapons seems to get louder and louder in James' ears. It fills his head, and then he's not sure if it's coming from his head or not.

It's too dark. The light is mottled, blocked out why hundreds of airships high above. He's never seen so many, he's never thought so many could exist, but every Peacekeeper in Panem must be behind them now. How can they escape that? How can they keep running?

And there, up ahead, is his father.

Lawrence's expression is unhappy, his thin lips pressed into a thinner line.

James' feet start to slow, his hand slipping out from the vice-like grip. If he must speak to his father, he'll do so alone.

His pace is slower now, a jog as he comes up to the man. It's his father, he's sure of it, although perhaps it's really President Sawyer. The grey hair is the same, the disappointed, down-turned mouth, but the rest of the features swim in and out of focus.

His feet knock against something as he comes to a stop, as his father, or President Sawyer, opens his mouth to chastise him. He's done wrong, he knows it. He should be punished for it.

And then the world explodes. Dirt and plant matter and bits of bark fly everywhere, the force of it sending James backwards. Particles rain down, bits of tree and sticky bits of insect and clods of earth fall, but all James can hear is a ringing in his ears, and a world of greys surrounds him, hazy and indistinct and full of the smell of burning.

[whisted]

It can be still be fine. James is still clinging to his hand and running in as straight a line they can manage. They still just need to make space from the hive and find a new place to hide. They just have to hope no one's heard them tearing through the woods.

Then, suddenly, James isn't next to him anymore.

The sudden loss of the other Tribute's hand from his own sends Horatio stumbling. He shouldn't turn around. He shouldn't go back and drag James along again. He should get clear of the swarm. Despite that, he feels himself skidding toward a halt, scrambling to slow and spin around.

"James--!"

He knows that stumbling. He knows that slight glaze in the other boy's eyes, even across the distance between them. He takes a breath to start running back. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the flash of someone running away from them.

And then the world explodes.

For a few heartbeats, Horatio is entirely blind. As the halos fade from his eyes, he's almost certain he's still blind. The smoke is thick, obscuring James into a hazy blotch. It burns his lungs as he breathes in, taking a first stumbling half-step toward the taller boy.

This is almost a good thing, he tells himself as he shakes his head against the ringing. This will confuse the tracker jackers. If they're lucky, this will completely dissipate the swarm. His cough is rough and hacking as he finally thinks to pull his arm over his lips, stumbling forward again to try and catch at James's arm.

"James." His voice is muffled, but that has to be a good thing as well. "James, listen to me, okay? Take-- take my hand."

[all_at_sea]

James coughs, the smoke acrid and thick, hot and dry like sand as it fills the air around him. His eyes are streaming, red and sore, but he has to try and find a way out. There has to be a way out of this grey cloud, it's tendrils looping around him.

And then there's a figure, a voice he knows, small and slender, reaching for him.

"Elizabeth?" He asks, trying to blink away the tears and the smoke, but she doesn't answer, just says his name again, her hand outstretched. He takes it, but she shouldn't be here, she should be at home, safe, with her father. He doesn't understand, even as her fingers curl around his wrist, and then he realises.

It isn't Elizabeth. It's Cutler, his dead eyes glassy, blood at the corner of his mouth, face as pale as the smoke that swirls around them.

Take my hand he says, as James shouts out in fear, heart in his mouth and he backs away, trying to find some clear back from the apparition, away from the boy that still has the machete buried deep in him, blood dried brown around the wound, flies crawling over him.

[whisted]

This is bad.

It might just be one sting. It might be that only one tracker jacker managed to catch James. It might be that only a survivable amount of poison is seeping through James's system. There had to be salve somewhere. These trees weren't so terribly unfamiliar, and the creeping growth his mother used to use when her pouch ran empty would almost certainly be blossoming out from some roots or other.

But that will require James not to run off. That will require James not to hurt himself, not to be thrown by his hallucinations into actual physical damage.

It will require James not to hurt Horatio when he tries to help.

Horatio's breath is still stuttering in the smoke. His fingers keep pawing for contact, trying not to let James escape into the haze. "James-- please. Please be quiet. It's just me. It's-- It's Horatio. Whatever-- Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. Stay-- Stay with me. Please."

[all_at_sea]

The dead shouldn't be able to hold on so tight, or grasp so quickly, James knows. But isn't it strange, that the voice isn't Cutler's. Cutler never reached out to him like that, Cutler never spoke to him so pleadingly. Cutler Beckett in life or in death would never ask like that, James knows that. The voice isn't one from home- it's not Elizabeth or his father, or any of the others he had known and sparred with.

The voice is so familiar though, and in a strange, almost abstract moment of clarity both from the smoke and the hallucinations, he recognises Horatio.

He nods, fingers clutching at the hand Horatio offers, breathing hard and deep. He can hear Barbara, her voice crisp and clear in his ear, utterly unimpressed with his poor performance.

Think with your brain, James. How are you going to protect Horatio in this state? You should have checked the tree before you climbed into it. That's a mistake that could have killed you, and still might. Those stings can be fatal if left untreated. Why didn't you think to gather herbs this morning? Silly boy. I knew Cutler should have my full attention...

[whisted]

That's James's hand clutching back at his. For half a second, that's James looking like he actually knows what's happening around him.

Those are good signs. The worst may simply be yet to come, but it's a relief that the hallucinations haven't yet become all encompassing. It must only have been one sting--maybe two at the outside. It isn't too much poison to be stopped. It isn't going to kill James in the next few seconds.

"That's it. That's-- That's right, James."

He can hear his voice cracking, but he can't be bothered to care. All Horatio can think to do is keep talking softly, keep tugging James with him out of the fog and away from the sluggish remains of the dissipating swarm.

"We're going t-to make this right. I promise, James. You just-- j-just stay with me, all right? Come on. This way."